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                          [Cover Illustration]




[Illustration: JOVE (JUPITER).
 Museum at Naples. Excavated from Pompeii in 1818.]




                               BULFINCH’S
                           M Y T H O L O G Y


                            The Age of Fable
                          The Age of Chivalry
                         Legends of Charlemagne


                                   BY
                            THOMAS  BULFINCH



                       COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME


              REVISED  AND  ENLARGED,  WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS



           GROSSET  &  DUNLAP  •  _Publishers_  •  NEW  YORK




                            COPYRIGHT, 1913,
                     BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY.

                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




                          PUBLISHERS’ PREFACE

No new edition of Bulfinch’s classic work can be considered complete
without some notice of the American scholar to whose wide erudition and
painstaking care it stands as a perpetual monument. “The Age of Fable”
has come to be ranked with older books like “Pilgrim’s Progress,”
“Gulliver’s Travels,” “The Arabian Nights,” “Robinson Crusoe,” and five
or six other productions of world-wide renown as a work with which every
one must claim some acquaintance before his education can be called
really complete. Many readers of the present edition will probably
recall coming in contact with the work as children, and, it may be
added, will no doubt discover from a fresh perusal the source of
numerous bits of knowledge that have remained stored in their minds
since those early years. Yet to the majority of this great circle of
readers and students the name Bulfinch in itself has no significance.

Thomas Bulfinch was a native of Boston, Mass., where he was born in
1796. His boyhood was spent in that city, and he prepared for college in
the Boston schools. He finished his scholastic training at Harvard
College, and after taking his degree was for a period a teacher in his
home city. For a long time later in life he was employed as an
accountant in the Boston Merchants’ Bank. His leisure time he used for
further pursuit of the classical studies which he had begun at Harvard,
and his chief pleasure in life lay in writing out the results of his
reading, in simple, condensed form for young or busy readers. The plan
he followed in this work, to give it the greatest possible usefulness,
is set forth in the Author’s Preface.

“The Age of Fable,” First Edition, 1855; “The Age of Chivalry,” 1858;
“The Boy Inventor,” 1860; “Legends of Charlemagne, or Romance of the
Middle Ages,” 1863; “Poetry of the Age of Fable,” 1863; “Oregon and
Eldorado, or Romance of the Rivers,” 1860.

In this complete edition of his mythological and legendary lore “The Age
of Fable,” “The Age of Chivalry,” and “Legends of Charlemagne” are
included. Scrupulous care has been taken to follow the original text of
Bulfinch, but attention should be called to some additional sections
which have been inserted to add to the rounded completeness of the work,
and which the publishers believe would meet with the sanction of the
author himself, as in no way intruding upon his original plan but simply
carrying it out in more complete detail. The section on Northern
Mythology has been enlarged by a retelling of the epic of the
“Nibelungen Lied,” together with a summary of Wagner’s version of the
legend in his series of music-dramas. Under the head of “Hero Myths of
the British Race” have been included outlines of the stories of Beowulf,
Cuchulain, Hereward the Wake, and Robin Hood. Of the verse extracts
which occur throughout the text, thirty or more have been added from
literature which has appeared since Bulfinch’s time, extracts that he
would have been likely to quote had he personally supervised the new
edition.

Finally, the index has been thoroughly overhauled and, indeed, remade.
All the proper names in the work have been entered, with references to
the pages where they occur, and a concise explanation or definition of
each has been given. Thus what was a mere list of names in the original
has been enlarged into a small classical and mythological dictionary,
which it is hoped will prove valuable for reference purposes not
necessarily connected with “The Age of Fable.”

Acknowledgments are due the writings of Dr. Oliver Huckel for
information on the point of Wagner’s rendering of the Nibelungen legend,
and M. I. Ebbutt’s authoritative volume on “Hero Myths and Legends of
the British Race,” from which much of the information concerning the
British heroes has been obtained.




                            AUTHOR’S PREFACE

If no other knowledge deserves to be called useful but that which helps
to enlarge our possessions or to raise our station in society, then
Mythology has no claim to the appellation. But if that which tends to
make us happier and better can be called useful, then we claim that
epithet for our subject. For Mythology is the handmaid of literature;
and literature is one of the best allies of virtue and promoters of
happiness.

Without a knowledge of mythology much of the elegant literature of our
own language cannot be understood and appreciated. When Byron calls Rome
“the Niobe of nations,” or says of Venice, “She looks a Sea-Cybele fresh
from ocean,” he calls up to the mind of one familiar with our subject,
illustrations more vivid and striking than the pencil could furnish, but
which are lost to the reader ignorant of mythology. Milton abounds in
similar allusions. The short poem “Comus” contains more than thirty
such, and the ode “On the Morning of the Nativity” half as many. Through
“Paradise Lost” they are scattered profusely. This is one reason why we
often hear persons by no means illiterate say that they cannot enjoy
Milton. But were these persons to add to their more solid acquirements
the easy learning of this little volume, much of the poetry of Milton
which has appeared to them “harsh and crabbed” would be found “musical
as is Apollo’s lute.” Our citations, taken from more than twenty-five
poets, from Spenser to Longfellow, will show how general has been the
practice of borrowing illustrations from mythology.

The prose writers also avail themselves of the same source of elegant
and suggestive illustration. One can hardly take up a number of the
“Edinburgh” or “Quarterly Review” without meeting with instances. In
Macaulay’s article on Milton there are twenty such.

But how is mythology to be taught to one who does not learn it through
the medium of the languages of Greece and Rome? To devote study to a
species of learning which relates wholly to false marvels and obsolete
faiths is not to be expected of the general reader in a practical age
like this. The time even of the young is claimed by so many sciences of
facts and things that little can be spared for set treatises on a
science of mere fancy.

But may not the requisite knowledge of the subject be acquired by
reading the ancient poets in translations? We reply, the field is too
extensive for a preparatory course; and these very translations require
some previous knowledge of the subject to make them intelligible. Let
any one who doubts it read the first page of the “Æneid,” and see what
he can make of “the hatred of Juno,” the “decree of the Parcæ,” the
“judgment of Paris,” and the “honors of Ganymede,” without this
knowledge.

Shall we be told that answers to such queries may be found in notes, or
by a reference to the Classical Dictionary? We reply, the interruption
of one’s reading by either process is so annoying that most readers
prefer to let an allusion pass unapprehended rather than submit to it.
Moreover, such sources give us only the dry facts without any of the
charm of the original narrative; and what is a poetical myth when
stripped of its poetry? The story of Ceyx and Halcyone, which fills a
chapter in our book, occupies but eight lines in the best (Smith’s)
Classical Dictionary; and so of others.

Our work is an attempt to solve this problem, by telling the stories of
mythology in such a manner as to make them a source of amusement. We
have endeavored to tell them correctly, according to the ancient
authorities, so that when the reader finds them referred to he may not
be at a loss to recognize the reference. Thus we hope to teach mythology
not as a study, but as a relaxation from study; to give our work the
charm of a story-book, yet by means of it to impart a knowledge of an
important branch of education. The index at the end will adapt it to the
purposes of reference, and make it a Classical Dictionary for the
parlor.

Most of the classical legends in “Stories of Gods and Heroes” are
derived from Ovid and Virgil. They are not literally translated, for, in
the author’s opinion, poetry translated into literal prose is very
unattractive reading. Neither are they in verse, as well for other
reasons as from a conviction that to translate faithfully under all the
embarrassments of rhyme and measure is impossible. The attempt has been
made to tell the stories in prose, preserving so much of the poetry as
resides in the thoughts and is separable from the language itself, and
omitting those amplifications which are not suited to the altered form.

The Northern mythological stories are copied with some abridgment from
Mallet’s “Northern Antiquities.” These chapters, with those on Oriental
and Egyptian mythology, seemed necessary to complete the subject, though
it is believed these topics have not usually been presented in the same
volume with the classical fables.

The poetical citations so freely introduced are expected to answer
several valuable purposes. They will tend to fix in memory the leading
fact of each story, they will help to the attainment of a correct
pronunciation of the proper names, and they will enrich the memory with
many gems of poetry, some of them such as are most frequently quoted or
alluded to in reading and conversation.

Having chosen _mythology as connected with literature_ for our province,
we have endeavored to omit nothing which the reader of elegant
literature is likely to find occasion for. Such stories and parts of
stories as are offensive to pure taste and good morals are not given.
But such stories are not often referred to, and if they occasionally
should be, the English reader need feel no mortification in confessing
his ignorance of them.

Our work is not for the learned, nor for the theologian, nor for the
philosopher, but for the reader of English literature, of either sex,
who wishes to comprehend the allusions so frequently made by public
speakers, lecturers, essayists, and poets, and those which occur in
polite conversation.

                                  ————

In the “Stories of Gods and Heroes” the compiler has endeavored to
impart the pleasures of classical learning to the English reader, by
presenting the stories of Pagan mythology in a form adapted to modern
taste. In “King Arthur and His Knights” and “The Mabinogeon” the attempt
has been made to treat in the same way the stories of the second “age of
fable,” the age which witnessed the dawn of the several states of Modern
Europe.

It is believed that this presentation of a literature which held
unrivalled sway over the imaginations of our ancestors, for many
centuries, will not be without benefit to the reader, in addition to the
amusement it may afford. The tales, though not to be trusted for their
facts, are worthy of all credit as pictures of manners; and it is
beginning to be held that the manners and modes of thinking of an age
are a more important part of its history than the conflicts of its
peoples, generally leading to no result. Besides this, the literature of
romance is a treasure-house of poetical material, to which modern poets
frequently resort. The Italian poets, Dante and Ariosto, the English,
Spenser, Scott, and Tennyson, and our own Longfellow and Lowell, are
examples of this.

These legends are so connected with each other, so consistently adapted
to a group of characters strongly individualized in Arthur, Launcelot,
and their compeers, and so lighted up by the fires of imagination and
invention, that they seem as well adapted to the poet’s purpose as the
legends of the Greek and Roman mythology. And if every well-educated
young person is expected to know the story of the Golden Fleece, why is
the quest of the Sangreal less worthy of his acquaintance? Or if an
allusion to the shield of Achilles ought not to pass unapprehended, why
should one to Excalibar, the famous sword of Arthur?—

    “Of Arthur, who, to upper light restored,
    With that terrific sword,
    Which yet he brandishes for future war,
    Shall lift his country’s fame above the polar star.”[1]

It is an additional recommendation of our subject, that it tends to
cherish in our minds the idea of the source from which we sprung. We are
entitled to our full share in the glories and recollections of the land
of our forefathers, down to the time of colonization thence. The
associations which spring from this source must be fruitful of good
influences; among which not the least valuable is the increased
enjoyment which such associations afford to the American traveller when
he visits England, and sets his foot upon any of her renowned
localities.

                                  ————

The legends of Charlemagne and his peers are necessary to complete the
subject.

In an age when intellectual darkness enveloped Western Europe, a
constellation of brilliant writers arose in Italy. Of these, Pulci (born
in 1432), Boiardo (1434), and Ariosto (1474) took for their subjects the
romantic fables which had for many ages been transmitted in the lays of
bards and the legends of monkish chroniclers. These fables they arranged
in order, adorned with the embellishments of fancy, amplified from their
own invention, and stamped with immortality. It may safely be asserted
that as long as civilization shall endure these productions will retain
their place among the most cherished creations of human genius.

In “Stories of Gods and Heroes,” “King Arthur and His Knights” and “The
Mabinogeon” the aim has been to supply to the modern reader such
knowledge of the fables of classical and mediæval literature as is
needed to render intelligible the allusions which occur in reading and
conversation. The “Legends of Charlemagne” is intended to carry out the
same design. Like the earlier portions of the work, it aspires to a
higher character than that of a piece of mere amusement. It claims to be
useful, in acquainting its readers with the subjects of the productions
of the great poets of Italy. Some knowledge of these is expected of
every well-educated young person.

In reading these romances, we cannot fail to observe how the primitive
inventions have been used, again and again, by successive generations of
fabulists. The Siren of Ulysses is the prototype of the Siren of
Orlando, and the character of Circe reappears in Alcina. The fountains
of Love and Hatred may be traced to the story of Cupid and Psyche; and
similar effects produced by a magic draught appear in the tale of
Tristram and Isoude, and, substituting a flower for the draught, in
Shakspeare’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream.” There are many other instances
of the same kind which the reader will recognize without our assistance.

The sources whence we derive these stories are, first, the Italian poets
named above; next, the “Romans de Chevalerie” of the Comte de Tressan;
lastly, certain German collections of popular tales. Some chapters have
been borrowed from Leigh Hunt’s Translations from the Italian Poets. It
seemed unnecessary to do over again what he had already done so well;
yet, on the other hand, those stories could not be omitted from the
series without leaving it incomplete.

                                                      THOMAS BULFINCH.




[Illustration: [Map 1: Western Mediterranean]
 The World of the Ancient Greeks and Romans.]

[Illustration: [Map 2: Eastern Mediterranean]
 The World of the Ancient Greeks and Romans.]




                                CONTENTS
                       STORIES OF GODS AND HEROES

    CHAPTER                                                          PAGE
         I. Introduction                                                1
        II. Prometheus and Pandora                                     12
       III. Apollo and Daphne—Pyramus and Thisbe—Cephalus and
              Procris                                                  19
        IV. Juno and her Rivals, Io and Callisto—Diana and
              Actæon—Latona and the Rustics                            28
         V. Phaëton                                                    38
        VI. Midas—Baucis and Philemon                                  46
       VII. Proserpine—Glaucus and Scylla                              52
      VIII. Pygmalion—Dryope—Venus and Adonis—Apollo and Hyacinthus    62
        IX. Ceyx and Halcyone                                          69
         X. Vertumnus and Pomona—Iphis and Anaxarete                   76
        XI. Cupid and Psyche                                           80
       XII. Cadmus—The Myrmidons                                       91
      XIII. Nisus and Scylla—Echo and Narcissus—Clytie—Hero and
              Leander                                                  98
       XIV. Minerva and Arachne—Niobe                                 107
        XV. The Grææ and Gorgons—Perseus and Medusa—Atlas—Andromeda   115
       XVI. Monsters: Giants—Sphinx—Pegasus and
              Chimæra—Centaurs—Griffin—Pygmies                        122
      XVII. The Golden Fleece—Medea                                   129
     XVIII. Meleager and Atalanta                                     138
       XIX. Hercules—Hebe and Ganymede                                143
        XX. Theseus and Dædalus—Castor and Pollux—Festivals and
              Games                                                   150
       XXI. Bacchus and Ariadne                                       160
      XXII. The Rural Deities—The Dryads and
              Erisichthon—Rhœcus—Water Deities—Camenæ—Winds           166
     XXIII. Achelous and Hercules—Admetus and
              Alcestis—Antigone—Penelope                              177
      XXIV. Orpheus and
              Eurydice—Aristæus—Amphion—Linus—Thamyris—Marsyas—Mela
              mpus—Musæus                                             185
       XXV. Arion—Ibycus—Simonides—Sappho                             194
      XXVI. Endymion—Orion—Aurora and Tithonus—Acis and Galatea       204
     XXVII. The Trojan War                                            211
    XXVIII. The Fall of Troy—Return of the Greeks—Orestes and
              Electra                                                 227
      XXIX. Adventures of Ulysses—The Lotus-eaters—The
              Cyclopes—Circe—Sirens—Scylla and Charybdis—Calypso      236
       XXX. The Phæacians—Fate of the Suitors                         247
      XXXI. Adventures of Æneas—The Harpies—Dido—Palinurus            258
     XXXII. The Infernal Regions—The Sibyl                            266
    XXXIII. Æneas in Italy—Camilla—Evander—Nisus and
              Euryalus—Mezentius—Turnus                               276
     XXXIV. Pythagoras—Egyptian Deities—Oracles                       288
      XXXV. Origin of Mythology—Statues of Gods and Goddesses—Poets
              of Mythology                                            300
     XXXVI. Monsters (modern)—The
              Phœnix—Basilisk—Unicorn—Salamander                      310
    XXXVII. Eastern Mythology—Zoroaster—Hindu
              Mythology—Castes—Buddha—The Grand Lama—Prester John     318
   XXXVIII. Northern Mythology—Valhalla—The Valkyrior                 328
     XXXIX. Thor’s Visit to Jotunheim                                 337
        XL. The Death of Baldur—The Elves—Runic
              Letters—Skalds—Iceland—Teutonic Mythology—The
              Nibelungen Lied—Wagner’s Nibelungen Ring                343
       XLI. The Druids—Iona                                           358

                      KING ARTHUR AND HIS KNIGHTS

    CHAPTER                                                          PAGE
         I. Introduction                                              367
        II. The Mythical History of England                           378
       III. Merlin                                                    389
        IV. Arthur                                                    394
         V. Arthur (_Continued_)                                      405
        VI. Sir Gawain                                                414
       VII. Caradoc Briefbras; or, Caradoc with the Shrunken Arm      418
      VIII. Launcelot of the Lake                                     424
        IX. The Adventure of the Cart                                 435
         X. The Lady of Shalott                                       441
        XI. Queen Guenever’s Peril                                    445
       XII. Tristram and Isoude                                       449
      XIII. Tristram and Isoude (_Continued_)                         457
       XIV. Sir Tristram’s Battle with Sir Launcelot                  464
        XV. The Round Table                                           467
       XVI. Sir Palamedes                                             472
      XVII. Sir Tristram                                              475
     XVIII. Perceval                                                  479
       XIX. The Sangreal, or Holy Graal                               486
        XX. The Sangreal (_Continued_)                                491
       XXI. The Sangreal (_Continued_)                                497
      XXII. Sir Agrivain’s Treason                                    507
     XXIII. Morte d’Arthur                                            515

                             THE MABINOGEON

    CHAPTER                                                          PAGE
            Introductory Note                                         527
         I. The Britons                                               529
        II. The Lady of the Fountain                                  534
       III. The Lady of the Fountain (_Continued_)                    539
        IV. The Lady of the Fountain (_Continued_)                    546
         V. Geraint, the Son of Erbin                                 553
        VI. Geraint, the Son of Erbin (_Continued_)                   564
       VII. Geraint, the Son of Erbin (_Continued_)                   572
      VIII. Pwyll, Prince of Dyved                                    583
        IX. Branwen, the Daughter of Llyr                             589
         X. Manawyddan                                                597
        XI. Kilwich and Olwen                                         608
       XII. Kilwich and Olwen (_Continued_)                           620
      XIII. Taliesin                                                  626

                     HERO MYTHS OF THE BRITISH RACE

 Beowulf                                                              635
 Cuchulain, Champion of Ireland                                       637
 Hereward the Wake                                                    641
 Robin Hood                                                           643

                         LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE

 Introduction                                                         647
 The Peers, or Paladins                                               656
 The Tournament                                                       664
 The Siege of Albracca                                                672
 Adventures of Rinaldo and Orlando                                    683
 The Invasion of France                                               693
 The Invasion of France (_Continued_)                                 702
 Bradamante and Rogero                                                712
 Astolpho and the Enchantress                                         721
 The Orc                                                              732
 Astolpho’s Adventures continued, and Isabella’s begun                739
 Medoro                                                               745
 Orlando Mad                                                          753
 Zerbino and Isabella                                                 760
 Astolpho in Abyssinia                                                769
 The War in Africa                                                    777
 Rogero and Bradamante                                                788
 The Battle of Roncesvalles                                           801
 Rinaldo and Bayard                                                   814
 Death of Rinaldo                                                     819
 Huon of Bordeaux                                                     825
 Huon of Bordeaux (_Continued_)                                       832
 Huon of Bordeaux (_Continued_)                                       842
 Ogier, the Dane                                                      848
 Ogier, the Dane (_Continued_)                                        856
 Ogier, the Dane (_Continued_)                                        863

                                  ————

 PROVERBIAL EXPRESSIONS                                               873

 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIVE PASSAGES QUOTED FROM THE POETS                  875

 INDEX AND DICTIONARY                                                 877




                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
                        (Added for convenience)

    1. JOVE (JUPITER). Museum at Naples. Excavated from Pompeii in 1818.
    2. Western Mediterranean Map The World of the Ancient Greeks and
         Romans, showing Location of Places mentioned in “Stories of Gods
         and Heroes.”
    3. Eastern Mediterranean Map The World of the Ancient Greeks and
         Romans, showing Location of Places mentioned in “Stories of Gods
         and Heroes.”
    4. THE DESCENT OF THE GODS [Greek and Roman Gods Family Tree]
    5. CIRCE. From painting by Burne-Jones.
    6. THE THREE FATES. From painting by Michael Angelo. Pitti Gallery,
         Florence.
    7. HERCULES IN BATTLE WITH A CENTAUR. Florence. John of Bologna.
    8. PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. From painting by A. Maignan.
    9. THETIS BEARING THE ARMOR OF ACHILLES. From painting by François
         Gerard.
   10. CIRCE AND THE FRIENDS OF ULYSSES. From painting by Briton Rivière.
   11. ÆNEAS AT THE COURT OF QUEEN DIDO. From painting by P. Guerin.
         Salon of 1817.
   12. A VALKYR. From painting by P. N. Arbo.
   13. THE BEGUILING OF MERLIN. From painting by Sir Edwin Burne-Jones.
   14. THE ROUND TABLE. From a photograph. This supposed relic of King
         Arthur and his Knights now hangs in the Great Hall of the Castle
         of Winchester (Camelot).
   15. SIR GALAHAD. From painting by George Frederick Watts.
   16. KING ARTHUR AND QUEEN GUENEVER. Original drawing by A. Fredericks.
   17. CHARLEMAGNE. From painting by Dürer in the Museum at Nuremburg.
   18. CHARLEMAGNE RECEIVING HIS GUESTS. Original drawing by Byam Shaw.




                        THE DESCENT OF THE GODS


                 CHAOS=Nox (Night)
     (Darkness) EREBUS=Nox (Night)
                      |                               Neptune
                  +-------+            +----------+-=Amphitrite+--Proteus
                  |       |            |          |            |
        (Light) AETHER=HEMERA (Day)    +--Nereus--+--Galatea   +--Triton
                      |                |          |
                    EROS (Amor) (Love) |          +--Thetis--Achilles
                      |                |
              +-------------+          |         +--Iris
              |             |          +--Thaumas|
         GÆA (Earth) PONTUS (Sea)=GÆA--|         +--Harpies
              |                        |
(Cronos) URANUS=GÆA                    |                +Gorgons
            |                          +--Phorcys=Ceto--+Sirens
            |                                           +Scylla
      +-----+----------+----+------+-----------------+
      |     |          |    |      |                 |
   Saturn=Rhea (Ops) Cœus=Phœbe Japetus        Oceanus=Tethys
         |               |         |                 |
   +-----+               |         |      +-------+--------+--------+
   |                   Latona      |      |       |        |        |
   +--Jupiter--Minerva (Leto)      | Inachus Oceanids Clymene Doris=Nereus
   |  (Zeus)  (Athene)             | and river gods                 |
   |                      +--------+-------+                     Nereides
   +--Ceres (Demeter)     |        |       |
   |                 Epimetheus Prometheus Atlas
   +--Juno (Hera)         |                |
   |                    Dione              Maia
   +--Pluto (Hades)
   |
   +--Neptune (Poseidon)
   |
   +--Vesta (Hestia)


  JUPITER=Juno (Hera)            JUPITER=Latona (Leto)    JUPITER=Dione
         |                              |                        |
  +------+---------+              +------------+                 |
  |      |         |              |            |                 |
Hebe   Mars      Vulcan     Phœbus Apollo    Diana       Venus (Aphrodite)
      (Ares)  (Hephæstus)                  (Artemis)             |
                                                               Cupid

   JUPITER=Maia        JUPITER=Semele
         |                    |
         |                    |
         |                    |
 Mercury (Hermes)   Bacchus (Dionysus)


          JUPITER=Themis             JUPITER=Mnemosyne
                 |                           |
     +-----------+---------------+       Nine Muses
     |           |               |
   Horæ        Parcæ           Astræa
(The Hours) (The Fates) (Goddess of Justice)


 JUPITER=Eurynome  JUPITER=Demeter (Ceres)    JUPITER=Alcmene
       |                  |                           |
   Three Graces    Proserpina (Persephone)  Hercules (Heracles)




                       STORIES OF GODS AND HEROES


                               CHAPTER I

                              INTRODUCTION

THE religions of ancient Greece and Rome are extinct. The so-called
divinities of Olympus have not a single worshipper among living men.
They belong now not to the department of theology, but to those of
literature and taste. There they still hold their place, and will
continue to hold it, for they are too closely connected with the finest
productions of poetry and art, both ancient and modern, to pass into
oblivion.

We propose to tell the stories relating to them which have come down to
us from the ancients, and which are alluded to by modern poets,
essayists, and orators. Our readers may thus at the same time be
entertained by the most charming fictions which fancy has ever created,
and put in possession of information indispensable to every one who
would read with intelligence the elegant literature of his own day.

In order to understand these stories, it will be necessary to acquaint
ourselves with the ideas of the structure of the universe which
prevailed among the Greeks—the people from whom the Romans, and other
nations through them, received their science and religion.

The Greeks believed the earth to be flat and circular, their own country
occupying the middle of it, the central point being either Mount
Olympus, the abode of the gods, or Delphi, so famous for its oracle.

The circular disk of the earth was crossed from west to east and divided
into two equal parts by the _Sea_, as they called the Mediterranean, and
its continuation the Euxine, the only seas with which they were
acquainted.

Around the earth flowed the _River Ocean_, its course being from south
to north on the western side of the earth, and in a contrary direction
on the eastern side. It flowed in a steady, equable current, unvexed by
storm or tempest. The sea, and all the rivers on earth, received their
waters from it.

The northern portion of the earth was supposed to be inhabited by a
happy race named the Hyperboreans, dwelling in everlasting bliss and
spring beyond the lofty mountains whose caverns were supposed to send
forth the piercing blasts of the north wind, which chilled the people of
Hellas (Greece). Their country was inaccessible by land or sea. They
lived exempt from disease or old age, from toils and warfare. Moore has
given us the “Song of a Hyperborean,” beginning

    “I come from a land in the sun-bright deep,
      Where golden gardens glow,
    Where the winds of the north, becalmed in sleep,
      Their conch shells never blow.”

On the south side of the earth, close to the stream of Ocean, dwelt a
people happy and virtuous as the Hyperboreans. They were named the
Æthiopians. The gods favored them so highly that they were wont to leave
at times their Olympian abodes and go to share their sacrifices and
banquets.

On the western margin of the earth, by the stream of Ocean, lay a happy
place named the Elysian Plain, whither mortals favored by the gods were
transported without tasting of death, to enjoy an immortality of bliss.
This happy region was also called the “Fortunate Fields,” and the “Isles
of the Blessed.”

We thus see that the Greeks of the early ages knew little of any real
people except those to the east and south of their own country, or near
the coast of the Mediterranean. Their imagination meantime peopled the
western portion of this sea with giants, monsters, and enchantresses;
while they placed around the disk of the earth, which they probably
regarded as of no great width, nations enjoying the peculiar favor of
the gods, and blessed with happiness and longevity.

The Dawn, the Sun, and the Moon were supposed to rise out of the Ocean,
on the eastern side, and to drive through the air, giving light to gods
and men. The stars, also, except those forming the Wain or Bear, and
others near them, rose out of and sank into the stream of Ocean. There
the sun-god embarked in a winged boat, which conveyed him round by the
northern part of the earth, back to his place of rising in the east.
Milton alludes to this in his “Comus”:

    “Now the gilded car of day
    His golden axle doth allay
    In the steep Atlantic stream,
    And the <DW72> Sun his upward beam
    Shoots against the dusky pole,
    Pacing towards the other goal
    Of his chamber in the east.”

The abode of the gods was on the summit of Mount Olympus, in Thessaly. A
gate of clouds, kept by the goddesses named the Seasons, opened to
permit the passage of the Celestials to earth, and to receive them on
their return. The gods had their separate dwellings; but all, when
summoned, repaired to the palace of Jupiter, as did also those deities
whose usual abode was the earth, the waters, or the underworld. It was
also in the great hall of the palace of the Olympian king that the gods
feasted each day on ambrosia and nectar, their food and drink, the
latter being handed round by the lovely goddess Hebe. Here they
conversed of the affairs of heaven and earth; and as they quaffed their
nectar, Apollo, the god of music, delighted them with the tones of his
lyre, to which the Muses sang in responsive strains. When the sun was
set, the gods retired to sleep in their respective dwellings.

The following lines from the “Odyssey” will show how Homer conceived of
Olympus:

    “So saying, Minerva, goddess azure-eyed,
    Rose to Olympus, the reputed seat
    Eternal of the gods, which never storms
    Disturb, rains drench, or snow invades, but calm
    The expanse and cloudless shines with purest day.
    There the inhabitants divine rejoice
    Forever.”
                                           _Cowper._

The robes and other parts of the dress of the goddesses were woven by
Minerva and the Graces and everything of a more solid nature was formed
of the various metals. Vulcan was architect, smith, armorer, chariot
builder, and artist of all work in Olympus. He built of brass the houses
of the gods; he made for them the golden shoes with which they trod the
air or the water, and moved from place to place with the speed of the
wind, or even of thought. He also shod with brass the celestial steeds,
which whirled the chariots of the gods through the air, or along the
surface of the sea. He was able to bestow on his workmanship
self-motion, so that the tripods (chairs and tables) could move of
themselves in and out of the celestial hall. He even endowed with
intelligence the golden handmaidens whom he made to wait on himself.

Jupiter, or Jove (Zeus[2]), though called the father of gods and men,
had himself a beginning. Saturn (Cronos) was his father, and Rhea (Ops)
his mother. Saturn and Rhea were of the race of Titans, who were the
children of Earth and Heaven, which sprang from Chaos, of which we shall
give a further account in our next chapter.

There is another cosmogony, or account of the creation, according to
which Earth, Erebus, and Love were the first of beings. Love (Eros)
issued from the egg of Night, which floated on Chaos. By his arrows and
torch he pierced and vivified all things, producing life and joy.

Saturn and Rhea were not the only Titans. There were others, whose names
were Oceanus, Hyperion, Iapetus, and Ophion, males; and Themis,
Mnemosyne, Eurynome, females. They are spoken of as the elder gods,
whose dominion was afterwards transferred to others. Saturn yielded to
Jupiter, Oceanus to Neptune, Hyperion to Apollo. Hyperion was the father
of the Sun, Moon, and Dawn. He is therefore the original sun-god, and is
painted with the splendor and beauty which were afterwards bestowed on
Apollo.

    “Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself.”
                                     _Shakspeare._

Ophion and Eurynome ruled over Olympus till they were dethroned by
Saturn and Rhea. Milton alludes to them in “Paradise Lost.” He says the
heathens seem to have had some knowledge of the temptation and fall of
man.

    “And fabled how the serpent, whom they called
    Ophion, with Eurynome, (the wide-Encroaching
    Eve perhaps,) had first the rule
    Of high Olympus, thence by Saturn driven.”

The representations given of Saturn are not very consistent; for on the
one hand his reign is said to have been the golden age of innocence and
purity, and on the other he is described as a monster who devoured his
children.[3] Jupiter, however, escaped this fate, and when grown up
espoused Metis (Prudence), who administered a draught to Saturn which
caused him to disgorge his children. Jupiter, with his brothers and
sisters, now rebelled against their father Saturn and his brothers the
Titans; vanquished them, and imprisoned some of them in Tartarus,
inflicting other penalties on others. Atlas was condemned to bear up the
heavens on his shoulders.

On the dethronement of Saturn, Jupiter with his brothers Neptune
(Poseidon) and Pluto (Dis) divided his dominions. Jupiter’s portion was
the heavens, Neptune’s the ocean, and Pluto’s the realms of the dead.
Earth and Olympus were common property. Jupiter was king of gods and
men. The thunder was his weapon, and he bore a shield called Ægis, made
for him by Vulcan. The eagle was his favorite bird, and bore his
thunderbolts.

Juno (Hera) was the wife of Jupiter, and queen of the gods. Iris, the
goddess of the rainbow, was her attendant and messenger. The peacock was
her favorite bird.

Vulcan (Hephæstos), the celestial artist, was the son of Jupiter and
Juno. He was born lame, and his mother was so displeased at the sight of
him that she flung him out of heaven. Other accounts say that Jupiter
kicked him out for taking part with his mother in a quarrel which
occurred between them. Vulcan’s lameness, according to this account, was
the consequence of his fall. He was a whole day falling, and at last
alighted in the island of Lemnos, which was thenceforth sacred to him.
Milton alludes to this story in “Paradise Lost,” Book I.:

                                  “. . . From morn
    To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,
    A summer’s day; and with the setting sun
    Dropped from the zenith, like a falling star,
    On Lemnos, the Ægean isle.”

Mars (Ares), the god of war, was the son of Jupiter and Juno.

Phœbus Apollo, the god of archery, prophecy, and music, was the son of
Jupiter and Latona, and brother of Diana (Artemis). He was god of the
sun, as Diana, his sister, was the goddess of the moon.

Venus (Aphrodite), the goddess of love and beauty, was the daughter of
Jupiter and Dione. Others say that Venus sprang from the foam of the
sea. The zephyr wafted her along the waves to the Isle of Cyprus, where
she was received and attired by the Seasons, and then led to the
assembly of the gods. All were charmed with her beauty, and each one
demanded her for his wife. Jupiter gave her to Vulcan, in gratitude for
the service he had rendered in forging thunderbolts. So the most
beautiful of the goddesses became the wife of the most ill-favored of
gods. Venus possessed an embroidered girdle called Cestus, which had the
power of inspiring love. Her favorite birds were swans and doves, and
the plants sacred to her were the rose and the myrtle.

Cupid (Eros), the god of love, was the son of Venus. He was her constant
companion; and, armed with bow and arrows, he shot the darts of desire
into the bosoms of both gods and men. There was a deity named Anteros,
who was sometimes represented as the avenger of slighted love, and
sometimes as the symbol of reciprocal affection. The following legend is
told of him:

Venus, complaining to Themis that her son Eros continued always a child,
was told by her that it was because he was solitary, and that if he had
a brother he would grow apace. Anteros was soon afterwards born, and
Eros immediately was seen to increase rapidly in size and strength.

Minerva (Pallas, Athene), the goddess of wisdom, was the offspring of
Jupiter, without a mother. She sprang forth from his head completely
armed. Her favorite bird was the owl, and the plant sacred to her the
olive.

Byron, in “Childe Harold,” alludes to the birth of Minerva thus:

    “Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be,
    And Freedom find no champion and no child,
    Such as Columbia saw arise, when she
    Sprang forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled?
    Or must such minds be nourished in the wild,
    Deep in the unpruned forest, ’midst the roar
    Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled
    On infant Washington? Has earth no more
    Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?”

Mercury (Hermes) was the son of Jupiter and Maia. He presided over
commerce, wrestling, and other gymnastic exercises, even over thieving,
and everything, in short, which required skill and dexterity. He was the
messenger of Jupiter, and wore a winged cap and winged shoes. He bore in
his hand a rod entwined with two serpents, called the caduceus.

Mercury is said to have invented the lyre. He found, one day, a
tortoise, of which he took the shell, made holes in the opposite edges
of it, and drew cords of linen through them, and the instrument was
complete. The cords were nine, in honor of the nine Muses. Mercury gave
the lyre to Apollo, and received from him in exchange the caduceus.[4]

Ceres (Demeter) was the daughter of Saturn and Rhea. She had a daughter
named Proserpine (Persephone), who became the wife of Pluto, and queen
of the realms of the dead. Ceres presided over agriculture.

Bacchus (Dionysus), the god of wine, was the son of Jupiter and Semele.
He represents not only the intoxicating power of wine, but its social
and beneficent influences likewise, so that he is viewed as the promoter
of civilization, and a lawgiver and lover of peace.

The Muses were the daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne (Memory). They
presided over song, and prompted the memory. They were nine in number,
to each of whom was assigned the precedence over some particular
department of literature, art, or science. Calliope was the muse of epic
poetry, Clio of history, Euterpe of lyric poetry, Melpomene of tragedy,
Terpsichore of choral dance and song, Erato of love poetry, Polyhymnia
of sacred poetry, Urania of astronomy, Thalia of comedy.

The Graces were goddesses presiding over the banquet, the dance, and all
social enjoyments and elegant arts. They were three in number. Their
names were Euphrosyne, Aglaia, and Thalia.

Spenser describes the office of the Graces thus:

    “These three on men all gracious gifts bestow
    Which deck the body or adorn the mind,
    To make them lovely or well-favored show;
    As comely carriage, entertainment kind,
    Sweet semblance, friendly offices that bind,
    And all the complements of courtesy;
      They teach us how to each degree and kind
      We should ourselves demean, to low, to high,
    To friends, to foes; which skill men call Civility.”

The Fates were also three—Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Their office
was to spin the thread of human destiny, and they were armed with
shears, with which they cut it off when they pleased. They were the
daughters of Themis (Law), who sits by Jove on his throne to give him
counsel.

The Erinnyes, or Furies, were three goddesses who punished by their
secret stings the crimes of those who escaped or defied public justice.
The heads of the Furies were wreathed with serpents, and their whole
appearance was terrific and appalling. Their names were Alecto,
Tisiphone, and Megæra. They were also called Eumenides.

Nemesis was also an avenging goddess. She represents the righteous anger
of the gods, particularly towards the proud and insolent.

Pan was the god of flocks and shepherds. His favorite residence was in
Arcadia.

The Satyrs were deities of the woods and fields. They were conceived to
be covered with bristly hair, their heads decorated with short,
sprouting horns, and their feet like goats’ feet.

Momus was the god of laughter, and Plutus the god of wealth.

                            ROMAN DIVINITIES

The preceding are Grecian divinities, though received also by the
Romans. Those which follow are peculiar to Roman mythology:

Saturn was an ancient Italian deity. It was attempted to identify him
with the Grecian god Cronos, and fabled that after his dethronement by
Jupiter he fled to Italy, where he reigned during what was called the
Golden Age. In memory of his beneficent dominion, the feast of
Saturnalia was held every year in the winter season. Then all public
business was suspended, declarations of war and criminal executions were
postponed, friends made presents to one another, and the slaves were
indulged with great liberties. A feast was given them at which they sat
at table, while their masters served them, to show the natural equality
of men, and that all things belonged equally to all, in the reign of
Saturn.

Faunus,[5] the grandson of Saturn, was worshipped as the god of fields
and shepherds, and also as a prophetic god. His name in the plural,
Fauns, expressed a class of gamesome deities, like the Satyrs of the
Greeks.

Quirinus was a war god, said to be no other than Romulus, the founder of
Rome, exalted after his death to a place among the gods.

Bellona, a war goddess.

Terminus, the god of landmarks. His statue was a rude stone or post, set
in the ground to mark the boundaries of fields.

Pales, the goddess presiding over cattle and pastures.

Pomona presided over fruit trees.

Flora, the goddess of flowers.

Lucina, the goddess of childbirth.

Vesta (the Hestia of the Greeks) was a deity presiding over the public
and private hearth. A sacred fire, tended by six virgin priestesses
called Vestals, flamed in her temple. As the safety of the city was held
to be connected with its conservation, the neglect of the virgins, if
they let it go out, was severely punished, and the fire was rekindled
from the rays of the sun.

Liber is the Latin name of Bacchus; and Mulciber of Vulcan.

Janus was the porter of heaven. He opens the year, the first month being
named after him. He is the guardian deity of gates, on which account he
is commonly represented with two heads, because every door looks two
ways. His temples at Rome were numerous. In war time the gates of the
principal one were always open. In peace they were closed; but they were
shut only once between the reign of Numa and that of Augustus.

The Penates were the gods who were supposed to attend to the welfare and
prosperity of the family. Their name is derived from Penus, the pantry,
which was sacred to them. Every master of a family was the priest to the
Penates of his own house.

The Lares, or Lars, were also household gods, but differed from the
Penates in being regarded as the deified spirits of mortals. The family
Lars were held to be the souls of the ancestors, who watched over and
protected their descendants. The words Lemur and Larva more nearly
correspond to our word Ghost.

The Romans believed that every man had his Genius, and every woman her
Juno: that is, a spirit who had given them being, and was regarded as
their protector through life. On their birthdays men made offerings to
their Genius, women to their Juno.

A modern poet thus alludes to some of the Roman gods:

    “Pomona loves the orchard,
      And Liber loves the vine,
    And Pales loves the straw-built shed
      Warm with the breath of kine;
    And Venus loves the whisper
      Of plighted youth and maid,
    In April’s ivory moonlight,
      Beneath the chestnut shade.”
     —_Macaulay_, “_Prophecy of Capys_.”

                                  ————

N.B.—It is to be observed that in proper names the final _e_ and _es_
are to be sounded. Thus Cybele and Penates are words of three syllables.
But Proserpine and Thebes are exceptions, and to be pronounced as
English words. In the Index at the close of the volume we shall mark the
accented syllable in all words which appear to require it.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER II

                         PROMETHEUS AND PANDORA

THE creation of the world is a problem naturally fitted to excite the
liveliest interest of man, its inhabitant. The ancient pagans, not
having the information on the subject which we derive from the pages of
Scripture, had their own way of telling the story, which is as follows:

Before earth and sea and heaven were created, all things wore one
aspect, to which we give the name of Chaos—a confused and shapeless
mass, nothing but dead weight, in which, however, slumbered the seeds of
things. Earth, sea, and air were all mixed up together; so the earth was
not solid, the sea was not fluid, and the air was not transparent. God
and Nature at last interposed, and put an end to this discord,
separating earth from sea, and heaven from both. The fiery part, being
the lightest, sprang up, and formed the skies; the air was next in
weight and place. The earth, being heavier, sank below; and the water
took the lowest place, and buoyed up the earth.

Here some god—it is not known which—gave his good offices in arranging
and disposing the earth. He appointed rivers and bays their places,
raised mountains, scooped out valleys, distributed woods, fountains,
fertile fields, and stony plains. The air being cleared, the stars began
to appear, fishes took possession of the sea, birds of the air, and
four-footed beasts of the land.

But a nobler animal was wanted, and Man was made. It is not known
whether the creator made him of divine materials, or whether in the
earth, so lately separated from heaven, there lurked still some heavenly
seeds. Prometheus took some of this earth, and kneading it up with
water, made man in the image of the gods. He gave him an upright
stature, so that while all other animals turn their faces downward, and
look to the earth, he raises his to heaven, and gazes on the stars.

Prometheus was one of the Titans, a gigantic race, who inhabited the
earth before the creation of man. To him and his brother Epimetheus was
committed the office of making man, and providing him and all other
animals with the faculties necessary for their preservation. Epimetheus
undertook to do this, and Prometheus was to overlook his work, when it
was done. Epimetheus accordingly proceeded to bestow upon the different
animals the various gifts of courage, strength, swiftness, sagacity;
wings to one, claws to another, a shelly covering to a third, etc. But
when man came to be provided for, who was to be superior to all other
animals, Epimetheus had been so prodigal of his resources that he had
nothing left to bestow upon him. In his perplexity he resorted to his
brother Prometheus, who, with the aid of Minerva, went up to heaven, and
lighted his torch at the chariot of the sun, and brought down fire to
man. With this gift man was more than a match for all other animals. It
enabled him to make weapons wherewith to subdue them; tools with which
to cultivate the earth; to warm his dwelling, so as to be comparatively
independent of climate; and finally to introduce the arts and to coin
money, the means of trade and commerce.

Woman was not yet made. The story (absurd enough!) is that Jupiter made
her, and sent her to Prometheus and his brother, to punish them for
their presumption in stealing fire from heaven; and man, for accepting
the gift. The first woman was named Pandora. She was made in heaven,
every god contributing something to perfect her. Venus gave her beauty,
Mercury persuasion, Apollo music, etc. Thus equipped, she was conveyed
to earth, and presented to Epimetheus, who gladly accepted her, though
cautioned by his brother to beware of Jupiter and his gifts. Epimetheus
had in his house a jar, in which were kept certain noxious articles, for
which, in fitting man for his new abode, he had had no occasion. Pandora
was seized with an eager curiosity to know what this jar contained; and
one day she slipped off the cover and looked in. Forthwith there escaped
a multitude of plagues for hapless man,—such as gout, rheumatism, and
colic for his body, and envy, spite, and revenge for his mind,—and
scattered themselves far and wide. Pandora hastened to replace the lid!
but, alas! the whole contents of the jar had escaped, one thing only
excepted, which lay at the bottom, and that was _hope_. So we see at
this day, whatever evils are abroad, hope never entirely leaves us; and
while we have _that_, no amount of other ills can make us completely
wretched.

Another story is that Pandora was sent in good faith, by Jupiter, to
bless man; that she was furnished with a box, containing her marriage
presents, into which every god had put some blessing. She opened the box
incautiously, and the blessings all escaped, _hope_ only excepted. This
story seems more probable than the former; for how could _hope_, so
precious a jewel as it is, have been kept in a jar full of all manner of
evils, as in the former statement?

The world being thus furnished with inhabitants, the first age was an
age of innocence and happiness, called the _Golden Age_. Truth and right
prevailed, though not enforced by law, nor was there any magistrate to
threaten or punish. The forest had not yet been robbed of its trees to
furnish timbers for vessels, nor had men built fortifications round
their towns. There were no such things as swords, spears, or helmets.
The earth brought forth all things necessary for man, without his labor
in ploughing or sowing. Perpetual spring reigned, flowers sprang up
without seed, the rivers flowed with milk and wine, and yellow honey
distilled from the oaks.

Then succeeded the _Silver Age_, inferior to the golden, but better than
that of brass. Jupiter shortened the spring, and divided the year into
seasons. Then, first, men had to endure the extremes of heat and cold,
and houses became necessary. Caves were the first dwellings, and leafy
coverts of the woods, and huts woven of twigs. Crops would no longer
grow without planting. The farmer was obliged to sow the seed and the
toiling ox to draw the plough.

Next came the _Brazen Age_, more savage of temper, and readier to the
strife of arms, yet not altogether wicked. The hardest and worst was the
_Iron Age_. Crime burst in like a flood; modesty, truth, and honor fled.
In their places came fraud and cunning, violence, and the wicked love of
gain. Then seamen spread sails to the wind, and the trees were torn from
the mountains to serve for keels to ships, and vex the face of ocean.
The earth, which till now had been cultivated in common, began to be
divided off into possessions. Men were not satisfied with what the
surface produced, but must dig into its bowels, and draw forth from
thence the ores of metals. Mischievous _iron_, and more mischievous
_gold_, were produced. War sprang up, using both as weapons; the guest
was not safe in his friend’s house; and sons-in-law and fathers-in-law,
brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, could not trust one another.
Sons wished their fathers dead, that they might come to the inheritance;
family love lay prostrate. The earth was wet with slaughter, and the
gods abandoned it, one by one, till Astræa[6] alone was left, and
finally she also took her departure.

Jupiter, seeing this state of things, burned with anger. He summoned the
gods to council. They obeyed the call, and took the road to the palace
of heaven. The road, which any one may see in a clear night, stretches
across the face of the sky, and is called the Milky Way. Along the road
stand the palaces of the illustrious gods; the common people of the
skies live apart, on either side. Jupiter addressed the assembly. He set
forth the frightful condition of things on the earth, and closed by
announcing his intention to destroy the whole of its inhabitants, and
provide a new race, unlike the first, who would be more worthy of life,
and much better worshippers of the gods. So saying he took a
thunderbolt, and was about to launch it at the world, and destroy it by
burning; but recollecting the danger that such a conflagration might set
heaven itself on fire, he changed his plan, and resolved to drown it.
The north wind, which scatters the clouds, was chained up; the south was
sent out, and soon covered all the face of heaven with a cloak of pitchy
darkness. The clouds, driven together, resound with a crash; torrents of
rain fall; the crops are laid low; the year’s labor of the husbandman
perishes in an hour. Jupiter, not satisfied with his own waters, calls
on his brother Neptune to aid him with his. He lets loose the rivers,
and pours them over the land. At the same time, he heaves the land with
an earthquake, and brings in the reflux of the ocean over the shores.
Flocks, herds, men, and houses are swept away, and temples, with their
sacred enclosures, profaned. If any edifice remained standing, it was
overwhelmed, and its turrets lay hid beneath the waves. Now all was sea,
sea without shore. Here and there an individual remained on a projecting
hill-top, and a few, in boats, pulled the oar where they had lately
driven the plough. The fishes swim among the tree-tops; the anchor is
let down into a garden. Where the graceful lambs played but now,
unwieldy sea calves gambol. The wolf swims among the sheep, the yellow
lions and tigers struggle in the water. The strength of the wild boar
serves him not, nor his swiftness the stag. The birds fall with weary
wing into the water, having found no land for a resting-place. Those
living beings whom the water spared fell a prey to hunger.

Parnassus alone, of all the mountains, overtopped the waves; and there
Deucalion, and his wife Pyrrha, of the race of Prometheus, found
refuge—he a just man, and she a faithful worshipper of the gods.
Jupiter, when he saw none left alive but this pair, and remembered their
harmless lives and pious demeanor, ordered the north winds to drive away
the clouds, and disclose the skies to earth, and earth to the skies.
Neptune also directed Triton to blow on his shell, and sound a retreat
to the waters. The waters obeyed, and the sea returned to its shores,
and the rivers to their channels. Then Deucalion thus addressed Pyrrha:
“O wife, only surviving woman, joined to me first by the ties of kindred
and marriage, and now by a common danger, would that we possessed the
power of our ancestor Prometheus, and could renew the race as he at
first made it! But as we cannot, let us seek yonder temple, and inquire
of the gods what remains for us to do.” They entered the temple,
deformed as it was with slime, and approached the altar, where no fire
burned. There they fell prostrate on the earth, and prayed the goddess
to inform them how they might retrieve their miserable affairs. The
oracle answered, “Depart from the temple with head veiled and garments
unbound, and cast behind you the bones of your mother.” They heard the
words with astonishment. Pyrrha first broke silence: “We cannot obey; we
dare not profane the remains of our parents.” They sought the thickest
shades of the wood, and revolved the oracle in their minds. At length
Deucalion spoke: “Either my sagacity deceives me, or the command is one
we may obey without impiety. The earth is the great parent of all; the
stones are her bones; these we may cast behind us; and I think this is
what the oracle means. At least, it will do no harm to try.” They veiled
their faces, unbound their garments, and picked up stones, and cast them
behind them. The stones (wonderful to relate) began to grow soft, and
assume shape. By degrees, they put on a rude resemblance to the human
form, like a block half-finished in the hands of the sculptor. The
moisture and slime that were about them became flesh; the stony part
became bones; the veins remained veins, retaining their name, only
changing their use. Those thrown by the hand of the man became men, and
those by the woman became women. It was a hard race, and well adapted to
labor, as we find ourselves to be at this day, giving plain indications
of our origin.



The comparison of Eve to Pandora is too obvious to have escaped Milton,
who introduces it in Book IV. of “Paradise-Lost”:

    “More lovely than Pandora, whom the gods
    Endowed with all their gifts; and O, too like
    In sad event, when to the unwiser son
    Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she insnared
    Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged
    On him who had stole Jove’s authentic fire.”

Prometheus and Epimetheus were sons of Iapetus, which Milton changes to
Japhet.

Prometheus has been a favorite subject with the poets. He is represented
as the friend of mankind, who interposed in their behalf when Jove was
incensed against them, and who taught them civilization and the arts.
But as, in so doing, he transgressed the will of Jupiter, he drew down
on himself the anger of the ruler of gods and men. Jupiter had him
chained to a rock on Mount Caucasus, where a vulture preyed on his
liver, which was renewed as fast as devoured. This state of torment
might have been brought to an end at any time by Prometheus, if he had
been willing to submit to his oppressor; for he possessed a secret which
involved the stability of Jove’s throne, and if he would have revealed
it, he might have been at once taken into favor. But that he disdained
to do. He has therefore become the symbol of magnanimous endurance of
unmerited suffering, and strength of will resisting oppression.

Byron and Shelley have both treated this theme. The following are
Byron’s lines:

    “Titan! to whose immortal eyes
      The sufferings of mortality,
      Seen in their sad reality,
    Were not as things that gods despise;
    What was thy pity’s recompense?
    A silent suffering, and intense;
    The rock, the vulture, and the chain;
    All that the proud can feel of pain;
    The agony they do not show;
    The suffocating sense of woe.

    “Thy godlike crime was to be kind;
      To render with thy precepts less
      The sum of human wretchedness,
    And strengthen man with his own mind.
      And, baffled as thou wert from high,
      Still, in thy patient energy
    In the endurance and repulse
      Of thine impenetrable spirit,
    Which earth and heaven could not convulse,
      A mighty lesson we inherit.”

Byron also employs the same allusion, in his “Ode to Napoleon
Bonaparte”:

    “Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
      Wilt thou withstand the shock?
    And share with him—the unforgiven—
      His vulture and his rock?”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER III

       APOLLO AND DAPHNE—PYRAMUS AND THISBE—CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS

THE slime with which the earth was covered by the waters of the flood
produced an excessive fertility, which called forth every variety of
production, both bad and good. Among the rest, Python, an enormous
serpent, crept forth, the terror of the people, and lurked in the caves
of Mount Parnassus. Apollo slew him with his arrows—weapons which he
had not before used against any but feeble animals, hares, wild goats,
and such game. In commemoration of this illustrious conquest he
instituted the Pythian games, in which the victor in feats of strength,
swiftness of foot, or in the chariot race was crowned with a wreath of
beech leaves; for the laurel was not yet adopted by Apollo as his own
tree.

The famous statue of Apollo called the Belvedere represents the god
after this victory over the serpent Python. To this Byron alludes in his
“Childe Harold,” iv., 161:

    “. . . The lord of the unerring bow,
    The god of life, and poetry, and light,
    The Sun, in human limbs arrayed, and brow
    All radiant from his triumph in the fight.
    The shaft has just been shot; the arrow bright
    With an immortal’s vengeance; in his eye
    And nostril, beautiful disdain, and might
    And majesty flash their full lightnings by,
    Developing in that one glance the Deity.”

                           APOLLO AND DAPHNE

Daphne was Apollo’s first love. It was not brought about by accident,
but by the malice of Cupid. Apollo saw the boy playing with his bow and
arrows; and being himself elated with his recent victory over Python, he
said to him, “What have you to do with warlike weapons, saucy boy? Leave
them for hands worthy of them. Behold the conquest I have won by means
of them over the vast serpent who stretched his poisonous body over
acres of the plain! Be content with your torch, child, and kindle up
your flames, as you call them, where you will, but presume not to meddle
with my weapons.” Venus’s boy heard these words, and rejoined, “Your
arrows may strike all things else, Apollo, but mine shall strike you.”
So saying, he took his stand on a rock of Parnassus, and drew from his
quiver two arrows of different workmanship, one to excite love, the
other to repel it. The former was of gold and sharp pointed, the latter
blunt and tipped with lead. With the leaden shaft he struck the nymph
Daphne, the daughter of the river god Peneus, and with the golden one
Apollo, through the heart. Forthwith the god was seized with love for
the maiden, and she abhorred the thought of loving. Her delight was in
woodland sports and in the spoils of the chase. Many lovers sought her,
but she spurned them all, ranging the woods, and taking no thought of
Cupid nor of Hymen. Her father often said to her, “Daughter, you owe me
a son-in-law; you owe me grandchildren.” She, hating the thought of
marriage as a crime, with her beautiful face tinged all over with
blushes, threw her arms around her father’s neck, and said, “Dearest
father, grant me this favor, that I may always remain unmarried, like
Diana.” He consented, but at the same time said, “Your own face will
forbid it.”

Apollo loved her, and longed to obtain her; and he who gives oracles to
all the world was not wise enough to look into his own fortunes. He saw
her hair flung loose over her shoulders, and said, “If so charming in
disorder, what would it be if arranged?” He saw her eyes bright as
stars; he saw her lips, and was not satisfied with only seeing them. He
admired her hands and arms, naked to the shoulder, and whatever was
hidden from view he imagined more beautiful still. He followed her; she
fled, swifter than the wind, and delayed not a moment at his entreaties.
“Stay,” said he, “daughter of Peneus; I am not a foe. Do not fly me as a
lamb flies the wolf, or a dove the hawk. It is for love I pursue you.
You make me miserable, for fear you should fall and hurt yourself on
these stones, and I should be the cause. Pray run slower, and I will
follow slower. I am no clown, no rude peasant. Jupiter is my father, and
I am lord of Delphos and Tenedos, and know all things, present and
future. I am the god of song and the lyre. My arrows fly true to the
mark; but, alas! an arrow more fatal than mine has pierced my heart! I
am the god of medicine, and know the virtues of all healing plants.
Alas! I suffer a malady that no balm can cure!”

The nymph continued her flight, and left his plea half uttered. And even
as she fled she charmed him. The wind blew her garments, and her unbound
hair streamed loose behind her. The god grew impatient to find his
wooings thrown away, and, sped by Cupid, gained upon her in the race. It
was like a hound pursuing a hare, with open jaws ready to seize, while
the feebler animal darts forward, slipping from the very grasp. So flew
the god and the virgin—he on the wings of love, and she on those of
fear. The pursuer is the more rapid, however, and gains upon her, and
his panting breath blows upon her hair. Her strength begins to fail,
and, ready to sink, she calls upon her father, the river god: “Help me,
Peneus! open the earth to enclose me, or change my form, which has
brought me into this danger!” Scarcely had she spoken, when a stiffness
seized all her limbs; her bosom began to be enclosed in a tender bark;
her hair became leaves; her arms became branches; her foot stuck fast in
the ground, as a root; her face became a tree-top, retaining nothing of
its former self but its beauty. Apollo stood amazed. He touched the
stem, and felt the flesh tremble under the new bark. He embraced the
branches, and lavished kisses on the wood. The branches shrank from his
lips. “Since you cannot be my wife,” said he, “you shall assuredly be my
tree. I will wear you for my crown; I will decorate with you my harp and
my quiver; and when the great Roman conquerors lead up the triumphal
pomp to the Capitol, you shall be woven into wreaths for their brows.
And, as eternal youth is mine, you also shall be always green, and your
leaf know no decay.” The nymph, now changed into a Laurel tree, bowed
its head in grateful acknowledgment.



That Apollo should be the god both of music and poetry will not appear
strange, but that medicine should also be assigned to his province, may.
The poet Armstrong, himself a physician, thus accounts for it:

    “Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
     Expels diseases, softens every pain;
     And hence the wise of ancient days adored
     One power of physic, melody, and song.”

The story of Apollo and Daphne is often alluded to by the poets. Waller
applies it to the case of one whose amatory verses, though they did not
soften the heart of his mistress, yet won for the poet wide-spread fame:

    “Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
    Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain.
    All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
    Attend his passion and approve his song.
    Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
    He caught at love and filled his arms with bays.”

The following stanza from Shelley’s “Adonais” alludes to Byron’s early
quarrel with the reviewers:

     “The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
      The obscene ravens, clamorous o’er the dead;
      The vultures, to the conqueror’s banner true,
      Who feed where Desolation first has fed,
      And whose wings rain contagion: how they fled,
      When like Apollo, from his golden bow,
      The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
      And smiled! The spoilers tempt no second blow;
    They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as they go.”

                           PYRAMUS AND THISBE

Pyramus was the handsomest youth, and Thisbe the fairest maiden, in all
Babylonia, where Semiramis reigned. Their parents occupied adjoining
houses; and neighborhood brought the young people together, and
acquaintance ripened into love. They would gladly have married, but
their parents forbade. One thing, however, they could not forbid—that
love should glow with equal ardor in the bosoms of both. They conversed
by signs and glances, and the fire burned more intensely for being
covered up. In the wall that parted the two houses there was a crack,
caused by some fault in the structure. No one had remarked it before,
but the lovers discovered it. What will not love discover! It afforded a
passage to the voice; and tender messages used to pass backward and
forward through the gap. As they stood, Pyramus on this side, Thisbe on
that, their breaths would mingle. “Cruel wall,” they said, “why do you
keep two lovers apart? But we will not be ungrateful. We owe you, we
confess, the privilege of transmitting loving words to willing ears.”
Such words they uttered on different sides of the wall; and when night
came and they must say farewell, they pressed their lips upon the wall,
she on her side, he on his, as they could come no nearer.

Next morning, when Aurora had put out the stars, and the sun had melted
the frost from the grass, they met at the accustomed spot. Then, after
lamenting their hard fate, they agreed that next night, when all was
still, they would slip away from watchful eyes, leave their dwellings
and walk out into the fields; and to insure a meeting, repair to a
well-known edifice standing without the city’s bounds, called the Tomb
of Ninus, and that the one who came first should await the other at the
foot of a certain tree. It was a white mulberry tree, and stood near a
cool spring. All was agreed on, and they waited impatiently for the sun
to go down beneath the waters and night to rise up from them. Then
cautiously Thisbe stole forth, unobserved by the family, her head
covered with a veil, made her way to the monument and sat down under the
tree. As she sat alone in the dim light of the evening she descried a
lioness, her jaws reeking with recent slaughter, approaching the
fountain to slake her thirst. Thisbe fled at the sight, and sought
refuge in the hollow of a rock. As she fled she dropped her veil. The
lioness after drinking at the spring turned to retreat to the woods, and
seeing the veil on the ground, tossed and rent it with her bloody mouth.

Pyramus, having been delayed, now approached the place of meeting. He
saw in the sand the footsteps of the lion, and the color fled from his
cheeks at the sight. Presently he found the veil all rent and bloody. “O
hapless girl,” said he, “I have been the cause of thy death! Thou, more
worthy of life than I, hast fallen the first victim. I will follow. I am
the guilty cause, in tempting thee forth to a place of such peril, and
not being myself on the spot to guard thee. Come forth, ye lions, from
the rocks, and tear this guilty body with your teeth.” He took up the
veil, carried it with him to the appointed tree, and covered it with
kisses and with tears. “_My_ blood also shall stain your texture,” said
he, and drawing his sword plunged it into his heart. The blood spurted
from the wound, and tinged the white mulberries of the tree all red; and
sinking into the earth reached the roots, so that the red color mounted
through the trunk to the fruit.

By this time Thisbe, still trembling with fear, yet wishing not to
disappoint her lover, stepped cautiously forth, looking anxiously for
the youth, eager to tell him the danger she had escaped. When she came
to the spot and saw the changed color of the mulberries she doubted
whether it was the same place. While she hesitated she saw the form of
one struggling in the agonies of death. She started back, a shudder ran
through her frame as a ripple on the face of the still water when a
sudden breeze sweeps over it. But as soon as she recognized her lover,
she screamed and beat her breast, embracing the lifeless body, pouring
tears into its wounds, and imprinting kisses on the cold lips. “O
Pyramus,” she cried, “what has done this? Answer me, Pyramus; it is your
own Thisbe that speaks. Hear me, dearest, and lift that drooping head!”
At the name of Thisbe Pyramus opened his eyes, then closed them again.
She saw her veil stained with blood and the scabbard empty of its sword.
“Thy own hand has slain thee, and for my sake,” she said. “I too can be
brave for once, and my love is as strong as thine. I will follow thee in
death, for I have been the cause; and death which alone could part us
shall not prevent my joining thee. And ye, unhappy parents of us both,
deny us not our united request. As love and death have joined us, let
one tomb contain us. And thou, tree, retain the marks of slaughter. Let
thy berries still serve for memorials of our blood.” So saying she
plunged the sword into her breast. Her parents ratified her wish, the
gods also ratified it. The two bodies were buried in one sepulchre, and
the tree ever after brought forth purple berries, as it does to this
day.



Moore, in the “Sylph’s Ball,” speaking of Davy’s Safety Lamp, is
reminded of the wall that separated Thisbe and her lover:

    “O for that Lamp’s metallic gauze,
      That curtain of protecting wire,
    Which Davy delicately draws
      Around illicit, dangerous fire!

    The wall he sets ’twixt Flame and Air,
      (Like that which barred young Thisbe’s bliss,)
    Through whose small holes this dangerous pair
      May see each other, but not kiss.”

In Mickle’s translation of the “Lusiad” occurs the following allusion to
the story of Pyramus and Thisbe, and the metamorphosis of the
mulberries. The poet is describing the Island of Love:

    “. . . here each gift Pomona’s hand bestows
    In cultured garden, free uncultured flows,
    The flavor sweeter and the hue more fair
    Than e’er was fostered by the hand of care.
    The cherry here in shining crimson glows,
    And stained with lovers’ blood, in pendent rows,
    The mulberries o’erload the bending boughs.”

If any of our young readers can be so hard-hearted as to enjoy a laugh
at the expense of poor Pyramus and Thisbe, they may find an opportunity
by turning to Shakspeare’s play of the “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” where
it is most amusingly burlesqued.

                          CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS

Cephalus was a beautiful youth and fond of manly sports. He would rise
before the dawn to pursue the chase. Aurora saw him when she first
looked forth, fell in love with him, and stole him away. But Cephalus
was just married to a charming wife whom he devotedly loved. Her name
was Procris. She was a favorite of Diana, the goddess of hunting, who
had given her a dog which could outrun every rival, and a javelin which
would never fail of its mark; and Procris gave these presents to her
husband. Cephalus was so happy in his wife that he resisted all the
entreaties of Aurora, and she finally dismissed him in displeasure,
saying, “Go, ungrateful mortal, keep your wife, whom, if I am not much
mistaken, you will one day be very sorry you ever saw again.”

Cephalus returned, and was as happy as ever in his wife and his woodland
sports. Now it happened some angry deity had sent a ravenous fox to
annoy the country; and the hunters turned out in great strength to
capture it. Their efforts were all in vain; no dog could run it down;
and at last they came to Cephalus to borrow his famous dog, whose name
was Lelaps. No sooner was the dog let loose than he darted off, quicker
than their eye could follow him. If they had not seen his footprints in
the sand they would have thought he flew. Cephalus and others stood on a
hill and saw the race. The fox tried every art; he ran in a circle and
turned on his track, the dog close upon him, with open jaws, snapping at
his heels, but biting only the air. Cephalus was about to use his
javelin, when suddenly he saw both dog and game stop instantly. The
heavenly powers who had given both were not willing that either should
conquer. In the very attitude of life and action they were turned into
stone. So lifelike and natural did they look, you would have thought, as
you looked at them, that one was going to bark, the other to leap
forward.

Cephalus, though he had lost his dog, still continued to take delight in
the chase. He would go out at early morning, ranging the woods and hills
unaccompanied by any one, needing no help, for his javelin was a sure
weapon in all cases. Fatigued with hunting, when the sun got high he
would seek a shady nook where a cool stream flowed, and, stretched on
the grass, with his garments thrown aside, would enjoy the breeze.
Sometimes he would say aloud, “Come, sweet breeze, come and fan my
breast, come and allay the heat that burns me.” Some one passing by one
day heard him talking in this way to the air, and, foolishly believing
that he was talking to some maiden, went and told the secret to Procris,
Cephalus’s wife. Love is credulous. Procris, at the sudden shock,
fainted away. Presently recovering, she said, “It cannot be true; I will
not believe it unless I myself am a witness to it.” So she waited, with
anxious heart, till the next morning, when Cephalus went to hunt as
usual. Then she stole out after him, and concealed herself in the place
where the informer directed her. Cephalus came as he was wont when tired
with sport, and stretched himself on the green bank, saying, “Come,
sweet breeze, come and fan me; you know how I love you! you make the
groves and my solitary rambles delightful.” He was running on in this
way when he heard, or thought he heard, a sound as of a sob in the
bushes. Supposing it some wild animal, he threw his javelin at the spot.
A cry from his beloved Procris told him that the weapon had too surely
met its mark. He rushed to the place, and found her bleeding, and with
sinking strength endeavoring to draw forth from the wound the javelin,
her own gift. Cephalus raised her from the earth, strove to stanch the
blood, and called her to revive and not to leave him miserable, to
reproach himself with her death. She opened her feeble eyes, and forced
herself to utter these few words: “I implore you, if you have ever loved
me, if I have ever deserved kindness at your hands, my husband, grant me
this last request; do not marry that odious Breeze!” This disclosed the
whole mystery: but alas! what advantage to disclose it now! She died;
but her face wore a calm expression, and she looked pityingly and
forgivingly on her husband when he made her understand the truth.



Moore, in his “Legendary Ballads,” has one on Cephalus and Procris,
beginning thus:

    “A hunter once in a grove reclined,
      To shun the noon’s bright eye,
    And oft he wooed the wandering wind
      To cool his brow with its sigh.
    While mute lay even the wild bee’s hum,
      Nor breath could stir the aspen’s hair,
    His song was still, ‘Sweet Air, O come!’
      While Echo answered, ‘Come, sweet Air!’”

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER IV

  JUNO AND HER RIVALS, IO AND CALLISTO—DIANA AND ACTÆON—LATONA AND THE
                                RUSTICS

JUNO one day perceived it suddenly grow dark, and immediately suspected
that her husband had raised a cloud to hide some of his doings that
would not bear the light. She brushed away the cloud, and saw her
husband on the banks of a glassy river, with a beautiful heifer standing
near him. Juno suspected the heifer’s form concealed some fair nymph of
mortal mould—as was, indeed the case; for it was Io, the daughter of
the river god Inachus, whom Jupiter had been flirting with, and, when he
became aware of the approach of his wife, had changed into that form.

Juno joined her husband, and noticing the heifer praised its beauty, and
asked whose it was, and of what herd. Jupiter, to stop questions,
replied that it was a fresh creation from the earth. Juno asked to have
it as a gift. What could Jupiter do? He was loath to give his mistress
to his wife; yet how refuse so trifling a present as a simple heifer? He
could not, without exciting suspicion; so he consented. The goddess was
not yet relieved of her suspicions; so she delivered the heifer to
Argus, to be strictly watched.

Now Argus had a hundred eyes in his head, and never went to sleep with
more than two at a time, so that he kept watch of Io constantly. He
suffered her to feed through the day, and at night tied her up with a
vile rope round her neck. She would have stretched out her arms to
implore freedom of Argus, but she had no arms to stretch out, and her
voice was a bellow that frightened even herself. She saw her father and
her sisters, went near them, and suffered them to pat her back, and
heard them admire her beauty. Her father reached her a tuft of grass,
and she licked the outstretched hand. She longed to make herself known
to him, and would have uttered her wish; but, alas! words were wanting.
At length she bethought herself of writing, and inscribed her name—it
was a short one—with her hoof on the sand. Inachus recognized it, and
discovering that his daughter, whom he had long sought in vain, was
hidden under this disguise, mourned over her, and, embracing her white
neck, exclaimed, “Alas! my daughter, it would have been a less grief to
have lost you altogether!” While he thus lamented, Argus, observing,
came and drove her away, and took his seat on a high bank, from whence
he could see all around in every direction.

Jupiter was troubled at beholding the sufferings of his mistress, and
calling Mercury told him to go and despatch Argus. Mercury made haste,
put his winged slippers on his feet, and cap on his head, took his
sleep-producing wand, and leaped down from the heavenly towers to the
earth. There he laid aside his wings, and kept only his wand, with which
he presented himself as a shepherd driving his flock. As he strolled on
he blew upon his pipes. These were what are called the Syrinx or Pandean
pipes. Argus listened with delight, for he had never seen the instrument
before. “Young man,” said he, “come and take a seat by me on this stone.
There is no better place for your flocks to graze in than hereabouts,
and here is a pleasant shade such as shepherds love.” Mercury sat down,
talked, and told stories till it grew late, and played upon his pipes
his most soothing strains, hoping to lull the watchful eyes to sleep,
but all in vain; for Argus still contrived to keep some of his eyes open
though he shut the rest.

Among other stories, Mercury told him how the instrument on which he
played was invented. “There was a certain nymph, whose name was Syrinx,
who was much beloved by the satyrs and spirits of the wood; but she
would have none of them, but was a faithful worshipper of Diana, and
followed the chase. You would have thought it was Diana herself, had you
seen her in her hunting dress, only that her bow was of horn and Diana’s
of silver. One day, as she was returning from the chase, Pan met her,
told her just this, and added more of the same sort. She ran away,
without stopping to hear his compliments, and he pursued till she came
to the bank of the river, where he overtook her, and she had only time
to call for help on her friends the water nymphs. They heard and
consented. Pan threw his arms around what he supposed to be the form of
the nymph, and found he embraced only a tuft of reeds! As he breathed a
sigh, the air sounded through the reeds, and produced a plaintive
melody. The god, charmed with the novelty and with the sweetness of the
music, said, ‘Thus, then, at least, you shall be mine.’ And he took some
of the reeds, and placing them together, of unequal lengths, side by
side, made an instrument which he called Syrinx, in honor of the nymph.”
Before Mercury had finished his story he saw Argus’s eyes all asleep. As
his head nodded forward on his breast, Mercury with one stroke cut his
neck through, and tumbled his head down the rocks. O hapless Argus! the
light of your hundred eyes is quenched at once! Juno took them and put
them as ornaments on the tail of her peacock, where they remain to this
day.

But the vengeance of Juno was not yet satiated. She sent a gadfly to
torment Io, who fled over the whole world from its pursuit. She swam
through the Ionian sea, which derived its name from her, then roamed
over the plains of Illyria, ascended Mount Hæmus, and crossed the
Thracian strait, thence named the Bosphorus (cow-ford), rambled on
through Scythia, and the country of the Cimmerians, and arrived at last
on the banks of the Nile. At length Jupiter interceded for her, and upon
his promising not to pay her any more attentions Juno consented to
restore her to her form. It was curious to see her gradually recover her
former self. The coarse hairs fell from her body, her horns shrank up,
her eyes grew narrower, her mouth shorter; hands and fingers came
instead of hoofs to her forefeet; in fine there was nothing left of the
heifer, except her beauty. At first she was afraid to speak, for fear
she should low, but gradually she recovered her confidence and was
restored to her father and sisters.



In a poem dedicated to Leigh Hunt, by Keats, the following allusion to
the story of Pan and Syrinx occurs:

    “So did he feel who pulled the bough aside,
    That we might look into a forest wide,
      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
    Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled
    Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
    Poor nymph—poor Pan—how he did weep to find
    Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
    Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain,
    Full of sweet desolation, balmy pain.”

                                CALLISTO

Callisto was another maiden who excited the jealousy of Juno, and the
goddess changed her into a bear. “I will take away,” said she, “that
beauty with which you have captivated my husband.” Down fell Callisto on
her hands and knees; she tried to stretch out her arms in
supplication—they were already beginning to be covered with black hair.
Her hands grew rounded, became armed with crooked claws, and served for
feet; her mouth, which Jove used to praise for its beauty, became a
horrid pair of jaws; her voice, which if unchanged would have moved the
heart to pity, became a growl, more fit to inspire terror. Yet her
former disposition remained, and with continual groaning, she bemoaned
her fate, and stood upright as well as she could, lifting up her paws to
beg for mercy, and felt that Jove was unkind, though she could not tell
him so. Ah, how often, afraid to stay in the woods all night alone, she
wandered about the neighborhood of her former haunts; how often,
frightened by the dogs, did she, so lately a huntress, fly in terror
from the hunters! Often she fled from the wild beasts, forgetting that
she was now a wild beast herself; and, bear as she was, was afraid of
the bears.

One day a youth espied her as he was hunting. She saw him and recognized
him as her own son, now grown a young man. She stopped and felt inclined
to embrace him. As she was about to approach, he, alarmed, raised his
hunting spear, and was on the point of transfixing her, when Jupiter,
beholding, arrested the crime, and snatching away both of them, placed
them in the heavens as the Great and Little Bear.

Juno was in a rage to see her rival so set in honor, and hastened to
ancient Tethys and Oceanus, the powers of ocean, and in answer to their
inquiries thus told the cause of her coming: “Do you ask why I, the
queen of the gods, have left the heavenly plains and sought your depths?
Learn that I am supplanted in heaven—my place is given to another. You
will hardly believe me; but look when night darkens the world, and you
shall see the two of whom I have so much reason to complain exalted to
the heavens, in that part where the circle is the smallest, in the
neighborhood of the pole. Why should any one hereafter tremble at the
thought of offending Juno, when such rewards are the consequence of my
displeasure? See what I have been able to effect! I forbade her to wear
the human form—she is placed among the stars! So do my punishments
result—such is the extent of my power! Better that she should have
resumed her former shape, as I permitted Io to do. Perhaps he means to
marry her, and put me away! But you, my foster-parents, if you feel for
me, and see with displeasure this unworthy treatment of me, show it, I
beseech you, by forbidding this guilty couple from coming into your
waters.” The powers of the ocean assented, and consequently the two
constellations of the Great and Little Bear move round and round in
heaven, but never sink, as the other stars do, beneath the ocean.



Milton alludes to the fact that the constellation of the Bear never
sets, when he says:

    “Let my lamp at midnight hour
    Be seen in some high lonely tower,
    Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,” etc.

And Prometheus, in J. R. Lowell’s poem, says:

    “One after one the stars have risen and set,
    Sparkling upon the hoar frost of my chain;
    The Bear that prowled all night about the fold
    Of the North-star, hath shrunk into his den,
    Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn.”

The last star in the tail of the Little Bear is the Pole-star, called
also the Cynosure. Milton says:

    “Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
    While the landscape round it measures.
      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
    Towers and battlements it sees
    Bosomed high in tufted trees,
    Where perhaps some beauty lies
    The Cynosure of neighboring eyes.”

The reference here is both to the Pole-star as the guide of mariners,
and to the magnetic attraction of the North. He calls it also the “Star
of Arcady,” because Callisto’s boy was named Arcas, and they lived in
Arcadia. In “Comus,” the brother, benighted in the woods, says:

    “. . . Some gentle taper!
    Though a rush candle, from the wicker hole
    Of some clay habitation, visit us
    With thy long levelled rule of streaming light,
    And thou shalt be our star of Arcady,
    Or Tyrian Cynosure.”

                            DIANA AND ACTÆON

Thus in two instances we have seen Juno’s severity to her rivals; now
let us learn how a virgin goddess punished an invader of her privacy.

It was midday, and the sun stood equally distant from either goal, when
young Actæon, son of King Cadmus, thus addressed the youths who with him
were hunting the stag in the mountains:

“Friends, our nets and our weapons are wet with the blood of our
victims; we have had sport enough for one day, and to-morrow we can
renew our labors. Now, while Phœbus parches the earth, let us put by our
implements and indulge ourselves with rest.”

There was a valley thick enclosed with cypresses and pines, sacred to
the huntress queen, Diana. In the extremity of the valley was a cave,
not adorned with art, but nature had counterfeited art in its
construction, for she had turned the arch of its roof with stones as
delicately fitted as if by the hand of man. A fountain burst out from
one side, whose open basin was bounded by a grassy rim. Here the goddess
of the woods used to come when weary with hunting and lave her virgin
limbs in the sparkling water.

One day, having repaired thither with her nymphs, she handed her
javelin, her quiver, and her bow to one, her robe to another, while a
third unbound the sandals from her feet. Then Crocale, the most skilful
of them, arranged her hair, and Nephele, Hyale, and the rest drew water
in capacious urns. While the goddess was thus employed in the labors of
the toilet, behold Actæon, having quitted his companions, and rambling
without any especial object, came to the place, led thither by his
destiny. As he presented himself at the entrance of the cave, the
nymphs, seeing a man, screamed and rushed towards the goddess to hide
her with their bodies. But she was taller than the rest and overtopped
them all by a head. Such a color as tinges the clouds at sunset or at
dawn came over the countenance of Diana thus taken by surprise.
Surrounded as she was by her nymphs, she yet turned half away, and
sought with a sudden impulse for her arrows. As they were not at hand,
she dashed the water into the face of the intruder, adding these words:
“Now go and tell, if you can, that you have seen Diana unapparelled.”
Immediately a pair of branching stag’s horns grew out of his head, his
neck gained in length, his ears grew sharp-pointed, his hands became
feet, his arms long legs, his body was covered with a hairy spotted
hide. Fear took the place of his former boldness, and the hero fled. He
could not but admire his own speed; but when he saw his horns in the
water, “Ah, wretched me!” he would have said, but no sound followed the
effort. He groaned, and tears flowed down the face which had taken the
place of his own. Yet his consciousness remained. What shall he do?—go
home to seek the palace, or lie hid in the woods? The latter he was
afraid, the former he was ashamed, to do. While he hesitated the dogs
saw him. First Melampus, a Spartan dog, gave the signal with his bark,
then Pamphagus, Dorceus, Lelaps, Theron, Nape, Tigris, and all the rest,
rushed after him swifter than the wind. Over rocks and cliffs, through
mountain gorges that seemed impracticable, he fled and they followed.
Where he had often chased the stag and cheered on his pack, his pack now
chased him, cheered on by his huntsmen. He longed to cry out, “I am
Actæon; recognize your master!” but the words came not at his will. The
air resounded with the bark of the dogs. Presently one fastened on his
back, another seized his shoulder. While they held their master, the
rest of the pack came up and buried their teeth in his flesh. He
groaned,—not in a human voice, yet certainly not in a stag’s,—and
falling on his knees, raised his eyes, and would have raised his arms in
supplication, if he had had them. His friends and fellow-huntsmen
cheered on the dogs, and looked everywhere for Actæon, calling on him to
join the sport. At the sound of his name he turned his head, and heard
them regret that he should be away. He earnestly wished he was. He would
have been well pleased to see the exploits of his dogs, but to feel them
was too much. They were all around him, rending and tearing; and it was
not till they had torn his life out that the anger of Diana was
satisfied.



In Shelley’s poem “Adonais” is the following allusion to the story of
Actæon:

      “’Midst others of less note came one frail form,
      A phantom among men: companionless
      As the last cloud of an expiring storm,
      Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
      Had gazed on Nature’s naked loveliness,
      Actæon-like, and now he fled astray
      With feeble steps o’er the world’s wilderness;
      And his own Thoughts, along that rugged way,
    Pursued like raging hounds their father and their prey.”
                                            Stanza 31.

The allusion is probably to Shelley himself.

                         LATONA AND THE RUSTICS

Some thought the goddess in this instance more severe than was just,
while others praised her conduct as strictly consistent with her virgin
dignity. As usual, the recent event brought older ones to mind, and one
of the bystanders told this story: “Some countrymen of Lycia once
insulted the goddess Latona, but not with impunity. When I was young, my
father, who had grown too old for active labors, sent me to Lycia to
drive thence some choice oxen, and there I saw the very pond and marsh
where the wonder happened. Near by stood an ancient altar, black with
the smoke of sacrifice and almost buried among the reeds. I inquired
whose altar it might be, whether of Faunus or the Naiads, or some god of
the neighboring mountain, and one of the country people replied, ‘No
mountain or river god possesses this altar, but she whom royal Juno in
her jealousy drove from land to land, denying her any spot of earth
whereon to rear her twins.’ Bearing in her arms the infant deities,
Latona reached this land, weary with her burden and parched with thirst.
By chance she espied on the bottom of the valley this pond of clear
water, where the country people were at work gathering willows and
osiers. The goddess approached, and kneeling on the bank would have
slaked her thirst in the cool stream, but the rustics forbade her. ‘Why
do you refuse me water?’ said she; ‘water is free to all. Nature allows
no one to claim as property the sunshine, the air, or the water. I come
to take my share of the common blessing. Yet I ask it of you as a favor.
I have no intention of washing my limbs in it, weary though they be, but
only to quench my thirst. My mouth is so dry that I can hardly speak. A
draught of water would be nectar to me; it would revive me, and I would
own myself indebted to you for life itself. Let these infants move your
pity, who stretch out their little arms as if to plead for me;’ and the
children, as it happened, were stretching out their arms.

“Who would not have been moved with these gentle words of the goddess?
But these clowns persisted in their rudeness; they even added jeers and
threats of violence if she did not leave the place. Nor was this all.
They waded into the pond and stirred up the mud with their feet, so as
to make the water unfit to drink. Latona was so angry that she ceased to
mind her thirst. She no longer supplicated the clowns, but lifting her
hands to heaven exclaimed, ‘May they never quit that pool, but pass
their lives there!’ And it came to pass accordingly. They now live in
the water, sometimes totally submerged, then raising their heads above
the surface or swimming upon it. Sometimes they come out upon the bank,
but soon leap back again into the water. They still use their base
voices in railing, and though they have the water all to themselves, are
not ashamed to croak in the midst of it. Their voices are harsh, their
throats bloated, their mouths have become stretched by constant railing,
their necks have shrunk up and disappeared, and their heads are joined
to their bodies. Their backs are green, their disproportioned bellies
white, and in short they are now frogs, and dwell in the slimy pool.”



This story explains the allusion in one of Milton’s sonnets, “On the
detraction which followed upon his writing certain treatises.”

    “I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
      By the known laws of ancient liberty,
      When straight a barbarous noise environs me
    Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs.
    As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs
      Railed at Latona’s twin-born progeny,
      Which after held the sun and moon in fee.”

The persecution which Latona experienced from Juno is alluded to in the
story. The tradition was that the future mother of Apollo and Diana,
flying from the wrath of Juno, besought all the islands of the Ægean to
afford her a place of rest, but all feared too much the potent queen of
heaven to assist her rival. Delos alone consented to become the
birthplace of the future deities. Delos was then a floating island; but
when Latona arrived there, Jupiter fastened it with adamantine chains to
the bottom of the sea, that it might be a secure resting-place for his
beloved. Byron alludes to Delos in his “Don Juan”:

    “The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!
      Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
    Where grew the arts of war and peace,
      Where Delos rose and Phœbus sprung!”

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER V

                                PHAËTON

PHAËTON was the son of Apollo and the nymph Clymene. One day a
schoolfellow laughed at the idea of his being the son of the god, and
Phaëton went in rage and shame and reported it to his mother. “If,” said
he, “I am indeed of heavenly birth, give me, mother, some proof of it,
and establish my claim to the honor.” Clymene stretched forth her hands
towards the skies, and said, “I call to witness the Sun which looks down
upon us, that I have told you the truth. If I speak falsely, let this be
the last time I behold his light. But it needs not much labor to go and
inquire for yourself; the land whence the Sun rises lies next to ours.
Go and demand of him whether he will own you as a son.” Phaëton heard
with delight. He travelled to India, which lies directly in the regions
of sunrise; and, full of hope and pride, approached the goal whence his
parent begins his course.

The palace of the Sun stood reared aloft on columns, glittering with
gold and precious stones, while polished ivory formed the ceilings, and
silver the doors. The workmanship surpassed the material;[7] for upon
the walls Vulcan had represented earth, sea, and skies, with their
inhabitants. In the sea were the nymphs, some sporting in the waves,
some riding on the backs of fishes, while others sat upon the rocks and
dried their sea-green hair. Their faces were not all alike, nor yet
unlike,—but such as sisters’ ought to be.[8] The earth had its towns
and forests and rivers and rustic divinities. Over all was carved the
likeness of the glorious heaven; and on the silver doors the twelve
signs of the zodiac, six on each side.

Clymene’s son advanced up the steep ascent, and entered the halls of his
disputed father. He approached the paternal presence, but stopped at a
distance, for the light was more than he could bear. Phœbus, arrayed in
a purple vesture, sat on a throne, which glittered as with diamonds. On
his right hand and his left stood the Day, the Month, and the Year, and,
at regular intervals, the Hours. Spring stood with her head crowned with
flowers, and Summer, with garment cast aside, and a garland formed of
spears of ripened grain, and Autumn, with his feet stained with
grape-juice, and icy Winter, with his hair stiffened with hoar frost.
Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun, with the eye that sees
everything, beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty and splendor of
the scene, and inquired the purpose of his errand. The youth replied, “O
light of the boundless world, Phœbus, my father,—if you permit me to
use that name,—give me some proof, I beseech you, by which I may be
known as yours.” He ceased; and his father, laying aside the beams that
shone all around his head, bade him approach, and embracing him, said,
“My son, you deserve not to be disowned, and I confirm what your mother
has told you. To put an end to your doubts, ask what you will, the gift
shall be yours. I call to witness that dreadful lake, which I never saw,
but which we gods swear by in our most solemn engagements.” Phaëton
immediately asked to be permitted for one day to drive the chariot of
the sun. The father repented of his promise; thrice and four times he
shook his radiant head in warning. “I have spoken rashly,” said he;
“this only request I would fain deny. I beg you to withdraw it. It is
not a safe boon, nor one, my Phaëton, suited to your youth and strength.
Your lot is mortal, and you ask what is beyond a mortal’s power. In your
ignorance you aspire to do that which not even the gods themselves may
do. None but myself may drive the flaming car of day. Not even Jupiter,
whose terrible right arm hurls the thunderbolts. The first part of the
way is steep, and such as the horses when fresh in the morning can
hardly climb; the middle is high up in the heavens, whence I myself can
scarcely, without alarm, look down and behold the earth and sea
stretched beneath me. The last part of the road descends rapidly, and
requires most careful driving. Tethys, who is waiting to receive me,
often trembles for me lest I should fall headlong. Add to all this, the
heaven is all the time turning round and carrying the stars with it. I
have to be perpetually on my guard lest that movement, which sweeps
everything else along, should hurry me also away. Suppose I should lend
you the chariot, what would you do? Could you keep your course while the
sphere was revolving under you? Perhaps you think that there are forests
and cities, the abodes of gods, and palaces and temples on the way. On
the contrary, the road is through the midst of frightful monsters. You
pass by the horns of the Bull, in front of the Archer, and near the
Lion’s jaws, and where the Scorpion stretches its arms in one direction
and the Crab in another. Nor will you find it easy to guide those
horses, with their breasts full of fire that they breathe forth from
their mouths and nostrils. I can scarcely govern them myself, when they
are unruly and resist the reins. Beware, my son, lest I be the donor of
a fatal gift; recall your request while yet you may. Do you ask me for a
proof that you are sprung from my blood? I give you a proof in my fears
for you. Look at my face—I would that you could look into my breast,
you would there see all a father’s anxiety. Finally,” he continued,
“look round the world and choose whatever you will of what earth or sea
contains most precious—ask it and fear no refusal. This only I pray you
not to urge. It is not honor, but destruction you seek. Why do you hang
round my neck and still entreat me? You shall have it if you
persist,—the oath is sworn and must be kept,—but I beg you to choose
more wisely.”

He ended; but the youth rejected all admonition and held to his demand.
So, having resisted as long as he could, Phœbus at last led the way to
where stood the lofty chariot.

It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan; the axle was of gold, the pole and
wheels of gold, the spokes of silver. Along the seat were rows of
chrysolites and diamonds which reflected all around the brightness of
the sun. While the daring youth gazed in admiration, the early Dawn
threw open the purple doors of the east, and showed the pathway strewn
with roses. The stars withdrew, marshalled by the Day-star, which last
of all retired also. The father, when he saw the earth beginning to
glow, and the Moon preparing to retire, ordered the Hours to harness up
the horses. They obeyed, and led forth from the lofty stalls the steeds
full fed with ambrosia, and attached the reins. Then the father bathed
the face of his son with a powerful unguent, and made him capable of
enduring the brightness of the flame. He set the rays on his head, and,
with a foreboding sigh, said, “If, my son, you will in this at least
heed my advice, spare the whip and hold tight the reins. They go fast
enough of their own accord; the labor is to hold them in. You are not to
take the straight road directly between the five circles, but turn off
to the left. Keep within the limit of the middle zone, and avoid the
northern and the southern alike. You will see the marks of the wheels,
and they will serve to guide you. And, that the skies and the earth may
each receive their due share of heat, go not too high, or you will burn
the heavenly dwellings, nor too low, or you will set the earth on fire;
the middle course is safest and best.[9] And now I leave you to your
chance, which I hope will plan better for you than you have done for
yourself. Night is passing out of the western gates and we can delay no
longer. Take the reins; but if at last your heart fails you, and you
will benefit by my advice, stay where you are in safety, and suffer me
to light and warm the earth.” The agile youth sprang into the chariot,
stood erect, and grasped the reins with delight, pouring out thanks to
his reluctant parent.

Meanwhile the horses fill the air with their snortings and fiery breath,
and stamp the ground impatient. Now the bars are let down, and the
boundless plain of the universe lies open before them. They dart forward
and cleave the opposing clouds, and outrun the morning breezes which
started from the same eastern goal. The steeds soon perceived that the
load they drew was lighter than usual; and as a ship without ballast is
tossed hither and thither on the sea, so the chariot, without its
accustomed weight, was dashed about as if empty. They rush headlong and
leave the travelled road. He is alarmed, and knows not how to guide
them; nor, if he knew, has he the power. Then, for the first time, the
Great and Little Bear were scorched with heat, and would fain, if it
were possible, have plunged into the water; and the Serpent which lies
coiled up round the north pole, torpid and harmless, grew warm, and with
warmth felt its rage revive. Boötes, they say, fled away, though
encumbered with his plough, and all unused to rapid motion.

When hapless Phaëton looked down upon the earth, now spreading in vast
extent beneath him, he grew pale and his knees shook with terror. In
spite of the glare all around him, the sight of his eyes grew dim. He
wished he had never touched his father’s horses, never learned his
parentage, never prevailed in his request. He is borne along like a
vessel that flies before a tempest, when the pilot can do no more and
betakes himself to his prayers. What shall he do? Much of the heavenly
road is left behind, but more remains before. He turns his eyes from one
direction to the other; now to the goal whence he began his course, now
to the realms of sunset which he is not destined to reach. He loses his
self-command, and knows not what to do,—whether to draw tight the reins
or throw them loose; he forgets the names of the horses. He sees with
terror the monstrous forms scattered over the surface of heaven. Here
the Scorpion extended his two great arms, with his tail and crooked
claws stretching over two signs of the zodiac. When the boy beheld him,
reeking with poison and menacing with his fangs, his courage failed, and
the reins fell from his hands. The horses, when they felt them loose on
their backs, dashed headlong, and unrestrained went off into unknown
regions of the sky, in among the stars, hurling the chariot over
pathless places, now up in high heaven, now down almost to the earth.
The moon saw with astonishment her brother’s chariot running beneath her
own. The clouds begin to smoke, and the mountain tops take fire; the
fields are parched with heat, the plants wither, the trees with their
leafy branches burn, the harvest is ablaze! But these are small things.
Great cities perished, with their walls and towers; whole nations with
their people were consumed to ashes! The forest-clad mountains burned,
Athos and Taurus and Tmolus and Œte; Ida, once celebrated for fountains,
but now all dry; the Muses’ mountain Helicon, and Hæmus; Ætna, with
fires within and without, and Parnassus, with his two peaks, and
Rhodope, forced at last to part with his snowy crown. Her cold climate
was no protection to Scythia, Caucasus burned, and Ossa and Pindus, and,
greater than both, Olympus; the Alps high in air, and the Apennines
crowned with clouds.

Then Phaëton beheld the world on fire, and felt the heat intolerable.
The air he breathed was like the air of a furnace and full of burning
ashes, and the smoke was of a pitchy darkness. He dashed forward he knew
not whither. Then, it is believed, the people of Æthiopia became black
by the blood being forced so suddenly to the surface, and the Libyan
desert was dried up to the condition in which it remains to this day.
The Nymphs of the fountains, with dishevelled hair, mourned their
waters, nor were the rivers safe beneath their banks: Tanais smoked, and
Caicus, Xanthus, and Meander; Babylonian Euphrates and Ganges, Tagus
with golden sands, and Caÿster where the swans resort. Nile fled away
and hid his head in the desert, and there it still remains concealed.
Where he used to discharge his waters through seven mouths into the sea,
there seven dry channels alone remained. The earth cracked open, and
through the chinks light broke into Tartarus, and frightened the king of
shadows and his queen. The sea shrank up. Where before was water, it
became a dry plain; and the mountains that lie beneath the waves lifted
up their heads and became islands. The fishes sought the lowest depths,
and the dolphins no longer ventured as usual to sport on the surface.
Even Nereus, and his wife Doris, with the Nereids, their daughters,
sought the deepest caves for refuge. Thrice Neptune essayed to raise his
head above the surface, and thrice was driven back by the heat. Earth,
surrounded as she was by waters, yet with head and shoulders bare,
screening her face with her hand, looked up to heaven, and with a husky
voice called on Jupiter:

“O ruler of the gods, if I have deserved this treatment, and it is your
will that I perish with fire, why withhold your thunderbolts? Let me at
least fall by your hand. Is this the reward of my fertility, of my
obedient service? Is it for this that I have supplied herbage for
cattle, and fruits for men, and frankincense for your altars? But if I
am unworthy of regard, what has my brother Ocean done to deserve such a
fate? If neither of us can excite your pity, think, I pray you, of your
own heaven, and behold how both the poles are smoking which sustain your
palace, which must fall if they be destroyed. Atlas faints, and scarce
holds up his burden. If sea, earth, and heaven perish, we fall into
ancient Chaos. Save what yet remains to us from the devouring flame. O,
take thought for our deliverance in this awful moment!”

Thus spoke Earth, and overcome with heat and thirst, could say no more.
Then Jupiter omnipotent, calling to witness all the gods, including him
who had lent the chariot, and showing them that all was lost unless
speedy remedy were applied, mounted the lofty tower from whence he
diffuses clouds over the earth, and hurls the forked lightnings. But at
that time not a cloud was to be found to interpose for a screen to
earth, nor was a shower remaining unexhausted. He thundered, and
brandishing a lightning bolt in his right hand launched it against the
charioteer, and struck him at the same moment from his seat and from
existence! Phaëton, with his hair on fire, fell headlong, like a
shooting star which marks the heavens with its brightness as it falls,
and Eridanus, the great river, received him and cooled his burning
frame. The Italian Naiads reared a tomb for him, and inscribed these
words upon the stone:

    “Driver of Phœbus’ chariot. Phaëton,
    Struck by Jove’s thunder, rests beneath this stone.
    He could not rule his father’s car of fire,
    Yet was it much so nobly to aspire.”[10]

His sisters, the Heliades, as they lamented his fate, were turned into
poplar trees, on the banks of the river, and their tears, which
continued to flow, became amber as they dropped into the stream.



Milman, in his poem of “Samor,” makes the following allusion to
Phaëton’s story:

    “As when the palsied universe aghast
    Lay . . . mute and still,
    When drove, so poets sing, the Sun-born youth
    Devious through Heaven’s affrighted signs his sire’s
    Ill-granted chariot. Him the Thunderer hurled
    From th’ empyrean headlong to the gulf
    Of the half-parched Eridanus, where weep
    Even now the sister trees their amber tears
    O’er Phaëton untimely dead.”

In the beautiful lines of Walter Savage Landor, descriptive of the
Sea-shell, there is an allusion to the Sun’s palace and chariot. The
water-nymph says:

    “. . . I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
    Within, and things that lustre have imbibed
    In the sun’s palace porch, where when unyoked
    His chariot wheel stands midway on the wave.
    Shake one and it awakens; then apply
    Its polished lip to your attentive ear,
    And it remembers its august abodes,
    And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.”
                             —_Gebir_, Book I.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER VI

                       MIDAS—BAUCIS AND PHILEMON

BACCHUS, on a certain occasion, found his old school-master and
foster-father, Silenus, missing. The old man had been drinking, and in
that state wandered away, and was found by some peasants, who carried
him to their king, Midas. Midas recognized him, and treated him
hospitably, entertaining him for ten days and nights with an unceasing
round of jollity. On the eleventh day he brought Silenus back, and
restored him in safety to his pupil. Whereupon Bacchus offered Midas his
choice of a reward, whatever he might wish. He asked that whatever he
might touch should be changed into _gold_. Bacchus consented, though
sorry that he had not made a better choice. Midas went his way,
rejoicing in his new-acquired power, which he hastened to put to the
test. He could scarce believe his eyes when he found a twig of an oak,
which he plucked from the branch, become gold in his hand. He took up a
stone; it changed to gold. He touched a sod; it did the same. He took an
apple from the tree; you would have thought he had robbed the garden of
the Hesperides. His joy knew no bounds, and as soon as he got home, he
ordered the servants to set a splendid repast on the table. Then he
found to his dismay that whether he touched bread, it hardened in his
hand; or put a morsel to his lips, it defied his teeth. He took a glass
of wine, but it flowed down his throat like melted gold.

In consternation at the unprecedented affliction, he strove to divest
himself of his power; he hated the gift he had lately coveted. But all
in vain; starvation seemed to await him. He raised his arms, all shining
with gold, in prayer to Bacchus, begging to be delivered from his
glittering destruction. Bacchus, merciful deity, heard and consented.
“Go,” said he, “to the River Pactolus, trace the stream to its
fountain-head, there plunge your head and body in, and wash away your
fault and its punishment.” He did so, and scarce had he touched the
waters before the gold-creating power passed into them, and the
river-sands became changed into _gold_, as they remain to this day.

Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the country, and
became a worshipper of Pan, the god of the fields. On a certain occasion
Pan had the temerity to compare his music with that of Apollo, and to
challenge the god of the lyre to a trial of skill. The challenge was
accepted, and Tmolus, the mountain god, was chosen umpire. The senior
took his seat, and cleared away the trees from his ears to listen. At a
given signal Pan blew on his pipes, and with his rustic melody gave
great satisfaction to himself and his faithful follower Midas, who
happened to be present. Then Tmolus turned his head toward the Sun-god,
and all his trees turned with him. Apollo rose, his brow wreathed with
Parnassian laurel, while his robe of Tyrian purple swept the ground. In
his left hand he held the lyre, and with his right hand struck the
strings. Ravished with the harmony, Tmolus at once awarded the victory
to the god of the lyre, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment. He
dissented, and questioned the justice of the award. Apollo would not
suffer such a depraved pair of ears any longer to wear the human form,
but caused them to increase in length, grow hairy, within and without,
and movable on their roots; in short, to be on the perfect pattern of
those of an ass.

Mortified enough was King Midas at this mishap; but he consoled himself
with the thought that it was possible to hide his misfortune, which he
attempted to do by means of an ample turban or head-dress. But his
hairdresser of course knew the secret. He was charged not to mention it,
and threatened with dire punishment if he presumed to disobey. But he
found it too much for his discretion to keep such a secret; so he went
out into the meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down,
whispered the story, and covered it up. Before long a thick bed of reeds
sprang up in the meadow, and as soon as it had gained its growth, began
whispering the story, and has continued to do so, from that day to this,
every time a breeze passes over the place.



The story of King Midas has been told by others with some variations.
Dryden, in the “Wife of Bath’s Tale,” makes Midas’s queen the betrayer
of the secret:

    “This Midas knew, and durst communicate
    To none but to his wife his ears of state.”

Midas was king of Phrygia. He was the son of Gordius, a poor countryman,
who was taken by the people and made king, in obedience to the command
of the oracle, which had said that their future king should come in a
wagon. While the people were deliberating, Gordius with his wife and son
came driving his wagon into the public square.

Gordius, being made king, dedicated his wagon to the deity of the
oracle, and tied it up in its place with a fast knot. This was the
celebrated _Gordian knot_, which, in after times it was said, whoever
should untie should become lord of all Asia. Many tried to untie it, but
none succeeded, till Alexander the Great, in his career of conquest,
came to Phrygia. He tried his skill with as ill success as others, till
growing impatient he drew his sword and cut the knot. When he afterwards
succeeded in subjecting all Asia to his sway, people began to think that
he had complied with the terms of the oracle according to its true
meaning.

                          BAUCIS AND PHILEMON

On a certain hill in Phrygia stands a linden tree and an oak, enclosed
by a low wall. Not far from the spot is a marsh, formerly good habitable
land, but now indented with pools, the resort of fen-birds and
cormorants. Once on a time Jupiter, in human shape, visited this
country, and with him his son Mercury (he of the caduceus), without his
wings. They presented themselves, as weary travellers, at many a door,
seeking rest and shelter, but found all closed, for it was late, and the
inhospitable inhabitants would not rouse themselves to open for their
reception. At last a humble mansion received them, a small thatched
cottage, where Baucis, a pious old dame, and her husband Philemon,
united when young, had grown old together. Not ashamed of their poverty,
they made it endurable by moderate desires and kind dispositions. One
need not look there for master or for servant; they two were the whole
household, master and servant alike. When the two heavenly guests
crossed the humble threshold, and bowed their heads to pass under the
low door, the old man placed a seat, on which Baucis, bustling and
attentive, spread a cloth, and begged them to sit down. Then she raked
out the coals from the ashes, and kindled up a fire, fed it with leaves
and dry bark, and with her scanty breath blew it into a flame. She
brought out of a corner split sticks and dry branches, broke them up,
and placed them under the small kettle. Her husband collected some
pot-herbs in the garden, and she shred them from the stalks, and
prepared them for the pot. He reached down with a forked stick a flitch
of bacon hanging in the chimney, cut a small piece, and put it in the
pot to boil with the herbs, setting away the rest for another time. A
beechen bowl was filled with warm water, that their guests might wash.
While all was doing, they beguiled the time with conversation.

On the bench designed for the guests was laid a cushion stuffed with
sea-weed; and a cloth, only produced on great occasions, but ancient and
coarse enough, was spread over that. The old lady, with her apron on,
with trembling hand set the table. One leg was shorter than the rest,
but a piece of slate put under restored the level. When fixed, she
rubbed the table down with some sweet-smelling herbs. Upon it she set
some of chaste Minerva’s olives, some cornel berries preserved in
vinegar, and added radishes and cheese, with eggs lightly cooked in the
ashes. All were served in earthen dishes, and an earthenware pitcher,
with wooden cups, stood beside them. When all was ready, the stew,
smoking hot, was set on the table. Some wine, not of the oldest, was
added; and for dessert, apples and wild honey; and over and above all,
friendly faces, and simple but hearty welcome.

Now while the repast proceeded, the old folks were astonished to see
that the wine, as fast as it was poured out, renewed itself in the
pitcher, of its own accord. Struck with terror, Baucis and Philemon
recognized their heavenly guests, fell on their knees, and with clasped
hands implored forgiveness for their poor entertainment. There was an
old goose, which they kept as the guardian of their humble cottage; and
they bethought them to make this a sacrifice in honor of their guests.
But the goose, too nimble, with the aid of feet and wings, for the old
folks, eluded their pursuit, and at last took shelter between the gods
themselves. They forbade it to be slain; and spoke in these words: “We
are gods. This inhospitable village shall pay the penalty of its
impiety; you alone shall go free from the chastisement. Quit your house,
and come with us to the top of yonder hill.” They hastened to obey, and,
staff in hand, labored up the steep ascent. They had reached to within
an arrow’s flight of the top, when turning their eyes below, they beheld
all the country sunk in a lake, only their own house left standing.
While they gazed with wonder at the sight, and lamented the fate of
their neighbors, that old house of theirs was changed into a _temple_.
Columns took the place of the corner posts, the thatch grew yellow and
appeared a gilded roof, the floors became marble, the doors were
enriched with carving and ornaments of gold. Then spoke Jupiter in
benignant accents: “Excellent old man, and woman worthy of such a
husband, speak, tell us your wishes; what favor have you to ask of us?”
Philemon took counsel with Baucis a few moments; then declared to the
gods their united wish. “We ask to be priests and guardians of this your
temple; and since here we have passed our lives in love and concord, we
wish that one and the same hour may take us both from life, that I may
not live to see her grave, nor be laid in my own by her.” Their prayer
was granted. They were the keepers of the temple as long as they lived.
When grown very old, as they stood one day before the steps of the
sacred edifice, and were telling the story of the place, Baucis saw
Philemon begin to put forth leaves, and old Philemon saw Baucis changing
in like manner. And now a leafy crown had grown over their heads, while
exchanging parting words, as long as they could speak. “Farewell, dear
spouse,” they said, together, and at the same moment the bark closed
over their mouths. The Tyanean shepherd still shows the two trees,
standing side by side, made out of the two good old people.



The story of Baucis and Philemon has been imitated by Swift, in a
burlesque style, the actors in the change being two wandering saints,
and the house being changed into a church, of which Philemon is made the
parson. The following may serve as a specimen:

    “They scarce had spoke, when, fair and soft,
    The roof began to mount aloft;
    Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
    The heavy wall climbed slowly after.
    The chimney widened and grew higher,
    Became a steeple with a spire.
    The kettle to the top was hoist,
    And there stood fastened to a joist,
    But with the upside down, to show
    Its inclination for below;
    In vain, for a superior force,
    Applied at bottom, stops its course;
    Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,
    ’Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
    A wooden jack, which had almost
    Lost by disuse the art to roast,
    A sudden alteration feels.
    Increased by new intestine wheels;
    And, what exalts the wonder more,
    The number made the motion slower;
    The flier, though ’t had leaden feet,
    Turned round so quick you scarce could see ’t;
    But slackened by some secret power,
    Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
    The jack and chimney, near allied,
    Had never left each other’s side:
    The chimney to a steeple grown,
    The jack would not be left alone;
    But up against the steeple reared,
    Became a clock, and still adhered;
    And still its love to household cares
    By a shrill voice at noon declares,
    Warning the cook-maid not to burn
    That roast meat which it cannot turn;
    The groaning chair began to crawl,
    Like a huge snail, along the wall;
    There stuck aloft in public view,
    And with small change, a pulpit grew.
    A bedstead of the antique mode,
    Compact of timber many a load,
    Such as our ancestors did use,
    Was metamorphosed into pews,
    Which still their ancient nature keep
    By lodging folks disposed to sleep.”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER VII

                     PROSERPINE—GLAUCUS AND SCYLLA

WHEN Jupiter and his brothers had defeated the Titans and banished them
to Tartarus, a new enemy rose up against the gods. They were the giants
Typhon, Briareus, Enceladus, and others. Some of them had a hundred
arms, others breathed out fire. They were finally subdued and buried
alive under Mount Ætna, where they still sometimes struggle to get
loose, and shake the whole island with earthquakes. Their breath comes
up through the mountain, and is what men call the eruption of the
volcano.

The fall of these monsters shook the earth, so that Pluto was alarmed,
and feared that his kingdom would be laid open to the light of day.
Under this apprehension, he mounted his chariot, drawn by black horses,
and took a circuit of inspection to satisfy himself of the extent of the
damage. While he was thus engaged, Venus, who was sitting on Mount Eryx
playing with her boy Cupid, espied him, and said, “My son, take your
darts with which you conquer all, even Jove himself, and send one into
the breast of yonder dark monarch, who rules the realm of Tartarus. Why
should he alone escape? Seize the opportunity to extend your empire and
mine. Do you not see that even in heaven some despise our power? Minerva
the wise, and Diana the huntress, defy us; and there is that daughter of
Ceres, who threatens to follow their example. Now do you, if you have
any regard for your own interest or mine, join these two in one.” The
boy unbound his quiver, and selected his sharpest and truest arrow; then
straining the bow against his knee, he attached the string, and, having
made ready, shot the arrow with its barbed point right into the heart of
Pluto.

In the vale of Enna there is a lake embowered in woods, which screen it
from the fervid rays of the sun, while the moist ground is covered with
flowers, and Spring reigns perpetual. Here Proserpine was playing with
her companions, gathering lilies and violets, and filling her basket and
her apron with them, when Pluto saw her, loved her, and carried her off.
She screamed for help to her mother and companions; and when in her
fright she dropped the corners of her apron and let the flowers fall,
childlike she felt the loss of them as an addition to her grief. The
ravisher urged on his steeds, calling them each by name, and throwing
loose over their heads and necks his iron- reins. When he reached
the River Cyane, and it opposed his passage, he struck the river-bank
with his trident, and the earth opened and gave him a passage to
Tartarus.

Ceres sought her daughter all the world over. Bright-haired Aurora, when
she came forth in the morning, and Hesperus when he led out the stars in
the evening, found her still busy in the search. But it was all
unavailing. At length, weary and sad, she sat down upon a stone, and
continued sitting nine days and nights, in the open air, under the
sunlight and moonlight and falling showers. It was where now stands the
city of Eleusis, then the home of an old man named Celeus. He was out in
the field, gathering acorns and blackberries, and sticks for his fire.
His little girl was driving home their two goats, and as she passed the
goddess, who appeared in the guise of an old woman, she said to her,
“Mother,”—and the name was sweet to the ears of Ceres,—“why do you sit
here alone upon the rocks?” The old man also stopped, though his load
was heavy, and begged her to come into his cottage, such as it was. She
declined, and he urged her. “Go in peace,” she replied, “and be happy in
your daughter; I have lost mine.” As she spoke, tears—or something like
tears, for the gods never weep—fell down her cheeks upon her bosom. The
compassionate old man and his child wept with her. Then said he, “Come
with us, and despise not our humble roof; so may your daughter be
restored to you in safety.” “Lead on,” said she, “I cannot resist that
appeal!” So she rose from the stone and went with them. As they walked
he told her that his only son, a little boy, lay very sick, feverish,
and sleepless. She stooped and gathered some poppies. As they entered
the cottage, they found all in great distress, for the boy seemed past
hope of recovery. Metanina, his mother, received her kindly, and the
goddess stooped and kissed the lips of the sick child. Instantly the
paleness left his face, and healthy vigor returned to his body. The
whole family were delighted—that is, the father, mother, and little
girl, for they were all; they had no servants. They spread the table,
and put upon it curds and cream, apples, and honey in the comb. While
they ate, Ceres mingled poppy juice in the milk of the boy. When night
came and all was still, she arose, and taking the sleeping boy, moulded
his limbs with her hands, and uttered over him three times a solemn
charm, then went and laid him in the ashes. His mother, who had been
watching what her guest was doing, sprang forward with a cry and
snatched the child from the fire. Then Ceres assumed her own form, and a
divine splendor shone all around. While they were overcome with
astonishment, she said, “Mother, you have been cruel in your fondness to
your son. I would have made him immortal, but you have frustrated my
attempt. Nevertheless, he shall be great and useful. He shall teach men
the use of the plough, and the rewards which labor can win from the
cultivated soil.” So saying, she wrapped a cloud about her, and mounting
her chariot rode away.

Ceres continued her search for her daughter, passing from land to land,
and across seas and rivers, till at length she returned to Sicily,
whence she at first set out, and stood by the banks of the River Cyane,
where Pluto made himself a passage with his prize to his own dominions.
The river nymph would have told the goddess all she had witnessed, but
dared not, for fear of Pluto; so she only ventured to take up the girdle
which Proserpine had dropped in her flight, and waft it to the feet of
the mother. Ceres, seeing this, was no longer in doubt of her loss, but
she did not yet know the cause, and laid the blame on the innocent land.
“Ungrateful soil,” said she, “which I have endowed with fertility and
clothed with herbage and nourishing grain, no more shall you enjoy my
favors.” Then the cattle died, the plough broke in the furrow, the seed
failed to come up; there was too much sun, there was too much rain; the
birds stole the seeds—thistles and brambles were the only growth.
Seeing this, the fountain Arethusa interceded for the land. “Goddess,”
said she, “blame not the land; it opened unwillingly to yield a passage
to your daughter. I can tell you of her fate, for I have seen her. This
is not my native country; I came hither from Elis. I was a woodland
nymph, and delighted in the chase. They praised my beauty, but I cared
nothing for it, and rather boasted of my hunting exploits. One day I was
returning from the wood, heated with exercise, when I came to a stream
silently flowing, so clear that you might count the pebbles on the
bottom. The willows shaded it, and the grassy bank sloped down to the
water’s edge. I approached, I touched the water with my foot. I stepped
in knee-deep, and not content with that, I laid my garments on the
willows and went in. While I sported in the water, I heard an indistinct
murmur coming up as out of the depths of the stream; and made haste to
escape to the nearest bank. The voice said, ‘Why do you fly, Arethusa? I
am Alpheus, the god of this stream.’ I ran, he pursued; he was not more
swift than I, but he was stronger, and gained upon me, as my strength
failed. At last, exhausted, I cried for help to Diana. ‘Help me,
goddess! help your votary!’ The goddess heard, and wrapped me suddenly
in a thick cloud. The river god looked now this way and now that, and
twice came close to me, but could not find me. ‘Arethusa! Arethusa!’ he
cried. Oh, how I trembled,—like a lamb that hears the wolf growling
outside the fold. A cold sweat came over me, my hair flowed down in
streams; where my foot stood there was a pool. In short, in less time
than it takes to tell it I became a fountain. But in this form Alpheus
knew me and attempted to mingle his stream with mine. Diana cleft the
ground, and I, endeavoring to escape him, plunged into the cavern, and
through the bowels of the earth came out here in Sicily. While I passed
through the lower parts of the earth, I saw your Proserpine. She was
sad, but no longer showing alarm in her countenance. Her look was such
as became a queen—the queen of Erebus; the powerful bride of the
monarch of the realms of the dead.”

When Ceres heard this, she stood for a while like one stupefied; then
turned her chariot towards heaven, and hastened to present herself
before the throne of Jove. She told the story of her bereavement, and
implored Jupiter to interfere to procure the restitution of her
daughter. Jupiter consented on one condition, namely, that Proserpine
should not during her stay in the lower world have taken any food;
otherwise, the Fates forbade her release. Accordingly, Mercury was sent,
accompanied by Spring, to demand Proserpine of Pluto. The wily monarch
consented; but, alas! the maiden had taken a pomegranate which Pluto
offered her, and had sucked the sweet pulp from a few of the seeds. This
was enough to prevent her complete release; but a compromise was made,
by which she was to pass half the time with her mother, and the rest
with her husband Pluto.

Ceres allowed herself to be pacified with this arrangement, and restored
the earth to her favor. Now she remembered Celeus and his family, and
her promise to his infant son Triptolemus. When the boy grew up, she
taught him the use of the plough, and how to sow the seed. She took him
in her chariot, drawn by winged dragons, through all the countries of
the earth, imparting to mankind valuable grains, and the knowledge of
agriculture. After his return, Triptolemus built a magnificent temple to
Ceres in Eleusis, and established the worship of the goddess, under the
name of the Eleusinian mysteries, which, in the splendor and solemnity
of their observance, surpassed all other religious celebrations among
the Greeks.



There can be little doubt of this story of Ceres and Proserpine being an
allegory. Proserpine signifies the seed-corn which when cast into the
ground lies there concealed—that is, she is carried off by the god of
the underworld. It reappears—that is, Proserpine is restored to her
mother. Spring leads her back to the light of day.



Milton alludes to the story of Proserpine in “Paradise Lost,” Book IV.:

    “. . . Not that fair field
    Of Enna where Proserpine gathering flowers,
    Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis
    Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain
    To seek her through the world,—
    . . . might with this Paradise
    Of Eden strive.”

Hood, in his “Ode to Melancholy,” uses the same allusion very
beautifully:

    “Forgive, if somewhile I forget,
      In woe to come the present bliss;
    As frighted Proserpine let fall
      Her flowers at the sight of Dis.”

The River Alpheus does in fact disappear underground, in part of its
course, finding its way through subterranean channels till it again
appears on the surface. It was said that the Sicilian fountain Arethusa
was the same stream, which, after passing under the sea, came up again
in Sicily. Hence the story ran that a cup thrown into the Alpheus
appeared again in Arethusa. It is this fable of the underground course
of Alpheus that Coleridge alludes to in his poem of “Kubla Khan”:

    “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
      A stately pleasure-dome decree,
    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man,
      Down to a sunless sea.”

In one of Moore’s juvenile poems he thus alludes to the same story, and
to the practice of throwing garlands or other light objects on his
stream to be carried downward by it, and afterwards reproduced at its
emerging:

    “O my beloved, how divinely sweet
    Is the pure joy when kindred spirits meet!
    Like him the river god, whose waters flow,
    With love their only light, through caves below,
    Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids
    And festal rings, with which Olympic maids
    Have decked his current, as an offering meet
    To lay at Arethusa’s shining feet.
    Think, when he meets at last his fountain bride,
    What perfect love must thrill the blended tide!
    Each lost in each, till mingling into one,
    Their lot the same for shadow or for sun,
    A type of true love, to the deep they run.”

The following extract from Moore’s “Rhymes on the Road” gives an account
of a celebrated picture by Albano, at Milan, called a Dance of Loves:

    “’Tis for the theft of Enna’s flower from earth
    These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth,
      Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath;—
        Those that are nearest linked in order bright,
      Cheek after cheek, like rosebuds in a wreath;
      And those more distant showing from beneath
        The others’ wings their little eyes of light.
      While see! among the clouds, their eldest brother,
        But just flown up, tells with a smile of bliss,
      This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother,
        Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss.”

                           GLAUCUS AND SCYLLA

Glaucus was a fisherman. One day he had drawn his nets to land, and had
taken a great many fishes of various kinds. So he emptied his net, and
proceeded to sort the fishes on the grass. The place where he stood was
a beautiful island in the river, a solitary spot, uninhabited, and not
used for pasturage of cattle, nor ever visited by any but himself. On a
sudden, the fishes, which had been laid on the grass, began to revive
and move their fins as if they were in the water; and while he looked on
astonished, they one and all moved off to the water, plunged in, and
swam away. He did not know what to make of this, whether some god had
done it or some secret power in the herbage. “What herb has such a
power?” he exclaimed; and gathering some of it, he tasted it. Scarce had
the juices of the plant reached his palate when he found himself
agitated with a longing desire for the water. He could no longer
restrain himself, but bidding farewell to earth, he plunged into the
stream. The gods of the water received him graciously, and admitted him
to the honor of their society. They obtained the consent of Oceanus and
Tethys, the sovereigns of the sea, that all that was mortal in him
should be washed away. A hundred rivers poured their waters over him.
Then he lost all sense of his former nature and all consciousness. When
he recovered, he found himself changed in form and mind. His hair was
sea-green, and trailed behind him on the water; his shoulders grew
broad, and what had been thighs and legs assumed the form of a fish’s
tail. The sea-gods complimented him on the change of his appearance, and
he fancied himself rather a good-looking personage.

One day Glaucus saw the beautiful maiden Scylla, the favorite of the
water-nymphs, rambling on the shore, and when she had found a sheltered
nook, laving her limbs in the clear water. He fell in love with her, and
showing himself on the surface, spoke to her, saying such things as he
thought most likely to win her to stay; for she turned to run
immediately on the sight of him, and ran till she had gained a cliff
overlooking the sea. Here she stopped and turned round to see whether it
was a god or a sea animal, and observed with wonder his shape and color.
Glaucus partly emerging from the water, and supporting himself against a
rock, said, “Maiden, I am no monster, nor a sea animal, but a god; and
neither Proteus nor Triton ranks higher than I. Once I was a mortal, and
followed the sea for a living; but now I belong wholly to it.” Then he
told the story of his metamorphosis, and how he had been promoted to his
present dignity, and added, “But what avails all this if it fails to
move your heart?” He was going on in this strain, but Scylla turned and
hastened away.

Glaucus was in despair, but it occurred to him to consult the
enchantress Circe. Accordingly he repaired to her island—the same where
afterwards Ulysses landed, as we shall see in one of our later stories.
After mutual salutations, he said, “Goddess, I entreat your pity; you
alone can relieve the pain I suffer. The power of herbs I know as well
as any one, for it is to them I owe my change of form. I love Scylla. I
am ashamed to tell you how I have sued and promised to her, and how
scornfully she has treated me. I beseech you to use your incantations,
or potent herbs, if they are more prevailing, not to cure me of my
love,—for that I do not wish,—but to make her share it and yield me a
like return.” To which Circe replied, for she was not insensible to the
attractions of the sea-green deity, “You had better pursue a willing
object; you are worthy to be sought, instead of having to seek in vain.
Be not diffident, know your own worth. I protest to you that even I,
goddess though I be, and learned in the virtues of plants and spells,
should not know how to refuse you. If she scorns you scorn her; meet one
who is ready to meet you half way, and thus make a due return to both at
once.” To these words Glaucus replied, “Sooner shall trees grow at the
bottom of the ocean, and sea-weed on the top of the mountains, than I
will cease to love Scylla, and her alone.”

The goddess was indignant, but she could not punish him, neither did she
wish to do so, for she liked him too well; so she turned all her wrath
against her rival, poor Scylla. She took plants of poisonous powers and
mixed them together, with incantations and charms. Then she passed
through the crowd of gambolling beasts, the victims of her art, and
proceeded to the coast of Sicily, where Scylla lived. There was a little
bay on the shore to which Scylla used to resort, in the heat of the day,
to breathe the air of the sea, and to bathe in its waters. Here the
goddess poured her poisonous mixture, and muttered over it incantations
of mighty power. Scylla came as usual and plunged into the water up to
her waist. What was her horror to perceive a brood of serpents and
barking monsters surrounding her! At first she could not imagine they
were a part of herself, and tried to run from them, and to drive them
away; but as she ran she carried them with her, and when she tried to
touch her limbs, she found her hands touch only the yawning jaws of
monsters. Scylla remained rooted to the spot. Her temper grew as ugly as
her form, and she took pleasure in devouring hapless mariners who came
within her grasp. Thus she destroyed six of the companions of Ulysses,
and tried to wreck the ships of Æneas, till at last she was turned into
a rock, and as such still continues to be a terror to mariners.



Keats, in his “Endymion,” has given a new version of the ending of
“Glaucus and Scylla.” Glaucus consents to Circe’s blandishments, till he
by chance is witness to her transactions with her beasts.[11] Disgusted
with her treachery and cruelty, he tries to escape from her, but is
taken and brought back, when with reproaches she banishes him,
sentencing him to pass a thousand years in decrepitude and pain. He
returns to the sea, and there finds the body of Scylla, whom the goddess
has not transformed but drowned. Glaucus learns that his destiny is
that, if he passes his thousand years in collecting all the bodies of
drowned lovers, a youth beloved of the gods will appear and help him.
Endymion fulfils this prophecy, and aids in restoring Glaucus to youth,
and Scylla and all the drowned lovers to life.

The following is Glaucus’s account of his feelings after his
“sea-change”:

    “I plunged for life or death. To interknit
    One’s senses with so dense a breathing stuff
    Might seem a work of pain; so not enough
    Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt,
    And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt
    Whole days and days in sheer astonishment;
    Forgetful utterly of self-intent,
    Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow.
    Then like a new-fledged bird that first doth show
    His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill,
    I tried in fear the pinions of my will.
    ’Twas freedom! and at once I visited
    The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed,” etc.
                                     —_Keats._

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER VIII

        PYGMALION—DRYOPE—VENUS AND ADONIS—APOLLO AND HYACINTHUS

PYGMALION saw so much to blame in women that he came at last to abhor
the sex, and resolved to live unmarried. He was a sculptor, and had made
with wonderful skill a statue of ivory, so beautiful that no living
woman came anywhere near it. It was indeed the perfect semblance of a
maiden that seemed to be alive, and only prevented from moving by
modesty. His art was so perfect that it concealed itself and its product
looked like the workmanship of nature. Pygmalion admired his own work,
and at last fell in love with the counterfeit creation. Oftentimes he
laid his hand upon it as if to assure himself whether it were living or
not, and could not even then believe that it was only ivory. He caressed
it, and gave it presents such as young girls love,—bright shells and
polished stones, little birds and flowers of various hues, beads and
amber. He put raiment on its limbs, and jewels on its fingers, and a
necklace about its neck. To the ears he hung earrings and strings of
pearls upon the breast. Her dress became her, and she looked not less
charming than when unattired. He laid her on a couch spread with cloths
of Tyrian dye, and called her his wife, and put her head upon a pillow
of the softest feathers, as if she could enjoy their softness.

The festival of Venus was at hand—a festival celebrated with great pomp
at Cyprus. Victims were offered, the altars smoked, and the odor of
incense filled the air. When Pygmalion had performed his part in the
solemnities, he stood before the altar and timidly said, “Ye gods, who
can do all things, give me, I pray you, for my wife”—he dared not say
“my ivory virgin,” but said instead—“one like my ivory virgin.” Venus,
who was present at the festival, heard him and knew the thought he would
have uttered; and as an omen of her favor, caused the flame on the altar
to shoot up thrice in a fiery point into the air. When he returned home,
he went to see his statue, and leaning over the couch, gave a kiss to
the mouth. It seemed to be warm. He pressed its lips again, he laid his
hand upon the limbs; the ivory felt soft to his touch and yielded to his
fingers like the wax of Hymettus. While he stands astonished and glad,
though doubting, and fears he may be mistaken, again and again with a
lover’s ardor he touches the object of his hopes. It was indeed alive!
The veins when pressed yielded to the finger and again resumed their
roundness. Then at last the votary of Venus found words to thank the
goddess, and pressed his lips upon lips as real as his own. The virgin
felt the kisses and blushed, and opening her timid eyes to the light,
fixed them at the same moment on her lover. Venus blessed the nuptials
she had formed, and from this union Paphos was born, from whom the city,
sacred to Venus, received its name.



Schiller, in his poem the “Ideals,” applies this tale of Pygmalion to
the love of nature in a youthful heart. The following translation is
furnished by a friend:

    “As once with prayers in passion flowing,
      Pygmalion embraced the stone,
    Till from the frozen marble glowing,
      The light of feeling o’er him shone,
    So did I clasp with young devotion
      Bright nature to a poet’s heart;
    Till breath and warmth and vital motion
      Seemed through the statue form to dart.

    “And then, in all my ardor sharing,
      The silent form expression found;
    Returned my kiss of youthful daring,
      And understood my heart’s quick sound.
    Then lived for me the bright creation,
      The silver rill with song was rife;
    The trees, the roses shared sensation,
      An echo of my boundless life.”
                            —_S. G. B._

                                 DRYOPE

Dryope and Iole were sisters. The former was the wife of Andræmon,
beloved by her husband, and happy in the birth of her first child. One
day the sisters strolled to the bank of a stream that sloped gradually
down to the water’s edge, while the upland was overgrown with myrtles.
They were intending to gather flowers for forming garlands for the
altars of the nymphs, and Dryope carried her child at her bosom,
precious burden, and nursed him as she walked. Near the water grew a
lotus plant, full of purple flowers. Dryope gathered some and offered
them to the baby, and Iole was about to do the same, when she perceived
blood dropping from the places where her sister had broken them off the
stem. The plant was no other than the nymph Lotis, who, running from a
base pursuer, had been changed into this form. This they learned from
the country people when it was too late.

Dryope, horror-struck when she perceived what she had done, would gladly
have hastened from the spot, but found her feet rooted to the ground.
She tried to pull them away, but moved nothing but her upper limbs. The
woodiness crept upward, and by degrees invested her body. In anguish she
attempted to tear her hair, but found her hands filled with leaves. The
infant felt his mother’s bosom begin to harden, and the milk cease to
flow. Iole looked on at the sad fate of her sister, and could render no
assistance. She embraced the growing trunk, as if she would hold back
the advancing wood, and would gladly have been enveloped in the same
bark. At this moment Andræmon, the husband of Dryope, with her father,
approached; and when they asked for Dryope, Iole pointed them to the
new-formed lotus. They embraced the trunk of the yet warm tree, and
showered their kisses on its leaves.

Now there was nothing left of Dryope but her face. Her tears still
flowed and fell on her leaves, and while she could she spoke. “I am not
guilty. I deserve not this fate. I have injured no one. If I speak
falsely, may my foliage perish with drought and my trunk be cut down and
burned. Take this infant and give it to a nurse. Let it often be brought
and nursed under my branches, and play in my shade; and when he is old
enough to talk, let him be taught to call me mother, and to say with
sadness, ‘My mother lies hid under this bark.’ But bid him be careful of
river banks, and beware how he plucks flowers, remembering that every
bush he sees may be a goddess in disguise. Farewell, dear husband, and
sister, and father. If you retain any love for me, let not the axe wound
me, nor the flocks bite and tear my branches. Since I cannot stoop to
you, climb up hither and kiss me; and while my lips continue to feel,
lift up my child that I may kiss him. I can speak no more, for already
the bark advances up my neck, and will soon shoot over me. You need not
close my eyes, the bark will close them without your aid.” Then the lips
ceased to move, and life was extinct; but the branches retained for some
time longer the vital heat.



Keats, in “Endymion,” alludes to Dryope thus:

    “She took a lute from which there pulsing came
    A lively prelude, fashioning the way
    In which her voice should wander. ’Twas a lay
    More subtle-cadenced, more forest-wild
    Than Dryope’s lone lulling of her child;” etc.

                            VENUS AND ADONIS

Venus, playing one day with her boy Cupid, wounded her bosom with one of
his arrows. She pushed him away, but the wound was deeper than she
thought. Before it healed she beheld Adonis, and was captivated with
him. She no longer took any interest in her favorite resorts—Paphos,
and Cnidos, and Amathos, rich in metals. She absented herself even from
heaven, for Adonis was dearer to her than heaven. Him she followed and
bore him company. She who used to love to recline in the shade, with no
care but to cultivate her charms, now rambles through the woods and over
the hills, dressed like the huntress Diana; and calls her dogs, and
chases hares and stags, or other game that it is safe to hunt, but keeps
clear of the wolves and bears, reeking with the slaughter of the herd.
She charged Adonis, too, to beware of such dangerous animals. “Be brave
towards the timid,” said she; “courage against the courageous is not
safe. Beware how you expose yourself to danger and put my happiness to
risk. Attack not the beasts that Nature has armed with weapons. I do not
value your glory so high as to consent to purchase it by such exposure.
Your youth, and the beauty that charms Venus, will not touch the hearts
of lions and bristly boars. Think of their terrible claws and prodigious
strength! I hate the whole race of them. Do you ask me why?” Then she
told him the story of Atalanta and Hippomenes, who were changed into
lions for their ingratitude to her.

Having given him this warning, she mounted her chariot drawn by swans,
and drove away through the air. But Adonis was too noble to heed such
counsels. The dogs had roused a wild boar from his lair, and the youth
threw his spear and wounded the animal with a sidelong stroke. The beast
drew out the weapon with his jaws, and rushed after Adonis, who turned
and ran; but the boar overtook him, and buried his tusks in his side,
and stretched him dying upon the plain.

Venus, in her swan-drawn chariot, had not yet reached Cyprus, when she
heard coming up through mid-air the groans of her beloved, and turned
her white-winged coursers back to earth. As she drew near and saw from
on high his lifeless body bathed in blood, she alighted and, bending
over it, beat her breast and tore her hair. Reproaching the Fates, she
said, “Yet theirs shall be but a partial triumph; memorials of my grief
shall endure, and the spectacle of your death, my Adonis, and of my
lamentations shall be annually renewed. Your blood shall be changed into
a flower; that consolation none can envy me.” Thus speaking, she
sprinkled nectar on the blood; and as they mingled, bubbles rose as in a
pool on which raindrops fall, and in an hour’s time there sprang up a
flower of bloody hue like that of the pomegranate. But it is
short-lived. It is said the wind blows the blossoms open, and afterwards
blows the petals away; so it is called Anemone, or Wind Flower, from the
cause which assists equally in its production and its decay.



Milton alludes to the story of Venus and Adonis in his “Comus”:

    “Beds of hyacinth and roses
    Where young Adonis oft reposes,
    Waxing well of his deep wound
    In slumber soft, and on the ground
    Sadly sits th’ Assyrian queen;” etc.

                         APOLLO AND HYACINTHUS

Apollo was passionately fond of a youth named Hyacinthus. He accompanied
him in his sports, carried the nets when he went fishing, led the dogs
when he went to hunt, followed him in his excursions in the mountains,
and neglected for him his lyre and his arrows. One day they played a
game of quoits together, and Apollo, heaving aloft the discus, with
strength mingled with skill, sent it high and far. Hyacinthus watched it
as it flew, and excited with the sport ran forward to seize it, eager to
make his throw, when the quoit bounded from the earth and struck him in
the forehead. He fainted and fell. The god, as pale as himself, raised
him and tried all his art to stanch the wound and retain the flitting
life, but all in vain; the hurt was past the power of medicine. As when
one has broken the stem of a lily in the garden it hangs its head and
turns its flowers to the earth, so the head of the dying boy, as if too
heavy for his neck, fell over on his shoulder. “Thou diest, Hyacinth,”
so spoke Phœbus, “robbed of thy youth by me. Thine is the suffering,
mine the crime. Would that I could die for thee! But since that may not
be, thou shalt live with me in memory and in song. My lyre shall
celebrate thee, my song shall tell thy fate, and thou shalt become a
flower inscribed with my regrets.” While Apollo spoke, behold the blood
which had flowed on the ground and stained the herbage ceased to be
blood; but a flower of hue more beautiful than the Tyrian sprang up,
resembling the lily, if it were not that this is purple and that silvery
white.[12] And this was not enough for Phœbus; but to confer still
greater honor, he marked the petals with his sorrow, and inscribed “Ah!
ah!” upon them as we see to this day. The flower bears the name of
Hyacinthus, and with every returning spring revives the memory of his
fate.



It was said that Zephyrus (the West wind), who was also fond of
Hyacinthus and jealous of his preference of Apollo, blew the quoit out
of its course to make it strike Hyacinthus. Keats alludes to this in his
“Endymion,” where he describes the lookers-on at the game of quoits:

    “Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent
      On either side, pitying the sad death
      Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
    Of Zephyr slew him; Zephyr penitent,
    Who now ere Phœbus mounts the firmament,
      Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain.”

An allusion to Hyacinthus will also be recognized in Milton’s “Lycidas”:

    “Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.”

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER IX

                CEYX AND HALCYONE: OR, THE HALCYON BIRDS

CEYX was king of Thessaly, where he reigned in peace, without violence
or wrong. He was son of Hesperus, the Day-star, and the glow of his
beauty reminded one of his father. Halcyone, the daughter of Æolus, was
his wife, and devotedly attached to him. Now Ceyx was in deep affliction
for the loss of his brother, and direful prodigies following his
brother’s death made him feel as if the gods were hostile to him. He
thought best, therefore, to make a voyage to Carlos in Ionia, to consult
the oracle of Apollo. But as soon as he disclosed his intention to his
wife Halcyone, a shudder ran through her frame, and her face grew deadly
pale. “What fault of mine, dearest husband, has turned your affection
from me? Where is that love of me that used to be uppermost in your
thoughts? Have you learned to feel easy in the absence of Halcyone?
Would you rather have me away?” She also endeavored to discourage him,
by describing the violence of the winds, which she had known familiarly
when she lived at home in her father’s house,—Æolus being the god of
the winds, and having as much as he could do to restrain them. “They
rush together,” said she, “with such fury that fire flashes from the
conflict. But if you must go,” she added, “dear husband, let me go with
you, otherwise I shall suffer not only the real evils which you must
encounter, but those also which my fears suggest.”

These words weighed heavily on the mind of King Ceyx, and it was no less
his own wish than hers to take her with him, but he could not bear to
expose her to the dangers of the sea. He answered, therefore, consoling
her as well as he could, and finished with these words: “I promise, by
the rays of my father the Day-star, that if fate permits I will return
before the moon shall have twice rounded her orb.” When he had thus
spoken, he ordered the vessel to be drawn out of the shiphouse, and the
oars and sails to be put aboard. When Halcyone saw these preparations
she shuddered, as if with a presentiment of evil. With tears and sobs
she said farewell, and then fell senseless to the ground.

Ceyx would still have lingered, but now the young men grasped their oars
and pulled vigorously through the waves, with long and measured strokes.
Halcyone raised her streaming eyes, and saw her husband standing on the
deck, waving his hand to her. She answered his signal till the vessel
had receded so far that she could no longer distinguish his form from
the rest. When the vessel itself could no more be seen, she strained her
eyes to catch the last glimmer of the sail, till that too disappeared.
Then, retiring to her chamber, she threw herself on her solitary couch.

Meanwhile they glide out of the harbor, and the breeze plays among the
ropes. The seamen draw in their oars, and hoist their sails. When half
or less of their course was passed, as night drew on, the sea began to
whiten with swelling waves, and the east wind to blow a gale. The master
gave the word to take in sail, but the storm forbade obedience, for such
is the roar of the winds and waves his orders are unheard. The men, of
their own accord, busy themselves to secure the oars, to strengthen the
ship, to reef the sail. While they thus do what to each one seems best,
the storm increases. The shouting of the men, the rattling of the
shrouds, and the dashing of the waves, mingle with the roar of the
thunder. The swelling sea seems lifted up to the heavens, to scatter its
foam among the clouds; then sinking away to the bottom assumes the color
of the shoal—a Stygian blackness.

The vessel shares all these changes. It seems like a wild beast that
rushes on the spears of the hunters. Rain falls in torrents, as if the
skies were coming down to unite with the sea. When the lightning ceases
for a moment, the night seems to add its own darkness to that of the
storm; then comes the flash, rending the darkness asunder, and lighting
up all with a glare. Skill fails, courage sinks, and death seems to come
on every wave. The men are stupefied with terror. The thought of
parents, and kindred, and pledges left at home, comes over their minds.
Ceyx thinks of Halcyone. No name but hers is on his lips, and while he
yearns for her, he yet rejoices in her absence. Presently the mast is
shattered by a stroke of lightning, the rudder broken, and the
triumphant surge curling over looks down upon the wreck, then falls, and
crushes it to fragments. Some of the seamen, stunned by the stroke,
sink, and rise no more; others cling to fragments of the wreck. Ceyx,
with the hand that used to grasp the sceptre, holds fast to a plank,
calling for help,—alas, in vain,—upon his father and his
father-in-law. But oftenest on his lips was the name of Halcyone. To her
his thoughts cling. He prays that the waves may bear his body to her
sight, and that it may receive burial at her hands. At length the waters
overwhelm him, and he sinks. The Day-star looked dim that night. Since
it could not leave the heavens, it shrouded its face with clouds.

In the meanwhile Halcyone, ignorant of all these horrors, counted the
days till her husband’s promised return. Now she gets ready the garments
which he shall put on, and now what she shall wear when he arrives. To
all the gods she offers frequent incense, but more than all to Juno. For
her husband, who was no more, she prayed incessantly: that he might be
safe; that he might come home; that he might not, in his absence, see
any one that he would love better than her. But of all these prayers,
the last was the only one destined to be granted. The goddess, at
length, could not bear any longer to be pleaded with for one already
dead, and to have hands raised to her altars that ought rather to be
offering funeral rites. So, calling Iris, she said, “Iris, my faithful
messenger, go to the drowsy dwelling of Somnus, and tell him to send a
vision to Halcyone in the form of Ceyx, to make known to her the event.”

Iris puts on her robe of many colors, and tingeing the sky with her bow,
seeks the palace of the King of Sleep. Near the Cimmerian country, a
mountain cave is the abode of the dull god Somnus. Here Phœbus dares not
come, either rising, at midday, or setting. Clouds and shadows are
exhaled from the ground, and the light glimmers faintly. The bird of
dawning, with crested head, never there calls aloud to Aurora, nor
watchful dog, nor more sagacious goose disturbs the silence. No wild
beast, nor cattle, nor branch moved with the wind, nor sound of human
conversation, breaks the stillness. Silence reigns there; but from the
bottom of the rock the River Lethe flows, and by its murmur invites to
sleep. Poppies grow abundantly before the door of the cave, and other
herbs, from whose juices Night collects slumbers, which she scatters
over the darkened earth. There is no gate to the mansion, to creak on
its hinges, nor any watchman; but in the midst a couch of black ebony,
adorned with black plumes and black curtains. There the god reclines,
his limbs relaxed with sleep. Around him lie dreams, resembling all
various forms, as many as the harvest bears stalks, or the forest
leaves, or the seashore sand grains.

As soon as the goddess entered and brushed away the dreams that hovered
around her, her brightness lit up all the cave. The god, scarce opening
his eyes, and ever and anon dropping his beard upon his breast, at last
shook himself free from himself, and leaning on his arm, inquired her
errand,—for he knew who she was. She answered, “Somnus, gentlest of the
gods, tranquillizer of minds and soother of care-worn hearts, Juno sends
you her commands that you despatch a dream to Halcyone, in the city of
Trachine, representing her lost husband and all the events of the
wreck.”

Having delivered her message, Iris hasted away, for she could not longer
endure the stagnant air, and as she felt drowsiness creeping over her,
she made her escape, and returned by her bow the way she came. Then
Somnus called one of his numerous sons,—Morpheus,—the most expert in
counterfeiting forms, and in imitating the walk, the countenance, and
mode of speaking, even the clothes and attitudes most characteristic of
each. But he only imitates men, leaving it to another to personate
birds, beasts, and serpents. Him they call Icelos; and Phantasos is a
third, who turns himself into rocks, waters, woods, and other things
without life. These wait upon kings and great personages in their
sleeping hours, while others move among the common people. Somnus chose,
from all the brothers, Morpheus, to perform the command of Iris; then
laid his head on his pillow and yielded himself to grateful repose.

Morpheus flew, making no noise with his wings, and soon came to the
Hæmonian city, where, laying aside his wings, he assumed the form of
Ceyx. Under that form, but pale like a dead man, naked, he stood before
the couch of the wretched wife. His beard seemed soaked with water, and
water trickled from his drowned locks. Leaning over the bed, tears
streaming from his eyes, he said, “Do you recognize your Ceyx, unhappy
wife, or has death too much changed my visage? Behold me, know me, your
husband’s shade, instead of himself. Your prayers, Halcyone, availed me
nothing. I am dead. No more deceive yourself with vain hopes of my
return. The stormy winds sunk my ship in the Ægean Sea, waves filled my
mouth while it called aloud on you. No uncertain messenger tells you
this, no vague rumor brings it to your ears. I come in person, a
shipwrecked man, to tell you my fate. Arise! give me tears, give me
lamentations, let me not go down to Tartarus unwept.” To these words
Morpheus added the voice, which seemed to be that of her husband; he
seemed to pour forth genuine tears; his hands had the gestures of Ceyx.

Halcyone, weeping, groaned, and stretched out her arms in her sleep,
striving to embrace his body, but grasping only the air. “Stay!” she
cried; “whither do you fly? let us go together.” Her own voice awakened
her. Starting up, she gazed eagerly around, to see if he was still
present, for the servants, alarmed by her cries, had brought a light.
When she found him not, she smote her breast and rent her garments. She
cares not to unbind her hair, but tears it wildly. Her nurse asks what
is the cause of her grief. “Halcyone is no more,” she answers, “she
perished with her Ceyx. Utter not words of comfort, he is shipwrecked
and dead. I have seen him, I have recognized him. I stretched out my
hands to seize him and detain him. His shade vanished, but it was the
true shade of my husband. Not with the accustomed features, not with the
beauty that was his, but pale, naked, and with his hair wet with
sea-water, he appeared to wretched me. Here, in this very spot, the sad
vision stood,”—and she looked to find the mark of his footsteps. “This
it was, this that my presaging mind foreboded, when I implored him not
to leave me, to trust himself to the waves. Oh, how I wish, since thou
wouldst go, thou hadst taken me with thee! It would have been far
better. Then I should have had no remnant of life to spend without thee,
nor a separate death to die. If I could bear to live and struggle to
endure, I should be more cruel to myself than the sea has been to me.
But I will not struggle, I will not be separated from thee, unhappy
husband. This time, at least, I will keep thee company. In death, if one
tomb may not include us, one epitaph shall; if I may not lay my ashes
with thine, my name, at least, shall not be separated.” Her grief
forbade more words, and these were broken with tears and sobs.

It was now morning. She went to the seashore, and sought the spot where
she last saw him, on his departure. “While he lingered here, and cast
off his tacklings, he gave me his last kiss.” While she reviews every
object, and strives to recall every incident, looking out over the sea,
she descries an indistinct object floating in the water. At first she
was in doubt what it was, but by degrees the waves bore it nearer, and
it was plainly the body of a man. Though unknowing of whom, yet, as it
was of some shipwrecked one, she was deeply moved, and gave it her
tears, saying, “Alas! unhappy one, and unhappy, if such there be, thy
wife!” Borne by the waves, it came nearer. As she more and more nearly
views it, she trembles more and more. Now, now it approaches the shore.
Now marks that she recognizes appear. It is her husband! Stretching out
her trembling hands towards it, she exclaims, “O dearest husband, is it
thus you return to me?”

There was built out from the shore a mole, constructed to break the
assaults of the sea, and stem its violent ingress. She leaped upon this
barrier and (it was wonderful she could do so) she flew, and striking
the air with wings produced on the instant, skimmed along the surface of
the water, an unhappy bird. As she flew, her throat poured forth sounds
full of grief, and like the voice of one lamenting. When she touched the
mute and bloodless body, she enfolded its beloved limbs with her
new-formed wings, and tried to give kisses with her horny beak. Whether
Ceyx felt it, or whether it was only the action of the waves, those who
looked on doubted, but the body seemed to raise its head. But indeed he
did feel it, and by the pitying gods both of them were changed into
birds. They mate and have their young ones. For seven placid days, in
winter time, Halcyone broods over her nest, which floats upon the sea.
Then the way is safe to seamen. Æolus guards the winds and keeps them
from disturbing the deep. The sea is given up, for the time, to his
grandchildren.



The following lines from Byron’s “Bride of Abydos” might seem borrowed
from the concluding part of this description, if it were not stated that
the author derived the suggestion from observing the motion of a
floating corpse:

    “As shaken on his restless pillow,
    His head heaves with the heaving billow,
    That hand, whose motion is not life,
    Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
    Flung by the tossing tide on high,
    Then levelled with the wave . . .”

Milton in his “Hymn on the Nativity,” thus alludes to the fable of the
Halcyon:

    “But peaceful was the night
    Wherein the Prince of light
      His reign of peace upon the earth began;
    The winds with wonder whist
    Smoothly the waters kist
      Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,
    Who now hath quite forgot to rave
    While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.”

Keats, also, in “Endymion,” says:

    “O magic sleep! O comfortable bird
    That broodest o’er the troubled sea of the mind
    Till it is hushed and smooth.”

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER X

                          VERTUMNUS AND POMONA

THE Hamadryads were Wood-nymphs. Pomona was of this class, and no one
excelled her in love of the garden and the culture of fruit. She cared
not for forests and rivers, but loved the cultivated country, and trees
that bear delicious apples. Her right hand bore for its weapon not a
javelin, but a pruning-knife. Armed with this, she busied herself at one
time to repress the too luxuriant growths, and curtail the branches that
straggled out of place; at another, to split the twig and insert therein
a graft, making the branch adopt a nursling not its own. She took care,
too, that her favorites should not suffer from drought, and led streams
of water by them, that the thirsty roots might drink. This occupation
was her pursuit, her passion; and she was free from that which Venus
inspires. She was not without fear of the country people, and kept her
orchard locked, and allowed not men to enter. The Fauns and Satyrs would
have given all they possessed to win her, and so would old Sylvanus, who
looks young for his years, and Pan, who wears a garland of pine leaves
around his head. But Vertumnus loved her best of all; yet he sped no
better than the rest. O how often, in the disguise of a reaper, did he
bring her corn in a basket, and looked the very image of a reaper! With
a hay band tied round him, one would think he had just come from turning
over the grass. Sometimes he would have an ox-goad in his hand, and you
would have said he had just unyoked his weary oxen. Now he bore a
pruning-hook, and personated a vine-dresser; and again, with a ladder on
his shoulder, he seemed as if he was going to gather apples. Sometimes
he trudged along as a discharged soldier, and again he bore a
fishing-rod, as if going to fish. In this way he gained admission to her
again and again, and fed his passion with the sight of her.

One day he came in the guise of an old woman, her gray hair surmounted
with a cap, and a staff in her hand. She entered the garden and admired
the fruit. “It does you credit, my dear,” she said, and kissed her, not
exactly with an old woman’s kiss. She sat down on a bank, and looked up
at the branches laden with fruit which hung over her. Opposite was an
elm entwined with a vine loaded with swelling grapes. She praised the
tree and its associated vine, equally. “But,” said she, “if the tree
stood alone, and had no vine clinging to it, it would have nothing to
attract or offer us but its useless leaves. And equally the vine, if it
were not twined round the elm, would lie prostrate on the ground. Why
will you not take a lesson from the tree and the vine, and consent to
unite yourself with some one? I wish you would. Helen herself had not
more numerous suitors, nor Penelope, the wife of shrewd Ulysses. Even
while you spurn them, they court you,—rural deities and others of every
kind that frequent these mountains. But if you are prudent and want to
make a good alliance, and will let an old woman advise you,—who loves
you better than you have any idea of,—dismiss all the rest and accept
Vertumnus, on my recommendation. I know him as well as he knows himself.
He is not a wandering deity, but belongs to these mountains. Nor is he
like too many of the lovers nowadays, who love any one they happen to
see; he loves you, and you only. Add to this, he is young and handsome,
and has the art of assuming any shape he pleases, and can make himself
just what you command him. Moreover, he loves the same things that you
do, delights in gardening, and handles your apples with admiration. But
_now_ he cares nothing for fruits nor flowers, nor anything else, but
only yourself. Take pity on him, and fancy him speaking now with my
mouth. Remember that the gods punish cruelty, and that Venus hates a
hard heart, and will visit such offences sooner or later. To prove this,
let me tell you a story, which is well known in Cyprus to be a fact; and
I hope it will have the effect to make you more merciful.

“Iphis was a young man of humble parentage, who saw and loved Anaxarete,
a noble lady of the ancient family of Teucer. He struggled long with his
passion, but when he found he could not subdue it, he came a suppliant
to her mansion. First he told his passion to her nurse, and begged her
as she loved her foster-child to favor his suit. And then he tried to
win her domestics to his side. Sometimes he committed his vows to
written tablets, and often hung at her door garlands which he had
moistened with his tears. He stretched himself on her threshold, and
uttered his complaints to the cruel bolts and bars. She was deafer than
the surges which rise in the November gale; harder than steel from the
German forges, or a rock that still clings to its native cliff. She
mocked and laughed at him, adding cruel words to her ungentle treatment,
and gave not the slightest gleam of hope.

“Iphis could not any longer endure the torments of hopeless love, and,
standing before her doors, he spake these last words: ‘Anaxarete, you
have conquered, and shall no longer have to bear my importunities. Enjoy
your triumph! Sing songs of joy, and bind your forehead with
laurel,—you have conquered! I die; stony heart, rejoice! This at least
I can do to gratify you and force you to praise me; and thus shall I
prove that the love of you left me but with life. Nor will I leave it to
rumor to tell you of my death. I will come myself, and you shall see me
die, and feast your eyes on the spectacle. Yet, O ye gods, who look down
on mortal woes, observe my fate! I ask but this: let me be remembered in
coming ages, and add those years to my fame which you have reft from my
life.’ Thus he said, and, turning his pale face and weeping eyes towards
her mansion, he fastened a rope to the gatepost, on which he had often
hung garlands, and putting his head into the noose, he murmured, ‘This
garland at least will please you, cruel girl!’ and falling hung
suspended with his neck broken. As he fell he struck against the gate,
and the sound was as the sound of a groan. The servants opened the door
and found him dead, and with exclamations of pity raised him and carried
him home to his mother, for his father was not living. She received the
dead body of her son, and folded the cold form to her bosom, while she
poured forth the sad words which bereaved mothers utter. The mournful
funeral passed through the town, and the pale corpse was borne on a bier
to the place of the funeral pile. By chance the home of Anaxarete was on
the street where the procession passed, and the lamentations of the
mourners met the ears of her whom the avenging deity had already marked
for punishment.

“‘Let us see this sad procession,’ said she, and mounted to a turret,
whence through an open window she looked upon the funeral. Scarce had
her eyes rested upon the form of Iphis stretched on the bier, when they
began to stiffen, and the warm blood in her body to become cold.
Endeavoring to step back, she found she could not move her feet; trying
to turn away her face, she tried in vain; and by degrees all her limbs
became stony like her heart. That you may not doubt the fact, the statue
still remains, and stands in the temple of Venus at Salamis, in the
exact form of the lady. Now think of these things, my dear, and lay
aside your scorn and your delays, and accept a lover. So may neither the
vernal frosts blight your young fruits, nor furious winds scatter your
blossoms!”

When Vertumnus had spoken thus, he dropped the disguise of an old woman,
and stood before her in his proper person, as a comely youth. It
appeared to her like the sun bursting through a cloud. He would have
renewed his entreaties, but there was no need; his arguments and the
sight of his true form prevailed, and the Nymph no longer resisted, but
owned a mutual flame.



Pomona was the especial patroness of the Apple-orchard, and as such she
was invoked by Phillips, the author of a poem on Cider, in blank verse.
Thomson in the “Seasons” alludes to him:

    “Phillips, Pomona’s bard, the second thou
    Who nobly durst, in rhyme-unfettered verse,
    With British freedom, sing the British song.”

But Pomona was also regarded as presiding over other fruits, and as such
is invoked by Thomson:

    “Bear me, Pomona, to thy citron groves,
    To where the lemon and the piercing lime,
    With the deep orange, glowing through the green,
    Their lighter glories blend. Lay me reclined
    Beneath the spreading tamarind, that shakes,
    Fanned by the breeze, its fever-cooling fruit.”

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER XI

                            CUPID AND PSYCHE

A CERTAIN king and queen had three daughters. The charms of the two
elder were more than common, but the beauty of the youngest was so
wonderful that the poverty of language is unable to express its due
praise. The fame of her beauty was so great that strangers from
neighboring countries came in crowds to enjoy the sight, and looked on
her with amazement, paying her that homage which is due only to Venus
herself. In fact Venus found her altars deserted, while men turned their
devotion to this young virgin. As she passed along, the people sang her
praises, and strewed her way with chaplets and flowers.

This perversion of homage due only to the immortal powers to the
exaltation of a mortal gave great offence to the real Venus. Shaking her
ambrosial locks with indignation, she exclaimed, “Am I then to be
eclipsed in my honors by a mortal girl? In vain then did that royal
shepherd, whose judgment was approved by Jove himself, give me the palm
of beauty over my illustrious rivals, Pallas and Juno. But she shall not
so quietly usurp my honors. I will give her cause to repent of so
unlawful a beauty.”

Thereupon she calls her winged son Cupid, mischievous enough in his own
nature, and rouses and provokes him yet more by her complaints. She
points out Psyche to him and says, “My dear son, punish that
contumacious beauty; give thy mother a revenge as sweet as her injuries
are great; infuse into the bosom of that haughty girl a passion for some
low, mean, unworthy being, so that she may reap a mortification as great
as her present exultation and triumph.”

Cupid prepared to obey the commands of his mother. There are two
fountains in Venus’s garden, one of sweet waters, the other of bitter.
Cupid filled two amber vases, one from each fountain, and suspending
them from the top of his quiver, hastened to the chamber of Psyche, whom
he found asleep. He shed a few drops from the bitter fountain over her
lips, though the sight of her almost moved him to pity; then touched her
side with the point of his arrow. At the touch she awoke, and opened
eyes upon Cupid (himself invisible), which so startled him that in his
confusion he wounded himself with his own arrow. Heedless of his wound,
his whole thought now was to repair the mischief he had done, and he
poured the balmy drops of joy over all her silken ringlets.

Psyche, henceforth frowned upon by Venus, derived no benefit from all
her charms. True, all eyes were cast eagerly upon her, and every mouth
spoke her praises; but neither king, royal youth, nor plebeian presented
himself to demand her in marriage. Her two elder sisters of moderate
charms had now long been married to two royal princes; but Psyche, in
her lonely apartment, deplored her solitude, sick of that beauty which,
while it procured abundance of flattery, had failed to awaken love.

Her parents, afraid that they had unwittingly incurred the anger of the
gods, consulted the oracle of Apollo, and received this answer: “The
virgin is destined for the bride of no mortal lover. Her future husband
awaits her on the top of the mountain. He is a monster whom neither gods
nor men can resist.”

This dreadful decree of the oracle filled all the people with dismay,
and her parents abandoned themselves to grief. But Psyche said, “Why, my
dear parents, do you now lament me? You should rather have grieved when
the people showered upon me undeserved honors, and with one voice called
me a Venus. I now perceive that I am a victim to that name. I submit.
Lead me to that rock to which my unhappy fate has destined me.”
Accordingly, all things being prepared, the royal maid took her place in
the procession, which more resembled a funeral than a nuptial pomp, and
with her parents, amid the lamentations of the people, ascended the
mountain, on the summit of which they left her alone, and with sorrowful
hearts returned home.

While Psyche stood on the ridge of the mountain, panting with fear and
with eyes full of tears, the gentle Zephyr raised her from the earth and
bore her with an easy motion into a flowery dale. By degrees her mind
became composed, and she laid herself down on the grassy bank to sleep.
When she awoke refreshed with sleep, she looked round and beheld near by
a pleasant grove of tall and stately trees. She entered it, and in the
midst discovered a fountain, sending forth clear and crystal waters, and
fast by, a magnificent palace whose august front impressed the spectator
that it was not the work of mortal hands, but the happy retreat of some
god. Drawn by admiration and wonder, she approached the building and
ventured to enter. Every object she met filled her with pleasure and
amazement. Golden pillars supported the vaulted roof, and the walls were
enriched with carvings and paintings representing beasts of the chase
and rural scenes, adapted to delight the eye of the beholder. Proceeding
onward, she perceived that besides the apartments of state there were
others filled with all manner of treasures, and beautiful and precious
productions of nature and art.

While her eyes were thus occupied, a voice addressed her, though she saw
no one, uttering these words: “Sovereign lady, all that you see is
yours. We whose voices you hear are your servants and shall obey all
your commands with our utmost care and diligence. Retire, therefore, to
your chamber and repose on your bed of down, and when you see fit repair
to the bath. Supper awaits you in the adjoining alcove when it pleases
you to take your seat there.”

Psyche gave ear to the admonitions of her vocal attendants, and after
repose and the refreshment of the bath, seated herself in the alcove,
where a table immediately presented itself, without any visible aid from
waiters or servants, and covered with the greatest delicacies of food
and the most nectareous wines. Her ears too were feasted with music from
invisible performers; of whom one sang, another played on the lute, and
all closed in the wonderful harmony of a full chorus.

She had not yet seen her destined husband. He came only in the hours of
darkness and fled before the dawn of morning, but his accents were full
of love, and inspired a like passion in her. She often begged him to
stay and let her behold him, but he would not consent. On the contrary
he charged her to make no attempt to see him, for it was his pleasure,
for the best of reasons, to keep concealed. “Why should you wish to
behold me?” he said; “have you any doubt of my love? have you any wish
ungratified? If you saw me, perhaps you would fear me, perhaps adore me,
but all I ask of you is to love me. I would rather you would love me as
an equal than adore me as a god.”

This reasoning somewhat quieted Psyche for a time, and while the novelty
lasted she felt quite happy. But at length the thought of her parents,
left in ignorance of her fate, and of her sisters, precluded from
sharing with her the delights of her situation, preyed on her mind and
made her begin to feel her palace as but a splendid prison. When her
husband came one night, she told him her distress, and at last drew from
him an unwilling consent that her sisters should be brought to see her.

So, calling Zephyr, she acquainted him with her husband’s commands, and
he, promptly obedient, soon brought them across the mountain down to
their sister’s valley. They embraced her and she returned their
caresses. “Come,” said Psyche, “enter with me my house and refresh
yourselves with whatever your sister has to offer.” Then taking their
hands she led them into her golden palace, and committed them to the
care of her numerous train of attendant voices, to refresh them in her
baths and at her table, and to show them all her treasures. The view of
these celestial delights caused envy to enter their bosoms, at seeing
their young sister possessed of such state and splendor, so much
exceeding their own.

They asked her numberless questions, among others what sort of a person
her husband was. Psyche replied that he was a beautiful youth, who
generally spent the daytime in hunting upon the mountains. The sisters,
not satisfied with this reply, soon made her confess that she had never
seen him. Then they proceeded to fill her bosom with dark suspicions.
“Call to mind,” they said, “the Pythian oracle that declared you
destined to marry a direful and tremendous monster. The inhabitants of
this valley say that your husband is a terrible and monstrous serpent,
who nourishes you for a while with dainties that he may by and by devour
you. Take our advice. Provide yourself with a lamp and a sharp knife;
put them in concealment that your husband may not discover them, and
when he is sound asleep, slip out of bed, bring forth your lamp, and see
for yourself whether what they say is true or not. If it is, hesitate
not to cut off the monster’s head, and thereby recover your liberty.”

Psyche resisted these persuasions as well as she could, but they did not
fail to have their effect on her mind, and when her sisters were gone,
their words and her own curiosity were too strong for her to resist. So
she prepared her lamp and a sharp knife, and hid them out of sight of
her husband. When he had fallen into his first sleep, she silently rose
and uncovering her lamp beheld not a hideous monster, but the most
beautiful and charming of the gods, with his golden ringlets wandering
over his snowy neck and crimson cheek, with two dewy wings on his
shoulders, whiter than snow, and with shining feathers like the tender
blossoms of spring. As she leaned the lamp over to have a nearer view of
his face a drop of burning oil fell on the shoulder of the god, startled
with which he opened his eyes and fixed them full upon her; then,
without saying one word, he spread his white wings and flew out of the
window. Psyche, in vain endeavoring to follow him, fell from the window
to the ground. Cupid, beholding her as she lay in the dust, stopped his
flight for an instant and said, “O foolish Psyche, is it thus you repay
my love? After having disobeyed my mother’s commands and made you my
wife, will you think me a monster and cut off my head? But go; return to
your sisters, whose advice you seem to think preferable to mine. I
inflict no other punishment on you than to leave you forever. Love
cannot dwell with suspicion.” So saying, he fled away, leaving poor
Psyche prostrate on the ground, filling the place with mournful
lamentations.

When she had recovered some degree of composure she looked around her,
but the palace and gardens had vanished, and she found herself in the
open field not far from the city where her sisters dwelt. She repaired
thither and told them the whole story of her misfortunes, at which,
pretending to grieve, those spiteful creatures inwardly rejoiced. “For
now,” said they, “he will perhaps choose one of us.” With this idea,
without saying a word of her intentions, each of them rose early the
next morning and ascended the mountains, and having reached the top,
called upon Zephyr to receive her and bear her to his lord; then leaping
up, and not being sustained by Zephyr, fell down the precipice and was
dashed to pieces.

Psyche meanwhile wandered day and night, without food or repose, in
search of her husband. Casting her eyes on a lofty mountain having on
its brow a magnificent temple, she sighed and said to herself, “Perhaps
my love, my lord, inhabits there,” and directed her steps thither.

She had no sooner entered than she saw heaps of corn, some in loose ears
and some in sheaves, with mingled ears of barley. Scattered about, lay
sickles and rakes, and all the instruments of harvest, without order, as
if thrown carelessly out of the weary reapers’ hands in the sultry hours
of the day.

This unseemly confusion the pious Psyche put an end to, by separating
and sorting everything to its proper place and kind, believing that she
ought to neglect none of the gods, but endeavor by her piety to engage
them all in her behalf. The holy Ceres, whose temple it was, finding her
so religiously employed, thus spoke to her: “O Psyche, truly worthy of
our pity, though I cannot shield you from the frowns of Venus, yet I can
teach you how best to allay her displeasure. Go, then, and voluntarily
surrender yourself to your lady and sovereign, and try by modesty and
submission to win her forgiveness, and perhaps her favor will restore
you the husband you have lost.”

Psyche obeyed the commands of Ceres and took her way to the temple of
Venus, endeavoring to fortify her mind and ruminating on what she should
say and how best propitiate the angry goddess, feeling that the issue
was doubtful and perhaps fatal.

Venus received her with angry countenance. “Most undutiful and faithless
of servants,” said she, “do you at last remember that you really have a
mistress? Or have you rather come to see your sick husband, yet laid up
of the wound given him by his loving wife? You are so ill-favored and
disagreeable that the only way you can merit your lover must be by dint
of industry and diligence. I will make trial of your housewifery.” Then
she ordered Psyche to be led to the storehouse of her temple, where was
laid up a great quantity of wheat, barley, millet, vetches, beans, and
lentils prepared for food for her pigeons, and said, “Take and separate
all these grains, putting all of the same kind in a parcel by
themselves, and see that you get it done before evening.” Then Venus
departed and left her to her task.

But Psyche, in a perfect consternation at the enormous work, sat stupid
and silent, without moving a finger to the inextricable heap.

While she sat despairing, Cupid stirred up the little ant, a native of
the fields, to take compassion on her. The leader of the ant hill,
followed by whole hosts of his six-legged subjects, approached the heap,
and with the utmost diligence, taking grain by grain, they separated the
pile, sorting each kind to its parcel; and when it was all done, they
vanished out of sight in a moment.

Venus at the approach of twilight returned from the banquet of the gods,
breathing odors and crowned with roses. Seeing the task done, she
exclaimed, “This is no work of yours, wicked one, but his, whom to your
own and his misfortune you have enticed.” So saying, she threw her a
piece of black bread for her supper and went away.

Next morning Venus ordered Psyche to be called and said to her, “Behold
yonder grove which stretches along the margin of the water. There you
will find sheep feeding without a shepherd, with golden-shining fleeces
on their backs. Go, fetch me a sample of that precious wool gathered
from every one of their fleeces.”

Psyche obediently went to the riverside, prepared to do her best to
execute the command. But the river god inspired the reeds with
harmonious murmurs, which seemed to say, “O maiden, severely tried,
tempt not the dangerous flood, nor venture among the formidable rams on
the other side, for as long as they are under the influence of the
rising sun, they burn with a cruel rage to destroy mortals with their
sharp horns or rude teeth. But when the noontide sun has driven the
cattle to the shade, and the serene spirit of the flood has lulled them
to rest, you may then cross in safety, and you will find the woolly gold
sticking to the bushes and the trunks of the trees.”

Thus the compassionate river god gave Psyche instructions how to
accomplish her task, and by observing his directions she soon returned
to Venus with her arms full of the golden fleece; but she received not
the approbation of her implacable mistress, who said, “I know very well
it is by none of your own doings that you have succeeded in this task,
and I am not satisfied yet that you have any capacity to make yourself
useful. But I have another task for you. Here, take this box and go your
way to the infernal shades, and give this box to Proserpine and say, ‘My
mistress Venus desires you to send her a little of your beauty, for in
tending her sick son she has lost some of her own.’ Be not too long on
your errand, for I must paint myself with it to appear at the circle of
the gods and goddesses this evening.”

Psyche was now satisfied that her destruction was at hand, being obliged
to go with her own feet directly down to Erebus. Wherefore, to make no
delay of what was not to be avoided, she goes to the top of a high tower
to precipitate herself headlong, thus to descend the shortest way to the
shades below. But a voice from the tower said to her, “Why, poor unlucky
girl, dost thou design to put an end to thy days in so dreadful a
manner? And what cowardice makes thee sink under this last danger who
hast been so miraculously supported in all thy former?” Then the voice
told her how by a certain cave she might reach the realms of Pluto, and
how to avoid all the dangers of the road, to pass by Cerberus, the
three-headed dog, and prevail on Charon, the ferryman, to take her
across the black river and bring her back again. But the voice added,
“When Proserpine has given you the box filled with her beauty, of all
things this is chiefly to be observed by you, that you never once open
or look into the box nor allow your curiosity to pry into the treasure
of the beauty of the goddesses.”

Psyche, encouraged by this advice, obeyed it in all things, and taking
heed to her ways travelled safely to the kingdom of Pluto. She was
admitted to the palace of Proserpine, and without accepting the delicate
seat or delicious banquet that was offered her, but contented with
coarse bread for her food, she delivered her message from Venus.
Presently the box was returned to her, shut and filled with the precious
commodity. Then she returned the way she came, and glad was she to come
out once more into the light of day.

But having got so far successfully through her dangerous task, a longing
desire seized her to examine the contents of the box. “What,” said she,
“shall I, the carrier of this divine beauty, not take the least bit to
put on my cheeks to appear to more advantage in the eyes of my beloved
husband!” So she carefully opened the box, but found nothing there of
any beauty at all, but an infernal and truly Stygian sleep, which being
thus set free from its prison, took possession of her, and she fell down
in the midst of the road, a sleepy corpse without sense or motion.

But Cupid, being now recovered from his wound, and not able longer to
bear the absence of his beloved Psyche, slipping through the smallest
crack of the window of his chamber which happened to be left open, flew
to the spot where Psyche lay, and gathering up the sleep from her body
closed it again in the box, and waked Psyche with a light touch of one
of his arrows. “Again,” said he, “hast thou almost perished by the same
curiosity. But now perform exactly the task imposed on you by my mother,
and I will take care of the rest.”

Then Cupid, as swift as lightning penetrating the heights of heaven,
presented himself before Jupiter with his supplication. Jupiter lent a
favoring ear, and pleaded the cause of the lovers so earnestly with
Venus that he won her consent. On this he sent Mercury to bring Psyche
up to the heavenly assembly, and when she arrived, handing her a cup of
ambrosia, he said, “Drink this, Psyche, and be immortal; nor shall Cupid
ever break away from the knot in which he is tied, but these nuptials
shall be perpetual.”

Thus Psyche became at last united to Cupid, and in due time they had a
daughter born to them whose name was Pleasure.



The fable of Cupid and Psyche is usually considered allegorical. The
Greek name for a _butterfly_ is Psyche, and the same word means the
_soul_. There is no illustration of the immortality of the soul so
striking and beautiful as the butterfly, bursting on brilliant wings
from the tomb in which it has lain, after a dull, grovelling,
caterpillar existence, to flutter in the blaze of day and feed on the
most fragrant and delicate productions of the spring. Psyche, then, is
the human soul, which is purified by sufferings and misfortunes, and is
thus prepared for the enjoyment of true and pure happiness.

In works of art Psyche is represented as a maiden with the wings of a
butterfly, along with Cupid, in the different situations described in
the allegory.

Milton alludes to the story of Cupid and Psyche in the conclusion of his
“Comus”:

    “Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced,
    Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced,
    After her wandering labors long,
    Till free consent the gods among
    Make her his eternal bride;
    And from her fair unspotted side
    Two blissful twins are to be born,
    Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.”

The allegory of the story of Cupid and Psyche is well presented in the
beautiful lines of T. K. Harvey:

    “They wove bright fables in the days of old,
      When reason borrowed fancy’s painted wings;
    When truth’s clear river flowed o’er sands of gold,
      And told in song its high and mystic things!
    And such the sweet and solemn tale of her
      The pilgrim heart, to whom a dream was given.
    That led her through the world,—Love’s worshipper,—
      To seek on earth for him whose home was heaven!

    “In the full city,—by the haunted fount,—
      Through the dim grotto’s tracery of spars,—
    ’Mid the pine temples, on the moonlit mount,
      Where silence sits to listen to the stars;
    In the deep glade where dwells the brooding dove,
      The painted valley, and the scented air,
    She heard far echoes of the voice of Love,
      And found his footsteps’ traces everywhere.

    “But nevermore they met! since doubts and fears,
      Those phantom shapes that haunt and blight the earth,
    Had come ’twixt her, a child of sin and tears,
      And that bright spirit of immortal birth;
    Until her pining soul and weeping eyes
    Had learned to seek him only in the skies;
    Till wings unto the weary heart were given,
    And she became Love’s angel bride in heaven!”

The story of Cupid and Psyche first appears in the works of Apuleius, a
writer of the second century of our era. It is therefore of much more
recent date than most of the legends of the Age of Fable. It is this
that Keats alludes to in his “Ode to Psyche”:

    “O latest born and loveliest vision far
      Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy!
    Fairer than Phœbe’s sapphire-regioned star
      Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
    Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
        Nor altar heaped with flowers;
    Nor virgin choir to make delicious moan
        Upon the midnight hours;
    No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet,
        From chain-swung censor teeming;
    No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
        Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.”

In Moore’s “Summer Fête” a fancy ball is described, in which one of the
characters personated is Psyche—

    “. . . not in dark disguise to-night
    Hath our young heroine veiled her light;—
    For see, she walks the earth, Love’s own.
      His wedded bride, by holiest vow
    Pledged in Olympus, and made known
      To mortals by the type which now
      Hangs glittering on her snowy brow.
    That butterfly, mysterious trinket,
    Which means the soul, (though few would think it,)
    And sparkling thus on brow so white
    Tells us we’ve Psyche here to-night.”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XII

                          CADMUS—THE MYRMIDONS

JUPITER, under the disguise of a bull, had carried away Europa, the
daughter of Agenor, king of Phœnicia. Agenor commanded his son Cadmus to
go in search of his sister, and not to return without her. Cadmus went
and sought long and far for his sister, but could not find her, and not
daring to return unsuccessful, consulted the oracle of Apollo to know
what country he should settle in. The oracle informed him that he should
find a cow in the field, and should follow her wherever she might
wander, and where she stopped, should build a city and call it Thebes.
Cadmus had hardly left the Castalian cave, from which the oracle was
delivered, when he saw a young cow slowly walking before him. He
followed her close, offering at the same time his prayers to Phœbus. The
cow went on till she passed the shallow channel of Cephisus and came out
into the plain of Panope. There she stood still, and raising her broad
forehead to the sky, filled the air with her lowings. Cadmus gave
thanks, and stooping down kissed the foreign soil, then lifting his
eyes, greeted the surrounding mountains. Wishing to offer a sacrifice to
Jupiter, he sent his servants to seek pure water for a libation. Near by
there stood an ancient grove which had never been profaned by the axe,
in the midst of which was a cave, thick covered with the growth of
bushes, its roof forming a low arch, from beneath which burst forth a
fountain of purest water. In the cave lurked a horrid serpent with a
crested head and scales glittering like gold. His eyes shone like fire,
his body was swollen with venom, he vibrated a triple tongue, and showed
a triple row of teeth. No sooner had the Tyrians dipped their pitchers
in the fountain, and the in-gushing waters made a sound, than the
glittering serpent raised his head out of the cave and uttered a fearful
hiss. The vessels fell from their hands, the blood left their cheeks,
they trembled in every limb. The serpent, twisting his scaly body in a
huge coil, raised his head so as to overtop the tallest trees, and while
the Tyrians from terror could neither fight nor fly, slew some with his
fangs, others in his folds, and others with his poisonous breath.

Cadmus, having waited for the return of his men till midday, went in
search of them. His covering was a lion’s hide, and besides his javelin
he carried in his hand a lance, and in his breast a bold heart, a surer
reliance than either. When he entered the wood, and saw the lifeless
bodies of his men, and the monster with his bloody jaws, he exclaimed,
“O faithful friends, I will avenge you, or share your death.” So saying
he lifted a huge stone and threw it with all his force at the serpent.
Such a block would have shaken the wall of a fortress, but it made no
impression on the monster. Cadmus next threw his javelin, which met with
better success, for it penetrated the serpent’s scales, and pierced
through to his entrails. Fierce with pain, the monster turned back his
head to view the wound, and attempted to draw out the weapon with his
mouth, but broke it off, leaving the iron point rankling in his flesh.
His neck swelled with rage, bloody foam covered his jaws, and the breath
of his nostrils poisoned the air around. Now he twisted himself into a
circle, then stretched himself out on the ground like the trunk of a
fallen tree. As he moved onward, Cadmus retreated before him, holding
his spear opposite to the monster’s opened jaws. The serpent snapped at
the weapon and attempted to bite its iron point. At last Cadmus,
watching his chance, thrust the spear at a moment when the animal’s head
thrown back came against the trunk of a tree, and so succeeded in
pinning him to its side. His weight bent the tree as he struggled in the
agonies of death.

While Cadmus stood over his conquered foe, contemplating its vast size,
a voice was heard (from whence he knew not, but he heard it distinctly)
commanding him to take the dragon’s teeth and sow them in the earth. He
obeyed. He made a furrow in the ground, and planted the teeth, destined
to produce a crop of men. Scarce had he done so when the clods began to
move, and the points of spears to appear above the surface. Next helmets
with their nodding plumes came up, and next the shoulders and breasts
and limbs of men with weapons, and in time a harvest of armed warriors.
Cadmus, alarmed, prepared to encounter a new enemy, but one of them said
to him, “Meddle not with our civil war.” With that he who had spoken
smote one of his earth-born brothers with a sword, and he himself fell
pierced with an arrow from another. The latter fell victim to a fourth,
and in like manner the whole crowd dealt with each other till all fell,
slain with mutual wounds, except five survivors. One of these cast away
his weapons and said, “Brothers, let us live in peace!” These five
joined with Cadmus in building his city, to which they gave the name of
Thebes.

Cadmus obtained in marriage Harmonia, the daughter of Venus. The gods
left Olympus to honor the occasion with their presence, and Vulcan
presented the bride with a necklace of surpassing brilliancy, his own
workmanship. But a fatality hung over the family of Cadmus in
consequence of his killing the serpent sacred to Mars. Semele and Ino,
his daughters, and Actæon and Pentheus, his grandchildren, all perished
unhappily, and Cadmus and Harmonia quitted Thebes, now grown odious to
them, and emigrated to the country of the Enchelians, who received them
with honor and made Cadmus their king. But the misfortunes of their
children still weighed upon their minds; and one day Cadmus exclaimed,
“If a serpent’s life is so dear to the gods, I would I were myself a
serpent.” No sooner had he uttered the words than he began to change his
form. Harmonia beheld it and prayed to the gods to let her share his
fate. Both became serpents. They live in the woods, but mindful of their
origin, they neither avoid the presence of man nor do they ever injure
any one.



There is a tradition that Cadmus introduced into Greece the letters of
the alphabet which were invented by the Phœnicians. This is alluded to
by Byron, where, addressing the modern Greeks, he says:

    “You have the letters Cadmus gave,
    Think you he meant them for a slave?”

Milton, describing the serpent which tempted Eve, is reminded of the
serpents of the classical stories and says:

    . . . “—pleasing was his shape,
    And lovely; never since of serpent kind
    Lovelier; not those that in Illyria changed
    Hermione and Cadmus, nor the god
    In Epidaurus.”

For an explanation of the last allusion, see Oracle of Æsculapius, p.
298.

                             THE MYRMIDONS

The Myrmidons were the soldiers of Achilles, in the Trojan war. From
them all zealous and unscrupulous followers of a political chief are
called by that name, down to this day. But the origin of the Myrmidons
would not give one the idea of a fierce and bloody race, but rather of a
laborious and peaceful one.

Cephalus, king of Athens, arrived in the island of Ægina to seek
assistance of his old friend and ally Æacus, the king, in his war with
Minos, king of Crete. Cephalus was most kindly received, and the desired
assistance readily promised. “I have people enough,” said Æacus, “to
protect myself and spare you such a force as you need.” “I rejoice to
see it,” replied Cephalus, “and my wonder has been raised, I confess, to
find such a host of youths as I see around me, all apparently of about
the same age. Yet there are many individuals whom I previously knew,
that I look for now in vain. What has become of them?” Æacus groaned,
and replied with a voice of sadness, “I have been intending to tell you,
and will now do so, without more delay, that you may see how from the
saddest beginning a happy result sometimes flows. Those whom you
formerly knew are now dust and ashes! A plague sent by angry Juno
devastated the land. She hated it because it bore the name of one of her
husband’s female favorites. While the disease appeared to spring from
natural causes we resisted it, as we best might, by natural remedies;
but it soon appeared that the pestilence was too powerful for our
efforts, and we yielded. At the beginning the sky seemed to settle down
upon the earth, and thick clouds shut in the heated air. For four months
together a deadly south wind prevailed. The disorder affected the wells
and springs; thousands of snakes crept over the land and shed their
poison in the fountains. The force of the disease was first spent on the
lower animals—dogs, cattle, sheep, and birds. The luckless ploughman
wondered to see his oxen fall in the midst of their work, and lie
helpless in the unfinished furrow. The wool fell from the bleating
sheep, and their bodies pined away. The horse, once foremost in the
race, contested the palm no more, but groaned at his stall and died an
inglorious death. The wild boar forgot his rage, the stag his swiftness,
the bears no longer attacked the herds. Everything languished; dead
bodies lay in the roads, the fields, and the woods; the air was poisoned
by them. I tell you what is hardly credible, but neither dogs nor birds
would touch them, nor starving wolves. Their decay spread the infection.
Next the disease attacked the country people, and then the dwellers in
the city. At first the cheek was flushed, and the breath drawn with
difficulty. The tongue grew rough and swelled, and the dry mouth stood
open with its veins enlarged and gasped for the air. Men could not bear
the heat of their clothes or their beds, but preferred to lie on the
bare ground; and the ground did not cool them, but, on the contrary,
they heated the spot where they lay. Nor could the physicians help, for
the disease attacked them also, and the contact of the sick gave them
infection, so that the most faithful were the first victims. At last all
hope of relief vanished, and men learned to look upon death as the only
deliverer from disease. Then they gave way to every inclination, and
cared not to ask what was expedient, for nothing was expedient. All
restraint laid aside, they crowded around the wells and fountains and
drank till they died, without quenching thirst. Many had not strength to
get away from the water, but died in the midst of the stream, and others
would drink of it notwithstanding. Such was their weariness of their
sick beds that some would creep forth, and if not strong enough to
stand, would die on the ground. They seemed to hate their friends, and
got away from their homes, as if, not knowing the cause of their
sickness, they charged it on the place of their abode. Some were seen
tottering along the road, as long as they could stand, while others sank
on the earth, and turned their dying eyes around to take a last look,
then closed them in death.

“What heart had I left me, during all this, or what ought I to have had,
except to hate life and wish to be with my dead subjects? On all sides
lay my people strewn like over-ripened apples beneath the tree, or
acorns under the storm-shaken oak. You see yonder a temple on the
height. It is sacred to Jupiter. O how many offered prayers there,
husbands for wives, fathers for sons, and died in the very act of
supplication! How often, while the priest made ready for sacrifice, the
victim fell, struck down by disease without waiting for the blow! At
length all reverence for sacred things was lost. Bodies were thrown out
unburied, wood was wanting for funeral piles, men fought with one
another for the possession of them. Finally there were none left to
mourn; sons and husbands, old men and youths, perished alike unlamented.

“Standing before the altar I raised my eyes to heaven. ‘O Jupiter,’ I
said, ‘if thou art indeed my father, and art not ashamed of thy
offspring, give me back my people, or take me also away!’ At these words
a clap of thunder was heard. ‘I accept the omen,’ I cried; ‘O may it be
a sign of a favorable disposition towards me!’ By chance there grew by
the place where I stood an oak with wide-spreading branches, sacred to
Jupiter. I observed a troop of ants busy with their labor, carrying
minute grains in their mouths and following one another in a line up the
trunk of the tree. Observing their numbers with admiration, I said,
‘Give me, O father, citizens as numerous as these, and replenish my
empty city.’ The tree shook and gave a rustling sound with its branches,
though no wind agitated them. I trembled in every limb, yet I kissed the
earth and the tree. I would not confess to myself that I hoped, yet I
did hope. Night came on and sleep took possession of my frame oppressed
with cares. The tree stood before me in my dreams, with its numerous
branches all covered with living, moving creatures. It seemed to shake
its limbs and throw down over the ground a multitude of those
industrious grain-gathering animals, which appeared to gain in size, and
grow larger and larger, and by and by to stand erect, lay aside their
superfluous legs and their black color, and finally to assume the human
form. Then I awoke, and my first impulse was to chide the gods who had
robbed me of a sweet vision and given me no reality in its place. Being
still in the temple, my attention was caught by the sound of many voices
without; a sound of late unusual to my ears. While I began to think I
was yet dreaming, Telamon, my son, throwing open the temple gates,
exclaimed: ‘Father, approach, and behold things surpassing even your
hopes!’ I went forth; I saw a multitude of men, such as I had seen in my
dream, and they were passing in procession in the same manner. While I
gazed with wonder and delight they approached and kneeling hailed me as
their king. I paid my vows to Jove, and proceeded to allot the vacant
city to the new-born race, and to parcel out the fields among them. I
called them Myrmidons, from the ant (myrmex) from which they sprang. You
have seen these persons; their dispositions resemble those which they
had in their former shape. They are a diligent and industrious race,
eager to gain, and tenacious of their gains. Among them you may recruit
your forces. They will follow you to the war, young in years and bold in
heart.”

This description of the plague is copied by Ovid from the account which
Thucydides, the Greek historian, gives of the plague of Athens. The
historian drew from life, and all the poets and writers of fiction since
his day, when they have had occasion to describe a similar scene, have
borrowed their details from him.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XIII

      NISUS AND SCYLLA—ECHO AND NARCISSUS—CLYTIE—HERO AND LEANDER

                            NISUS AND SCYLLA

MINOS, king of Crete, made war upon Megara. Nisus was king of Megara,
and Scylla was his daughter. The siege had now lasted six months and the
city still held out, for it was decreed by fate that it should not be
taken so long as a certain purple lock, which glittered among the hair
of King Nisus, remained on his head. There was a tower on the city
walls, which overlooked the plain where Minos and his army were
encamped. To this tower Scylla used to repair, and look abroad over the
tents of the hostile army. The siege had lasted so long that she had
learned to distinguish the persons of the leaders. Minos, in particular,
excited her admiration. Arrayed in his helmet, and bearing his shield,
she admired his graceful deportment; if he threw his javelin skill
seemed combined with force in the discharge; if he drew his bow Apollo
himself could not have done it more gracefully. But when he laid aside
his helmet, and in his purple robes bestrode his white horse with its
gay caparisons, and reined in its foaming mouth, the daughter of Nisus
was hardly mistress of herself; she was almost frantic with admiration.
She envied the weapon that he grasped, the reins that he held. She felt
as if she could, if it were possible, go to him through the hostile
ranks; she felt an impulse to cast herself down from the tower into the
midst of his camp, or to open the gates to him, or to do anything else,
so only it might gratify Minos. As she sat in the tower, she talked thus
with herself: “I know not whether to rejoice or grieve at this sad war.
I grieve that Minos is our enemy; but I rejoice at any cause that brings
him to my sight. Perhaps he would be willing to grant us peace, and
receive me as a hostage. I would fly down, if I could, and alight in his
camp, and tell him that we yield ourselves to his mercy. But then, to
betray my father! No! rather would I never see Minos again. And yet no
doubt it is sometimes the best thing for a city to be conquered, when
the conqueror is clement and generous. Minos certainly has right on his
side. I think we shall be conquered; and if that must be the end of it,
why should not love unbar the gates to him, instead of leaving it to be
done by war? Better spare delay and slaughter if we can. And O if any
one should wound or kill Minos! No one surely would have the heart to do
it; yet ignorantly, not knowing him, one might. I will, I will surrender
myself to him, with my country as a dowry, and so put an end to the war.
But how? The gates are guarded, and my father keeps the keys; he only
stands in my way. O that it might please the gods to take him away! But
why ask the gods to do it? Another woman, loving as I do, would remove
with her own hands whatever stood in the way of her love. And can any
other woman dare more than I? I would encounter fire and sword to gain
my object; but here there is no need of fire and sword. I only need my
father’s purple lock. More precious than gold to me, that will give me
all I wish.”

While she thus reasoned night came on, and soon the whole palace was
buried in sleep. She entered her father’s bedchamber and cut off the
fatal lock; then passed out of the city and entered the enemy’s camp.
She demanded to be led to the king, and thus addressed him: “I am
Scylla, the daughter of Nisus. I surrender to you my country and my
father’s house. I ask no reward but yourself; for love of you I have
done it. See here the purple lock! With this I give you my father and
his kingdom.” She held out her hand with the fatal spoil. Minos shrunk
back and refused to touch it. “The gods destroy thee, infamous woman,”
he exclaimed; “disgrace of our time! May neither earth nor sea yield
thee a resting-place! Surely, my Crete, where Jove himself was cradled,
shall not be polluted with such a monster!” Thus he said, and gave
orders that equitable terms should be allowed to the conquered city, and
that the fleet should immediately sail from the island.

Scylla was frantic. “Ungrateful man,” she exclaimed, “is it thus you
leave me?—me who have given you victory,—who have sacrificed for you
parent and country! I am guilty, I confess, and deserve to die, but not
by your hand.” As the ships left the shore, she leaped into the water,
and seizing the rudder of the one which carried Minos, she was borne
along an unwelcome companion of their course. A sea-eagle soaring
aloft,—it was her father who had been changed into that form,—seeing
her, pounced down upon her, and struck her with his beak and claws. In
terror she let go the ship and would have fallen into the water, but
some pitying deity changed her into a bird. The sea-eagle still
cherishes the old animosity; and whenever he espies her in his lofty
flight you may see him dart down upon her, with beak and claws, to take
vengeance for the ancient crime.

                           ECHO AND NARCISSUS

Echo was a beautiful nymph, fond of the woods and hills, where she
devoted herself to woodland sports. She was a favorite of Diana, and
attended her in the chase. But Echo had one failing; she was fond of
talking, and whether in chat or argument, would have the last word. One
day Juno was seeking her husband, who, she had reason to fear, was
amusing himself among the nymphs. Echo by her talk contrived to detain
the goddess till the nymphs made their escape. When Juno discovered it,
she passed sentence upon Echo in these words: “You shall forfeit the use
of that tongue with which you have cheated me, except for that one
purpose you are so fond of—_reply_. You shall still have the last word,
but no power to speak first.”

This nymph saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued the chase
upon the mountains. She loved him and followed his footsteps. O how she
longed to address him in the softest accents, and win him to converse!
but it was not in her power. She waited with impatience for him to speak
first, and had her answer ready. One day the youth, being separated from
his companions, shouted aloud, “Who’s here?” Echo replied, “Here.”
Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one called out, “Come.” Echo
answered, “Come.” As no one came, Narcissus called again, “Why do you
shun me?” Echo asked the same question. “Let us join one another,” said
the youth. The maid answered with all her heart in the same words, and
hastened to the spot, ready to throw her arms about his neck. He started
back, exclaiming, “Hands off! I would rather die than you should have
me!” “Have me,” said she; but it was all in vain. He left her, and she
went to hide her blushes in the recesses of the woods. From that time
forth she lived in caves and among mountain cliffs. Her form faded with
grief, till at last all her flesh shrank away. Her bones were changed
into rocks and there was nothing left of her but her voice. With that
she is still ready to reply to any one who calls her, and keeps up her
old habit of having the last word.

Narcissus’s cruelty in this case was not the only instance. He shunned
all the rest of the nymphs, as he had done poor Echo. One day a maiden
who had in vain endeavored to attract him uttered a prayer that he might
some time or other feel what it was to love and meet no return of
affection. The avenging goddess heard and granted the prayer.

There was a clear fountain, with water like silver, to which the
shepherds never drove their flocks, nor the mountain goats resorted, nor
any of the beasts of the forest; neither was it defaced with fallen
leaves or branches; but the grass grew fresh around it, and the rocks
sheltered it from the sun. Hither came one day the youth, fatigued with
hunting, heated and thirsty. He stooped down to drink, and saw his own
image in the water; he thought it was some beautiful water-spirit living
in the fountain. He stood gazing with admiration at those bright eyes,
those locks curled like the locks of Bacchus or Apollo, the rounded
cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the glow of health and
exercise over all. He fell in love with himself. He brought his lips
near to take a kiss; he plunged his arms in to embrace the beloved
object. It fled at the touch, but returned again after a moment and
renewed the fascination. He could not tear himself away; he lost all
thought of food or rest, while he hovered over the brink of the fountain
gazing upon his own image. He talked with the supposed spirit: “Why,
beautiful being, do you shun me? Surely my face is not one to repel you.
The nymphs love me, and you yourself look not indifferent upon me. When
I stretch forth my arms you do the same; and you smile upon me and
answer my beckonings with the like.” His tears fell into the water and
disturbed the image. As he saw it depart, he exclaimed, “Stay, I entreat
you! Let me at least gaze upon you, if I may not touch you.” With this,
and much more of the same kind, he cherished the flame that consumed
him, so that by degrees he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty
which formerly had so charmed the nymph Echo. She kept near him,
however, and when he exclaimed, “Alas! alas!” she answered him with the
same words. He pined away and died; and when his shade passed the
Stygian river, it leaned over the boat to catch a look of itself in the
waters. The nymphs mourned for him, especially the water-nymphs; and
when they smote their breasts Echo smote hers also. They prepared a
funeral pile and would have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be
found; but in its place a flower, purple within, and surrounded with
white leaves, which bears the name and preserves the memory of
Narcissus.

Milton alludes to the story of Echo and Narcissus in the Lady’s song in
“Comus.” She is seeking her brothers in the forest, and sings to attract
their attention:

    “Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv’st unseen
            Within thy aëry shell
        By slow Meander’s margent green,
      And in the violet-embroidered vale,
        Where the love-lorn nightingale
      Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
      Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
        That likest thy Narcissus are?
            O, if thou have
        Hid them in some flowery cave,
            Tell me but where,
      Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere,
      So may’st thou be translated to the skies,
    And give resounding grace to all heaven’s harmonies.”

Milton has imitated the story of Narcissus in the account which he makes
Eve give of the first sight of herself reflected in the fountain:

    “That day I oft remember when from sleep
    I first awaked, and found myself reposed
    Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where
    And what I was, whence thither brought, and how.
    Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound
    Of waters issued from a cave, and spread
    Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved
    Pure as the expanse of heaven; I thither went
    With unexperienced thought, and laid me down
    On the green bank, to look into the clear
    Smooth lake that to me seemed another sky.
    As I bent down to look, just opposite
    A shape within the watery gleam appeared,
    Bending to look on me. I started back;
    It started back; but pleased I soon returned,
    Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks
    Of sympathy and love. There had I fixed
    Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,
    Had not a voice thus warned me: ‘What thou seest,
    What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself;’” etc.
                                  —_Paradise Lost_, Book IV.

No one of the fables of antiquity has been oftener alluded to by the
poets than that of Narcissus. Here are two epigrams which treat it in
different ways. The first is by Goldsmith:

             “ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING
    “Sure ’twas by Providence designed,
      Rather in pity than in hate,
    That he should be like Cupid blind,
      To save him from Narcissus’ fate.”

The other is by Cowper:

             “ON AN UGLY FELLOW
    “Beware, my friend, of crystal brook
    Or fountain, lest that hideous hook,
      Thy nose, thou chance to see;
    Narcissus’ fate would then be thine,
    And self-detested thou would’st pine,
      As self-enamoured he.”

                                 CLYTIE

Clytie was a water-nymph and in love with Apollo, who made her no
return. So she pined away, sitting all day long upon the cold ground,
with her unbound tresses streaming over her shoulders. Nine days she sat
and tasted neither food nor drink, her own tears and the chilly dew her
only food. She gazed on the sun when he rose, and as he passed through
his daily course to his setting; she saw no other object, her face
turned constantly on him. At last, they say, her limbs rooted in the
ground, her face became a flower[13] which turns on its stem so as
always to face the sun throughout its daily course; for it retains to
that extent the feeling of the nymph from whom it sprang.



Hood, in his “Flowers,” thus alludes to Clytie:

    “I will not have the mad Clytie,
      Whose head is turned by the sun;
    The tulip is a courtly quean,
      Whom therefore I will shun;
    The cowslip is a country wench,
      The violet is a nun;—
    But I will woo the dainty rose,
      The queen of every one.”

The sunflower is a favorite emblem of constancy. Thus Moore uses it:

    “The heart that has truly loved never forgets,
      But as truly loves on to the close;
    As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
      The same look that she turned when he rose.”

                            HERO AND LEANDER

Leander was a youth of Abydos, a town of the Asian side of the strait
which separates Asia and Europe. On the opposite shore, in the town of
Sestos, lived the maiden Hero, a priestess of Venus. Leander loved her,
and used to swim the strait nightly to enjoy the company of his
mistress, guided by a torch which she reared upon the tower for the
purpose. But one night a tempest arose and the sea was rough; his
strength failed, and he was drowned. The waves bore his body to the
European shore, where Hero became aware of his death, and in her despair
cast herself down from the tower into the sea and perished.



The following sonnet is by Keats:

             “ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER
    “Come hither all sweet maidens soberly,
      Down looking aye, and with a chasten’d light
      Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
    And meekly let your fair hands joined be.
    As if so gentle that ye could not see,
      Untouch’d, a victim of your beauty bright,
      Sinking away to his young spirit’s night,
    Sinking bewilder’d ’mid the dreary sea.
    ’Tis young Leander toiling to his death.
      Nigh swooning he doth purse his weary lips
    For Hero’s cheek, and smiles against her smile.
      O horrid dream! see how his body dips
    Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;
    He’s gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!”

The story of Leander’s swimming the Hellespont was looked upon as
fabulous, and the feat considered impossible, till Lord Byron proved its
possibility by performing it himself. In the “Bride of Abydos” he says,

    “These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne.”

The distance in the narrowest part is almost a mile, and there is a
constant current setting out from the Sea of Marmora into the
Archipelago. Since Byron’s time the feat has been achieved by others;
but it yet remains a test of strength and skill in the art of swimming
sufficient to give a wide and lasting celebrity to any one of our
readers who may dare to make the attempt and succeed in accomplishing
it.



In the beginning of the second canto of the same poem, Byron thus
alludes to this story:

    “The winds are high on Helle’s wave,
      As on that night of stormiest water,
    When Love, who sent, forgot to save
    The young, the beautiful, the brave,
      The lonely hope of Sestos’ daughter.
    O, when alone along the sky
    The turret-torch was blazing high,
    Though rising gale and breaking foam,
    And shrieking sea-birds warned him home;
    And clouds aloft and tides below,
    With signs and sounds forbade to go,
    He could not see, he would not hear
    Or sound or sight foreboding fear.
    His eye but saw that light of love,
    The only star it hailed above;
    His ear but rang with Hero’s song,
    ‘Ye waves, divide not lovers long.’
    That tale is old, but love anew
    May nerve young hearts to prove as true.”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XIV

                             MINERVA—NIOBE

                                MINERVA

MINERVA, the goddess of wisdom, was the daughter of Jupiter. She was
said to have leaped forth from his brain, mature, and in complete armor.
She presided over the useful and ornamental arts, both those of
men—such as agriculture and navigation—and those of women,—spinning,
weaving, and needlework. She was also a warlike divinity; but it was
defensive war only that she patronized, and she had no sympathy with
Mars’s savage love of violence and bloodshed. Athens was her chosen
seat, her own city, awarded to her as the prize of a contest with
Neptune, who also aspired to it. The tale ran that in the reign of
Cecrops, the first king of Athens, the two deities contended for the
possession of the city. The gods decreed that it should be awarded to
that one who produced the gift most useful to mortals. Neptune gave the
horse; Minerva produced the olive. The gods gave judgment that the olive
was the more useful of the two, and awarded the city to the goddess; and
it was named after her, Athens, her name in Greek being Athene.

There was another contest, in which a mortal dared to come in
competition with Minerva. That mortal was Arachne, a maiden who had
attained such skill in the arts of weaving and embroidery that the
nymphs themselves would leave their groves and fountains to come and
gaze upon her work. It was not only beautiful when it was done, but
beautiful also in the doing. To watch her, as she took the wool in its
rude state and formed it into rolls, or separated it with her fingers
and carded it till it looked as light and soft as a cloud, or twirled
the spindle with skilful touch, or wove the web, or, after it was woven,
adorned it with her needle, one would have said that Minerva herself had
taught her. But this she denied, and could not bear to be thought a
pupil even of a goddess. “Let Minerva try her skill with mine,” said
she; “if beaten I will pay the penalty.” Minerva heard this and was
displeased. She assumed the form of an old woman and went and gave
Arachne some friendly advice. “I have had much experience,” said she,
“and I hope you will not despise my counsel. Challenge your
fellow-mortals as you will, but do not compete with a goddess. On the
contrary, I advise you to ask her forgiveness for what you have said,
and as she is merciful perhaps she will pardon you.” Arachne stopped her
spinning and looked at the old dame with anger in her countenance. “Keep
your counsel,” said she, “for your daughters or handmaids; for my part I
know what I say, and I stand to it. I am not afraid of the goddess; let
her try her skill, if she dare venture.” “She comes,” said Minerva; and
dropping her disguise stood confessed. The nymphs bent low in homage,
and all the bystanders paid reverence. Arachne alone was unterrified.
She blushed, indeed; a sudden color dyed her cheek, and then she grew
pale. But she stood to her resolve, and with a foolish conceit of her
own skill rushed on her fate. Minerva forbore no longer nor interposed
any further advice. They proceed to the contest. Each takes her station
and attaches the web to the beam. Then the slender shuttle is passed in
and out among the threads. The reed with its fine teeth strikes up the
woof into its place and compacts the web. Both work with speed; their
skilful hands move rapidly, and the excitement of the contest makes the
labor light. Wool of Tyrian dye is contrasted with that of other colors,
shaded off into one another so adroitly that the joining deceives the
eye. Like the bow, whose long arch tinges the heavens, formed by
sunbeams reflected from the shower,[14] in which, where the colors meet
they seem as one, but at a little distance from the point of contact are
wholly different.

Minerva wrought on her web the scene of her contest with Neptune. Twelve
of the heavenly powers are represented, Jupiter, with august gravity,
sitting in the midst. Neptune, the ruler of the sea, holds his trident,
and appears to have just smitten the earth, from which a horse has
leaped forth. Minerva depicted herself with helmed head, her Ægis
covering her breast. Such was the central circle; and in the four
corners were represented incidents illustrating the displeasure of the
gods at such presumptuous mortals as had dared to contend with them.
These were meant as warnings to her rival to give up the contest before
it was too late.

Arachne filled her web with subjects designedly chosen to exhibit the
failings and errors of the gods. One scene represented Leda caressing
the swan, under which form Jupiter had disguised himself; and another,
Danaë, in the brazen tower in which her father had imprisoned her, but
where the god effected his entrance in the form of a golden shower.
Still another depicted Europa deceived by Jupiter under the disguise of
a bull. Encouraged by the tameness of the animal Europa ventured to
mount his back, whereupon Jupiter advanced into the sea and swam with
her to Crete. You would have thought it was a real bull, so naturally
was it wrought, and so natural the water in which it swam. She seemed to
look with longing eyes back upon the shore she was leaving, and to call
to her companions for help. She appeared to shudder with terror at the
sight of the heaving waves, and to draw back her feet from the water.

Arachne filled her canvas with similar subjects, wonderfully well done,
but strongly marking her presumption and impiety. Minerva could not
forbear to admire, yet felt indignant at the insult. She struck the web
with her shuttle and rent it in pieces; she then touched the forehead of
Arachne and made her feel her guilt and shame. She could not endure it
and went and hanged herself. Minerva pitied her as she saw her suspended
by a rope. “Live,” she said, “guilty woman! and that you may preserve
the memory of this lesson, continue to hang, both you and your
descendants, to all future times.” She sprinkled her with the juices of
aconite, and immediately her hair came off, and her nose and ears
likewise. Her form shrank up, and her head grew smaller yet; her fingers
cleaved to her side and served for legs. All the rest of her is body,
out of which she spins her thread, often hanging suspended by it, in the
same attitude as when Minerva touched her and transformed her into a
spider.



Spenser tells the story of Arachne in his “Muiopotmos,” adhering very
closely to his master Ovid, but improving upon him in the conclusion of
the story. The two stanzas which follow tell what was done after the
goddess had depicted her creation of the olive tree:

    “Amongst these leaves she made a Butterfly,
    With excellent device and wondrous slight,
    Fluttering among the olives wantonly,
    That seemed to live, so like it was in sight;
    The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,
    The silken down with which his back is dight,
    His broad outstretched horns, his hairy thighs,
    His glorious colors, and his glistening eyes.”[15]

    “Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid
    And mastered with workmanship so rare,
    She stood astonied long, ne aught gainsaid;
    And with fast-fixed eyes on her did stare,
    And by her silence, sign of one dismayed,
    The victory did yield her as her share:
    Yet did she inly fret and felly burn,
    And all her blood to poisonous rancor turn.”

And so the metamorphosis is caused by Arachne’s own mortification and
vexation, and not by any direct act of the goddess.



The following specimen of old-fashioned gallantry is by Garrick:

             “UPON A LADY’S EMBROIDERY
    “Arachne once, as poets tell,
      A goddess at her art defied,
    And soon the daring mortal fell
      The hapless victim of her pride.

    “O, then beware Arachne’s fate;
      Be prudent, Chloe, and submit,
    For you’ll most surely meet her hate,
      Who rival both her art and wit.”

Tennyson, in his “Palace of Art,” describing the works of art with which
the palace was adorned, thus alludes to Europa:

    “. . . sweet Europa’s mantle blew unclasped
      From off her shoulder, backward borne,
    From one hand drooped a crocus, one hand grasped
      The mild bull’s golden horn.”

In his “Princess” there is this allusion to Danaë:

    “Now lies the earth all Danaë to the stars,
    And all thy heart lies open unto me.”

                                 NIOBE

The fate of Arachne was noised abroad through all the country, and
served as a warning to all presumptuous mortals not to compare
themselves with the divinities. But one, and she a matron too, failed to
learn the lesson of humility. It was Niobe, the queen of Thebes. She had
indeed much to be proud of; but it was not her husband’s fame, nor her
own beauty, nor their great descent, nor the power of their kingdom that
elated her. It was her children; and truly the happiest of mothers would
Niobe have been if only she had not claimed to be so. It was on occasion
of the annual celebration in honor of Latona and her offspring, Apollo
and Diana,—when the people of Thebes were assembled, their brows
crowned with laurel, bearing frankincense to the altars and paying their
vows,—that Niobe appeared among the crowd. Her attire was splendid with
gold and gems, and her aspect beautiful as the face of an angry woman
can be. She stood and surveyed the people with haughty looks. “What
folly,” said she, “is this!—to prefer beings whom you never saw to
those who stand before your eyes! Why should Latona be honored with
worship, and none be paid to me? My father was Tantalus, who was
received as a guest at the table of the gods; my mother was a goddess.
My husband built and rules this city, Thebes, and Phrygia is my paternal
inheritance. Wherever I turn my eyes I survey the elements of my power;
nor is my form and presence unworthy of a goddess. To all this let me
add I have seven sons and seven daughters, and look for sons-in-law and
daughters-in-law of pretensions worthy of my alliance. Have I not cause
for pride? Will you prefer to me this Latona, the Titan’s daughter, with
her two children? I have seven times as many. Fortunate indeed am I, and
fortunate I shall remain! Will any one deny this? My abundance is my
security. I feel myself too strong for Fortune to subdue. She may take
from me much; I shall still have much left. Were I to lose some of my
children, I should hardly be left as poor as Latona with her two only.
Away with you from these solemnities,—put off the laurel from your
brows,—have done with this worship!” The people obeyed, and left the
sacred services uncompleted.

The goddess was indignant. On the Cynthian mountain top where she dwelt
she thus addressed her son and daughter: “My children, I who have been
so proud of you both, and have been used to hold myself second to none
of the goddesses except Juno alone, begin now to doubt whether I am
indeed a goddess. I shall be deprived of my worship altogether unless
you protect me.” She was proceeding in this strain, but Apollo
interrupted her. “Say no more,” said he; “speech only delays
punishment.” So said Diana also. Darting through the air, veiled in
clouds, they alighted on the towers of the city. Spread out before the
gates was a broad plain, where the youth of the city pursued their
warlike sports. The sons of Niobe were there with the rest,—some
mounted on spirited horses richly caparisoned, some driving gay
chariots. Ismenos, the first-born, as he guided his foaming steeds,
struck with an arrow from above, cried out, “Ah me!” dropped the reins,
and fell lifeless. Another, hearing the sound of the bow,—like a
boatman who sees the storm gathering and makes all sail for the
port,—gave the reins to his horses and attempted to escape. The
inevitable arrow overtook him as he fled. Two others, younger boys, just
from their tasks, had gone to the playground to have a game of
wrestling. As they stood breast to breast, one arrow pierced them both.
They uttered a cry together, together cast a parting look around them,
and together breathed their last. Alphenor, an elder brother, seeing
them fall, hastened to the spot to render assistance, and fell stricken
in the act of brotherly duty. One only was left, Ilioneus. He raised his
arms to heaven to try whether prayer might not avail. “Spare me, ye
gods!” he cried, addressing all, in his ignorance that all needed not
his intercessions; and Apollo would have spared him, but the arrow had
already left the string, and it was too late.

The terror of the people and grief of the attendants soon made Niobe
acquainted with what had taken place. She could hardly think it
possible; she was indignant that the gods had dared and amazed that they
had been able to do it. Her husband, Amphion, overwhelmed with the blow,
destroyed himself. Alas! how different was this Niobe from her who had
so lately driven away the people from the sacred rites, and held her
stately course through the city, the envy of her friends, now the pity
even of her foes! She knelt over the lifeless bodies, and kissed now
one, now another of her dead sons. Raising her pallid arms to heaven,
“Cruel Latona,” said she, “feed full your rage with my anguish! Satiate
your hard heart, while I follow to the grave my seven sons. Yet where is
your triumph? Bereaved as I am, I am still richer than you, my
conqueror.” Scarce had she spoken, when the bow sounded and struck
terror into all hearts except Niobe’s alone. She was brave from excess
of grief. The sisters stood in garments of mourning over the biers of
their dead brothers. One fell, struck by an arrow, and died on the
corpse she was bewailing. Another, attempting to console her mother,
suddenly ceased to speak, and sank lifeless to the earth. A third tried
to escape by flight, a fourth by concealment, another stood trembling,
uncertain what course to take. Six were now dead, and only one remained,
whom the mother held clasped in her arms, and covered as it were with
her whole body. “Spare me one, and that the youngest! O spare me one of
so many!” she cried; and while she spoke, that one fell dead. Desolate
she sat, among sons, daughters, husband, all dead, and seemed torpid
with grief. The breeze moved not her hair, no color was on her cheek,
her eyes glared fixed and immovable, there was no sign of life about
her. Her very tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and her veins
ceased to convey the tide of life. Her neck bent not, her arms made no
gesture, her foot no step. She was changed to stone, within and without.
Yet tears continued to flow; and borne on a whirlwind to her native
mountain, she still remains, a mass of rock, from which a trickling
stream flows, the tribute of her never-ending grief.



The story of Niobe has furnished Byron with a fine illustration of the
fallen condition of modern Rome:

    “The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
    Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe;
    An empty urn within her withered hands,
    Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;
    The Scipios’ tomb contains no ashes now:
    The very sepulchres lie tenantless
    Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,
    Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
    Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.”
                                 _Childe Harold_, IV. 79.

This affecting story has been made the subject of a celebrated statue in
the imperial gallery of Florence. It is the principal figure of a group
supposed to have been originally arranged in the pediment of a temple.
The figure of the mother clasped by the arm of her terrified child is
one of the most admired of the ancient statues. It ranks with the
Laocoön and the Apollo among the masterpieces of art. The following is a
translation of a Greek epigram supposed to relate to this statue:

    “To stone the gods have changed her, but in vain;
    The sculptor’s art has made her breathe again.”

Tragic as is the story of Niobe, we cannot forbear to smile at the use
Moore has made of it in “Rhymes on the Road”:

    “’Twas in his carriage the sublime
    Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme,
      And, if the wits don’t do him wrong,
    ’Twixt death and epics passed his time,
      Scribbling and killing all day long;
        Like Phœbus in his car at ease,
      Now warbling forth a lofty song,
        Now murdering the young Niobes.”

Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, and at the same time a very
prolific and very tasteless poet, whose works are now forgotten, unless
when recalled to mind by some wit like Moore for the sake of a joke.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER XV

         THE GRÆÆ OR GRAY-MAIDS—PERSEUS—MEDUSA—ATLAS—ANDROMEDA

                        THE GRÆÆ AND THE GORGONS

THE Grææ were three sisters who were gray-haired from their birth,
whence their name. The Gorgons were monstrous females with huge teeth
like those of swine, brazen claws, and snaky hair. None of these beings
make much figure in mythology except Medusa, the Gorgon, whose story we
shall next advert to. We mention them chiefly to introduce an ingenious
theory of some modern writers, namely, that the Gorgons and Grææ were
only personifications of the terrors of the sea, the former denoting the
_strong_ billows of the wide open main, and the latter the
_white_-crested waves that dash against the rocks of the coast. Their
names in Greek signify the above epithets.

                           PERSEUS AND MEDUSA

Perseus was the son of Jupiter and Danaë. His grandfather Acrisius,
alarmed by an oracle which had told him that his daughter’s child would
be the instrument of his death, caused the mother and child to be shut
up in a chest and set adrift on the sea. The chest floated towards
Seriphus, where it was found by a fisherman who conveyed the mother and
infant to Polydectes, the king of the country, by whom they were treated
with kindness. When Perseus was grown up Polydectes sent him to attempt
the conquest of Medusa, a terrible monster who had laid waste the
country. She was once a beautiful maiden whose hair was her chief glory,
but as she dared to vie in beauty with Minerva, the goddess deprived her
of her charms and changed her beautiful ringlets into hissing serpents.
She became a cruel monster of so frightful an aspect that no living
thing could behold her without being turned into stone. All around the
cavern where she dwelt might be seen the stony figures of men and
animals which had chanced to catch a glimpse of her and had been
petrified with the sight. Perseus, favored by Minerva and Mercury, the
former of whom lent him her shield and the latter his winged shoes,
approached Medusa while she slept, and taking care not to look directly
at her, but guided by her image reflected in the bright shield which he
bore, he cut off her head and gave it to Minerva, who fixed it in the
middle of her Ægis.



Milton, in his “Comus,” thus alludes to the Ægis:

    “What was that snaky-headed Gorgon-shield
    That wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin,
    Wherewith she freezed her foes to congealed stone,
    But rigid looks of chaste austerity,
    And noble grace that dashed brute violence
    With sudden adoration and blank awe!”

Armstrong, the poet of the “Art of Preserving Health,” thus describes
the effect of frost upon the waters:

    “Now blows the surly North and chills throughout
    The stiffening regions, while by stronger charms
    Than Circe e’er or fell Medea brewed,
    Each brook that wont to prattle to its banks
    Lies all bestilled and wedged betwixt its banks,
    Nor moves the withered reeds . . .
    The surges baited by the fierce North-east,
    Tossing with fretful spleen their angry heads,
    E’en in the foam of all their madness struck
    To monumental ice.
      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
                          Such execution,
    So stern, so sudden, wrought the grisly aspect
    Of terrible Medusa,
    When wandering through the woods she turned to stone
    Their savage tenants; just as the foaming Lion
    Sprang furious on his prey, her speedier power
    Outran his haste,
    And fixed in that fierce attitude he stands
    Like Rage in marble!”
                        —_Imitations of Shakspeare._

                           PERSEUS AND ATLAS

After the slaughter of Medusa, Perseus, bearing with him the head of the
Gorgon, flew far and wide, over land and sea. As night came on, he
reached the western limit of the earth, where the sun goes down. Here he
would gladly have rested till morning. It was the realm of King Atlas,
whose bulk surpassed that of all other men. He was rich in flocks and
herds and had no neighbor or rival to dispute his state. But his chief
pride was in his gardens, whose fruit was of gold, hanging from golden
branches, half hid with golden leaves. Perseus said to him, “I come as a
guest. If you honor illustrious descent, I claim Jupiter for my father;
if mighty deeds, I plead the conquest of the Gorgon. I seek rest and
food.” But Atlas remembered that an ancient prophecy had warned him that
a son of Jove should one day rob him of his golden apples. So he
answered, “Begone! or neither your false claims of glory nor parentage
shall protect you;” and he attempted to thrust him out. Perseus, finding
the giant too strong for him, said, “Since you value my friendship so
little, deign to accept a present;” and turning his face away, he held
up the Gorgon’s head. Atlas, with all his bulk, was changed into stone.
His beard and hair became forests, his arms and shoulders cliffs, his
head a summit, and his bones rocks. Each part increased in bulk till he
became a mountain, and (such was the pleasure of the gods) heaven with
all its stars rests upon his shoulders.

                            THE SEA-MONSTER

Perseus, continuing his flight, arrived at the country of the
Æthiopians, of which Cepheus was king. Cassiopeia his queen, proud of
her beauty, had dared to compare herself to the Sea-Nymphs, which roused
their indignation to such a degree that they sent a prodigious
sea-monster to ravage the coast. To appease the deities, Cepheus was
directed by the oracle to expose his daughter Andromeda to be devoured
by the monster. As Perseus looked down from his aerial height he beheld
the virgin chained to a rock, and waiting the approach of the serpent.
She was so pale and motionless that if it had not been for her flowing
tears and her hair that moved in the breeze, he would have taken her for
a marble statue. He was so startled at the sight that he almost forgot
to wave his wings. As he hovered over her he said, “O virgin,
undeserving of those chains, but rather of such as bind fond lovers
together, tell me, I beseech you, your name, and the name of your
country, and why you are thus bound.” At first she was silent from
modesty, and, if she could, would have hid her face with her hands; but
when he repeated his questions, for fear she might be thought guilty of
some fault which she dared not tell, she disclosed her name and that of
her country, and her mother’s pride of beauty. Before she had done
speaking, a sound was heard off upon the water, and the sea-monster
appeared, with his head raised above the surface, cleaving the waves
with his broad breast. The virgin shrieked, the father and mother who
had now arrived at the scene, wretched both, but the mother more justly
so, stood by, not able to afford protection, but only to pour forth
lamentations and to embrace the victim. Then spoke Perseus: “There will
be time enough for tears; this hour is all we have for rescue. My rank
as the son of Jove and my renown as the slayer of the Gorgon might make
me acceptable as a suitor; but I will try to win her by services
rendered, if the gods will only be propitious. If she be rescued by my
valor, I demand that she be my reward.” The parents consent (how could
they hesitate?) and promise a royal dowry with her.

And now the monster was within the range of a stone thrown by a skilful
slinger, when with a sudden bound the youth soared into the air. As an
eagle, when from his lofty flight he sees a serpent basking in the sun,
pounces upon him and seizes him by the neck to prevent him from turning
his head round and using his fangs, so the youth darted down upon the
back of the monster and plunged his sword into its shoulder. Irritated
by the wound, the monster raised himself in the air, then plunged into
the depth; then, like a wild boar surrounded by a pack of barking dogs,
turned swiftly from side to side, while the youth eluded its attacks by
means of his wings. Wherever he can find a passage for his sword between
the scales he makes a wound, piercing now the side, now the flank, as it
<DW72>s towards the tail. The brute spouts from his nostrils water mixed
with blood. The wings of the hero are wet with it, and he dares no
longer trust to them. Alighting on a rock which rose above the waves,
and holding on by a projecting fragment, as the monster floated near he
gave him a death stroke. The people who had gathered on the shore
shouted so that the hills reëchoed the sound. The parents, transported
with joy, embraced their future son-in-law, calling him their deliverer
and the savior of their house, and the virgin, both cause and reward of
the contest, descended from the rock.



Cassiopeia was an Æthiopian, and consequently, in spite of her boasted
beauty, black; at least so Milton seems to have thought, who alludes to
this story in his “Penseroso,” where he addresses Melancholy as the

    “. . . . goddess, sage and holy,
    Whose saintly visage is too bright
    To hit the sense of human sight,
    And, therefore, to our weaker view
    O’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue.
    Black, but such as in esteem
    Prince Memnon’s sister might beseem,
    Or that starred Æthiop queen that strove
    To set her beauty’s praise above
    The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended.”

Cassiopeia is called “the starred Æthiop queen” because after her death
she was placed among the stars, forming the constellation of that name.
Though she attained this honor, yet the Sea-Nymphs, her old enemies,
prevailed so far as to cause her to be placed in that part of the heaven
near the pole, where every night she is half the time held with her head
downward, to give her a lesson of humility.

Memnon was an Æthiopian prince, of whom we shall tell in a future
chapter.

                           THE WEDDING FEAST

The joyful parents, with Perseus and Andromeda, repaired to the palace,
where a banquet was spread for them, and all was joy and festivity. But
suddenly a noise was heard of warlike clamor, and Phineus, the betrothed
of the virgin, with a party of his adherents, burst in, demanding the
maiden as his own. It was in vain that Cepheus remonstrated—“You should
have claimed her when she lay bound to the rock, the monster’s victim.
The sentence of the gods dooming her to such a fate dissolved all
engagements, as death itself would have done.” Phineus made no reply,
but hurled his javelin at Perseus, but it missed its mark and fell
harmless. Perseus would have thrown his in turn, but the cowardly
assailant ran and took shelter behind the altar. But his act was a
signal for an onset by his band upon the guests of Cepheus. They
defended themselves and a general conflict ensued, the old king
retreating from the scene after fruitless expostulations, calling the
gods to witness that he was guiltless of this outrage on the rights of
hospitality.

Perseus and his friends maintained for some time the unequal contest;
but the numbers of the assailants were too great for them, and
destruction seemed inevitable, when a sudden thought struck Perseus,—“I
will make my enemy defend me.” Then with a loud voice he exclaimed, “If
I have any friend here let him turn away his eyes!” and held aloft the
Gorgon’s head. “Seek not to frighten us with your jugglery,” said
Thescelus, and raised his javelin in act to throw, and became stone in
the very attitude. Ampyx was about to plunge his sword into the body of
a prostrate foe, but his arm stiffened and he could neither thrust
forward nor withdraw it. Another, in the midst of a vociferous
challenge, stopped, his mouth open, but no sound issuing. One of
Perseus’s friends, Aconteus, caught sight of the Gorgon and stiffened
like the rest. Astyages struck him with his sword, but instead of
wounding, it recoiled with a ringing noise.

Phineus beheld this dreadful result of his unjust aggression, and felt
confounded. He called aloud to his friends, but got no answer; he
touched them and found them stone. Falling on his knees and stretching
out his hands to Perseus, but turning his head away he begged for mercy.
“Take all,” said he, “give me but my life.” “Base coward,” said Perseus,
“thus much I will grant you; no weapon shall touch you; moreover, you
shall be preserved in my house as a memorial of these events.” So
saying, he held the Gorgon’s head to the side where Phineus was looking,
and in the very form in which he knelt, with his hands outstretched and
face averted, he became fixed immovably, a mass of stone!

The following allusion to Perseus is from Milman’s “Samor”:

    “As ’mid the fabled Libyan bridal stood
    Perseus in stern tranquillity of wrath,
    Half stood, half floated on his ankle-plumes
    Out-swelling, while the bright face on his shield
    Looked into stone the raging fray; so rose,
    But with no magic arms, wearing alone
    Th’ appalling and control of his firm look,
    The Briton Samor; at his rising awe
    Went abroad, and the riotous hall was mute.”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XVI

                                MONSTERS

  GIANTS, SPHINX, PEGASUS AND CHIMÆRA, CENTAURS, GRIFFIN, AND PYGMIES

MONSTERS, in the language of mythology, were beings of unnatural
proportions or parts, usually regarded with terror, as possessing
immense strength and ferocity, which they employed for the injury and
annoyance of men. Some of them were supposed to combine the members of
different animals; such were the Sphinx and Chimæra; and to these all
the terrible qualities of wild beasts were attributed, together with
human sagacity and faculties. Others, as the giants, differed from men
chiefly in their size; and in this particular we must recognize a wide
distinction among them. The human giants, if so they may be called, such
as the Cyclopes, Antæus, Orion, and others, must be supposed not to be
altogether disproportioned to human beings, for they mingled in love and
strife with them. But the superhuman giants, who warred with the gods,
were of vastly larger dimensions. Tityus, we are told, when stretched on
the plain, covered nine acres, and Enceladus required the whole of Mount
Ætna to be laid upon him to keep him down.

We have already spoken of the war which the giants waged against the
gods, and of its result. While this war lasted the giants proved a
formidable enemy. Some of them, like Briareus, had a hundred arms;
others, like Typhon, breathed out fire. At one time they put the gods to
such fear that they fled into Egypt and hid themselves under various
forms. Jupiter took the form of a ram, whence he was afterwards
worshipped in Egypt as the god Ammon, with curved horns. Apollo became a
crow, Bacchus a goat, Diana a cat, Juno a cow, Venus a fish, Mercury a
bird. At another time the giants attempted to climb up into heaven, and
for that purpose took up the mountain Ossa and piled it on Pelion.[16]
They were at last subdued by thunderbolts, which Minerva invented, and
taught Vulcan and his Cyclopes to make for Jupiter.

                               THE SPHINX

Laius, king of Thebes, was warned by an oracle that there was danger to
his throne and life if his new-born son should be suffered to grow up.
He therefore committed the child to the care of a herdsman with orders
to destroy him; but the herdsman, moved with pity, yet not daring
entirely to disobey, tied up the child by the feet and left him hanging
to the branch of a tree. In this condition the infant was found by a
peasant, who carried him to his master and mistress, by whom he was
adopted and called Œdipus, or Swollen-foot.

Many years afterwards Laius being on his way to Delphi, accompanied only
by one attendant, met in a narrow road a young man also driving in a
chariot. On his refusal to leave the way at their command the attendant
killed one of his horses, and the stranger, filled with rage, slew both
Laius and his attendant. The young man was Œdipus, who thus unknowingly
became the slayer of his own father.

Shortly after this event the city of Thebes was afflicted with a monster
which infested the highroad. It was called the Sphinx. It had the body
of a lion and the upper part of a woman. It lay crouched on the top of a
rock, and arrested all travellers who came that way, proposing to them a
riddle, with the condition that those who could solve it should pass
safe, but those who failed should be killed. Not one had yet succeeded
in solving it, and all had been slain. Œdipus was not daunted by these
alarming accounts, but boldly advanced to the trial. The Sphinx asked
him, “What animal is that which in the morning goes on four feet, at
noon on two, and in the evening upon three?” Œdipus replied, “Man, who
in childhood creeps on hands and knees, in manhood walks erect, and in
old age with the aid of a staff.” The Sphinx was so mortified at the
solving of her riddle that she cast herself down from the rock and
perished.

The gratitude of the people for their deliverance was so great that they
made Œdipus their king, giving him in marriage their queen Jocasta.
Œdipus, ignorant of his parentage, had already become the slayer of his
father; in marrying the queen he became the husband of his mother. These
horrors remained undiscovered, till at length Thebes was afflicted with
famine and pestilence, and the oracle being consulted, the double crime
of Œdipus came to light. Jocasta put an end to her own life, and Œdipus,
seized with madness, tore out his eyes and wandered away from Thebes,
dreaded and abandoned by all except his daughters, who faithfully
adhered to him, till after a tedious period of miserable wandering he
found the termination of his wretched life.

                        PEGASUS AND THE CHIMÆRA

When Perseus cut off Medusa’s head, the blood sinking into the earth
produced the winged horse Pegasus. Minerva caught him and tamed him and
presented him to the Muses. The fountain Hippocrene, on the Muses’
mountain Helicon, was opened by a kick from his hoof.

The Chimæra was a fearful monster, breathing fire. The fore part of its
body was a compound of the lion and the goat, and the hind part a
dragon’s. It made great havoc in Lycia, so that the king, Iobates,
sought for some hero to destroy it. At that time there arrived at his
court a gallant young warrior, whose name was Bellerophon. He brought
letters from Prœtus, the son-in-law of Iobates, recommending Bellerophon
in the warmest terms as an unconquerable hero, but added at the close a
request to his father-in-law to put him to death. The reason was that
Prœtus was jealous of him, suspecting that his wife Antea looked with
too much admiration on the young warrior. From this instance of
Bellerophon being unconsciously the bearer of his own death warrant, the
expression “Bellerophontic letters” arose, to describe any species of
communication which a person is made the bearer of, containing matter
prejudicial to himself.

Iobates, on perusing the letters, was puzzled what to do, not willing to
violate the claims of hospitality, yet wishing to oblige his son-in-law.
A lucky thought occurred to him, to send Bellerophon to combat with the
Chimæra. Bellerophon accepted the proposal, but before proceeding to the
combat consulted the soothsayer Polyidus, who advised him to procure if
possible the horse Pegasus for the conflict. For this purpose he
directed him to pass the night in the temple of Minerva. He did so, and
as he slept Minerva came to him and gave him a golden bridle. When he
awoke the bridle remained in his hand. Minerva also showed him Pegasus
drinking at the well of Pirene, and at sight of the bridle the winged
steed came willingly and suffered himself to be taken. Bellerophon
mounted him, rose with him into the air, soon found the Chimæra, and
gained an easy victory over the monster.

After the conquest of the Chimæra Bellerophon was exposed to further
trials and labors by his unfriendly host, but by the aid of Pegasus he
triumphed in them all, till at length Iobates, seeing that the hero was
a special favorite of the gods, gave him his daughter in marriage and
made him his successor on the throne. At last Bellerophon by his pride
and presumption drew upon himself the anger of the gods; it is said he
even attempted to fly up into heaven on his winged steed, but Jupiter
sent a gadfly which stung Pegasus and made him throw his rider, who
became lame and blind in consequence. After this Bellerophon wandered
lonely through the Aleian field, avoiding the paths of men, and died
miserably.



Milton alludes to Bellerophon in the beginning of the seventh book of
“Paradise Lost”:

    “Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
    If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine
    Following above the Olympian hill I soar,
    Above the flight of Pegasean wing.
                          Upled by thee,
    Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed,
    An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air
    (Thy tempering); with like safety guided down
    Return me to my native element;
    Lest from this flying steed unreined (as once
    Bellerophon, though from a lower sphere),
    Dismounted on the Aleian field I fall,
    Erroneous there to wander and forlorn.”

Young, in his “Night Thoughts,” speaking of the sceptic, says:

    “He whose blind thought futurity denies,
    Unconscious bears, Bellerophon, like thee
    His own indictment; he condemns himself.
    Who reads his bosom reads immortal life,
    Or nature there, imposing on her sons,
    Has written fables; man was made a lie.”
                            Vol. II., p. 12.

Pegasus, being the horse of the Muses, has always been at the service of
the poets. Schiller tells a pretty story of his having been sold by a
needy poet and put to the cart and the plough. He was not fit for such
service, and his clownish master could make nothing of him. But a youth
stepped forth and asked leave to try him. As soon as he was seated on
his back the horse, which had appeared at first vicious, and afterwards
spirit-broken, rose kingly, a spirit, a god, unfolded the splendor of
his wings, and soared towards heaven. Our own poet Longfellow also
records an adventure of this famous steed in his “Pegasus in Pound.”



Shakspeare alludes to Pegasus in “Henry IV.,” where Vernon describes
Prince Henry:

    “I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
    His cuishes on his thighs, gallantly armed,
    Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,
    And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
    As if an angel dropped down from the clouds,
    To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
    And witch the world with noble horsemanship.”

                              THE CENTAURS

These monsters were represented as men from the head to the loins, while
the remainder of the body was that of a horse. The ancients were too
fond of a horse to consider the union of his nature with man’s as
forming a very degraded compound, and accordingly the Centaur is the
only one of the fancied monsters of antiquity to which any good traits
are assigned. The Centaurs were admitted to the companionship of man,
and at the marriage of Pirithous with Hippodamia they were among the
guests. At the feast Eurytion, one of the Centaurs, becoming intoxicated
with the wine, attempted to offer violence to the bride; the other
Centaurs followed his example, and a dreadful conflict arose in which
several of them were slain. This is the celebrated battle of the Lapithæ
and Centaurs, a favorite subject with the sculptors and poets of
antiquity.

But not all the Centaurs were like the rude guests of Pirithous. Chiron
was instructed by Apollo and Diana, and was renowned for his skill in
hunting, medicine, music, and the art of prophecy. The most
distinguished heroes of Grecian story were his pupils. Among the rest
the infant Æsculapius was intrusted to his charge by Apollo, his father.
When the sage returned to his home bearing the infant, his daughter
Ocyroe came forth to meet him, and at sight of the child burst forth
into a prophetic strain (for she was a prophetess), foretelling the
glory that he was to achieve. Æsculapius when grown up became a renowned
physician, and even in one instance succeeded in restoring the dead to
life. Pluto resented this, and Jupiter, at his request, struck the bold
physician with lightning, and killed him, but after his death received
him into the number of the gods.

Chiron was the wisest and justest of all the Centaurs, and at his death
Jupiter placed him among the stars as the constellation Sagittarius.

                              THE PYGMIES

The Pygmies were a nation of dwarfs, so called from a Greek word which
means the cubit or measure of about thirteen inches, which was said to
be the height of these people. They lived near the sources of the Nile,
or according to others, in India. Homer tells us that the cranes used to
migrate every winter to the Pygmies’ country, and their appearance was
the signal of bloody warfare to the puny inhabitants, who had to take up
arms to defend their cornfields against the rapacious strangers. The
Pygmies and their enemies the Cranes form the subject of several works
of art.

Later writers tell of an army of Pygmies which finding Hercules asleep
made preparations to attack him, as if they were about to attack a city.
But the hero, awaking, laughed at the little warriors, wrapped some of
them up in his lion’s skin, and carried them to Eurystheus.



Milton uses the Pygmies for a simile, “Paradise Lost,” Book I.:

                “. . . like that Pygmæan race
    Beyond the Indian mount, or fairy elves
    Whose midnight revels by a forest side,
    Or fountain, some belated peasant sees
    (Or dreams he sees), while overhead the moon
    Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth
    Wheels her pale course; they on their mirth and dance
    Intent, with jocund music charm his ear.
    At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds.”

                        THE GRIFFIN, OR GRYPHON

The Griffin is a monster with the body of a lion, the head and wings of
an eagle, and back covered with feathers. Like birds it builds its nest,
and instead of an egg lays an agate therein. It has long claws and
talons of such a size that the people of that country make them into
drinking-cups. India was assigned as the native country of the Griffins.
They found gold in the mountains and build their nests of it, for which
reason their nests were very tempting to the hunters, and they were
forced to keep vigilant guard over them. Their instinct led them to know
where buried treasures lay, and they did their best to keep plunderers
at a distance. The Arimaspians, among whom the Griffins flourished, were
a one-eyed people of Scythia.



Milton borrows a simile from the Griffins, “Paradise Lost,” Book II.:

    “As when a Gryphon through the wilderness,
    With winged course, o’er hill and moory dale,
    Pursues the Arimaspian who by stealth
    Hath from his wakeful custody purloined
    His guarded gold,” etc.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XVII

                        THE GOLDEN FLEECE—MEDEA

                           THE GOLDEN FLEECE

IN very ancient times there lived in Thessaly a king and queen named
Athamas and Nephele. They had two children, a boy and a girl. After a
time Athamas grew indifferent to his wife, put her away, and took
another. Nephele suspected danger to her children from the influence of
the stepmother, and took measures to send them out of her reach. Mercury
assisted her, and gave her a ram with a _golden fleece_, on which she
set the two children, trusting that the ram would convey them to a place
of safety. The ram vaulted into the air with the children on his back,
taking his course to the East, till when crossing the strait that
divides Europe and Asia, the girl, whose name was Helle, fell from his
back into the sea, which from her was called the Hellespont,—now the
Dardanelles. The ram continued his career till he reached the kingdom of
Colchis, on the eastern shore of the Black Sea, where he safely landed
the boy Phryxus, who was hospitably received by Æetes, king of the
country. Phryxus sacrificed the ram to Jupiter, and gave the _Golden
Fleece_ to Æetes, who placed it in a consecrated grove, under the care
of a sleepless dragon.

There was another kingdom in Thessaly near to that of Athamas, and ruled
over by a relative of his. The king Æson, being tired of the cares of
government, surrendered his crown to his brother Pelias on condition
that he should hold it only during the minority of Jason, the son of
Æson. When Jason was grown up and came to demand the crown from his
uncle, Pelias pretended to be willing to yield it, but at the same time
suggested to the young man the glorious adventure of going in quest of
the Golden Fleece, which it was well known was in the kingdom of
Colchis, and was, as Pelias pretended, the rightful property of their
family. Jason was pleased with the thought, and forthwith made
preparations for the expedition. At that time the only species of
navigation known to the Greeks consisted of small boats or canoes
hollowed out from trunks of trees, so that when Jason employed Argus to
build him a vessel capable of containing fifty men, it was considered a
gigantic undertaking. It was accomplished, however, and the vessel named
“Argo,” from the name of the builder. Jason sent his invitation to all
the adventurous young men of Greece, and soon found himself at the head
of a band of bold youths, many of whom afterwards were renowned among
the heroes and demigods of Greece. Hercules, Theseus, Orpheus, and
Nestor were among them. They are called the Argonauts, from the name of
their vessel.

The “Argo” with her crew of heroes left the shores of Thessaly and
having touched at the Island of Lemnos, thence crossed to Mysia and
thence to Thrace. Here they found the sage Phineus, and from him
received instruction as to their future course. It seems the entrance of
the Euxine Sea was impeded by two small rocky islands, which floated on
the surface, and in their tossings and heavings occasionally came
together, crushing and grinding to atoms any object that might be caught
between them. They were called the Symplegades, or Clashing Islands.
Phineus instructed the Argonauts how to pass this dangerous strait. When
they reached the islands they let go a dove, which took her way between
the rocks, and passed in safety, only losing some feathers of her tail.
Jason and his men seized the favorable moment of the rebound, plied
their oars with vigor, and passed safe through, though the islands
closed behind them, and actually grazed their stern. They now  rowed
along the shore till they arrived at the eastern end of the sea, and
landed at the kingdom of Colchis.

Jason made known his message to the Colchian king, Æetes, who consented
to give up the golden fleece if Jason would yoke to the plough two
fire-breathing bulls with brazen feet, and sow the teeth of the dragon
which Cadmus had slain, and from which it was well known that a crop of
armed men would spring up, who would turn their weapons against their
producer. Jason accepted the conditions, and a time was set for making
the experiment. Previously, however, he found means to plead his cause
to Medea, daughter of the king. He promised her marriage, and as they
stood before the altar of Hecate, called the goddess to witness his
oath. Medea yielded, and by her aid, for she was a potent sorceress, he
was furnished with a charm, by which he could encounter safely the
breath of the fire-breathing bulls and the weapons of the armed men.

At the time appointed, the people assembled at the grove of Mars, and
the king assumed his royal seat, while the multitude covered the
hill-sides. The brazen-footed bulls rushed in, breathing fire from their
nostrils that burned up the herbage as they passed. The sound was like
the roar of a furnace, and the smoke like that of water upon quick-lime.
Jason advanced boldly to meet them. His friends, the chosen heroes of
Greece, trembled to behold him. Regardless of the burning breath, he
soothed their rage with his voice, patted their necks with fearless
hand, and adroitly slipped over them the yoke, and compelled them to
drag the plough. The Colchians were amazed; the Greeks shouted for joy.
Jason next proceeded to sow the dragon’s teeth and plough them in. And
soon the crop of armed men sprang up, and, wonderful to relate! no
sooner had they reached the surface than they began to brandish their
weapons and rush upon Jason. The Greeks trembled for their hero, and
even she who had provided him a way of safety and taught him how to use
it, Medea herself, grew pale with fear. Jason for a time kept his
assailants at bay with his sword and shield, till, finding their numbers
overwhelming, he resorted to the charm which Medea had taught him,
seized a stone and threw it in the midst of his foes. They immediately
turned their arms against one another, and soon there was not one of the
dragon’s brood left alive. The Greeks embraced their hero, and Medea, if
she dared, would have embraced him too.

It remained to lull to sleep the dragon that guarded the fleece, and
this was done by scattering over him a few drops of a preparation which
Medea had supplied. At the smell he relaxed his rage, stood for a moment
motionless, then shut those great round eyes, that had never been known
to shut before, and turned over on his side, fast asleep. Jason seized
the fleece and with his friends and Medea accompanying, hastened to
their vessel before Æetes the king could arrest their departure, and
made the best of their way back to Thessaly, where they arrived safe,
and Jason delivered the fleece to Pelias, and dedicated the “Argo” to
Neptune. What became of the fleece afterwards we do not know, but
perhaps it was found after all, like many other golden prizes, not worth
the trouble it had cost to procure it.



This is one of those mythological tales, says a late writer, in which
there is reason to believe that a substratum of truth exists, though
overlaid by a mass of fiction. It probably was the first important
maritime expedition, and like the first attempts of the kind of all
nations, as we know from history, was probably of a half-piratical
character. If rich spoils were the result it was enough to give rise to
the idea of the golden fleece.

Another suggestion of a learned mythologist, Bryant, is that it is a
corrupt tradition of the story of Noah and the ark. The name “Argo”
seems to countenance this, and the incident of the dove is another
confirmation.



Pope, in his “Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day,” thus celebrates the launching
of the ship “Argo,” and the power of the music of Orpheus, whom he calls
the Thracian:

    “So when the first bold vessel dared the seas,
      High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain,
    While Argo saw her kindred trees
      Descend from Pelion to the main.
    Transported demigods stood round,
    And men grew heroes at the sound.”

In Dyer’s poem of “The Fleece” there is an account of the ship “Argo”
and her crew, which gives a good picture of this primitive maritime
adventure:

    “From every region of Ægea’s shore
    The brave assembled; those illustrious twins
    Castor and Pollux; Orpheus, tuneful bard;
    Zetes and Calais, as the wind in speed;
    Strong Hercules and many a chief renowned.
    On deep Iolcos’ sandy shore they thronged,
    Gleaming in armor, ardent of exploits;
    And soon, the laurel cord and the huge stone
    Uplifting to the deck, unmoored the bark;
    Whose keel of wondrous length the skilful hand
    Of Argus fashioned for the proud attempt;
    And in the extended keel a lofty mast
    Upraised, and sails full swelling; to the chiefs
    Unwonted objects. Now first, now they learned
    Their bold steerage over ocean wave,
    Led by the golden stars, as Chiron’s art
    Had marked the sphere celestial,” etc.

Hercules left the expedition at Mysia, for Hylas, a youth beloved by
him, having gone for water, was laid hold of and kept by the nymphs of
the spring, who were fascinated by his beauty. Hercules went in quest of
the lad, and while he was absent the “Argo” put to sea and left him.
Moore, in one of his songs, makes a beautiful allusion to this incident:

    “When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
      Through fields full of light and heart full of play,
    Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,
      And neglected his task for the flowers in the way.

    “Thus many like me, who in youth should have tasted
      The fountain that runs by Philosophy’s shrine,
    Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
      And left their light urns all as empty as mine.”

                             MEDEA AND ÆSON

Amid the rejoicings for the recovery of the Golden Fleece, Jason felt
that one thing was wanting, the presence of Æson, his father, who was
prevented by his age and infirmities from taking part in them. Jason
said to Medea, “My spouse, would that your arts, whose power I have seen
so mighty for my aid, could do me one further service, take some years
from my life and add them to my father’s.” Medea replied, “Not at such a
cost shall it be done, but if my art avails me, his life shall be
lengthened without abridging yours.” The next full moon she issued forth
alone, while all creatures slept; not a breath stirred the foliage, and
all was still. To the stars she addressed her incantations, and to the
moon; to Hecate,[17] the goddess of the underworld, and to Tellus the
goddess of the earth, by whose power plants potent for enchantment are
produced. She invoked the gods of the woods and caverns, of mountains
and valleys, of lakes and rivers, of winds and vapors. While she spoke
the stars shone brighter, and presently a chariot descended through the
air, drawn by flying serpents. She ascended it, and borne aloft made her
way to distant regions, where potent plants grew which she knew how to
select for her purpose. Nine nights she employed in her search, and
during that time came not within the doors of her palace nor under any
roof, and shunned all intercourse with mortals.

She next erected two altars, the one to Hecate, the other to Hebe, the
goddess of youth, and sacrificed a black sheep, pouring libations of
milk and wine. She implored Pluto and his stolen bride that they would
not hasten to take the old man’s life. Then she directed that Æson
should be led forth, and having thrown him into a deep sleep by a charm,
had him laid on a bed of herbs, like one dead. Jason and all others were
kept away from the place, that no profane eyes might look upon her
mysteries. Then, with streaming hair, she thrice moved round the altars,
dipped flaming twigs in the blood, and laid them thereon to burn.
Meanwhile the caldron with its contents was got ready. In it she put
magic herbs, with seeds and flowers of acrid juice, stones from the
distant east, and sand from the shore of all-surrounding ocean; hoar
frost, gathered by moonlight, a screech owl’s head and wings, and the
entrails of a wolf. She added fragments of the shells or tortoises, and
the liver of stags,—animals tenacious of life,—and the head and beak
of a crow, that outlives nine generations of men. These with many other
things “without a name” she boiled together for her purposed work,
stirring them up with a dry olive branch; and behold! the branch when
taken out instantly became green, and before long was covered with
leaves and a plentiful growth of young olives; and as the liquor boiled
and bubbled, and sometimes ran over, the grass wherever the sprinklings
fell shot forth with a verdure like that of spring.

Seeing that all was ready, Medea cut the throat of the old man and let
out all his blood, and poured into his mouth and into his wound the
juices of her caldron. As soon as he had completely imbibed them, his
hair and beard laid by their whiteness and assumed the blackness of
youth; his paleness and emaciation were gone; his veins were full of
blood, his limbs of vigor and robustness. Æson is amazed at himself, and
remembers that such as he now is, he was in his youthful days, forty
years before.

Medea used her arts here for a good purpose, but not so in another
instance, where she made them the instruments of revenge. Pelias, our
readers will recollect, was the usurping uncle of Jason, and had kept
him out of his kingdom. Yet he must have had some good qualities, for
his daughters loved him, and when they saw what Medea had done for Æson,
they wished her to do the same for their father. Medea pretended to
consent, and prepared her caldron as before. At her request an old sheep
was brought and plunged into the caldron. Very soon a bleating was heard
in the kettle, and when the cover was removed, a lamb jumped forth and
ran frisking away into the meadow. The daughters of Pelias saw the
experiment with delight, and appointed a time for their father to
undergo the same operation. But Medea prepared her caldron for him in a
very different way. She put in only water and a few simple herbs. In the
night she with the sisters entered the bed chamber of the old king,
while he and his guards slept soundly under the influence of a spell
cast upon them by Medea. The daughters stood by the bedside with their
weapons drawn, but hesitated to strike, till Medea chid their
irresolution. Then turning away their faces, and giving random blows,
they smote him with their weapons. He, starting from his sleep, cried
out, “My daughters, what are you doing? Will you kill your father?”
Their hearts failed them and their weapons fell from their hands, but
Medea struck him a fatal blow, and prevented his saying more.

Then they placed him in the caldron, and Medea hastened to depart in her
serpent-drawn chariot before they discovered her treachery, or their
vengeance would have been terrible. She escaped, however, but had little
enjoyment of the fruits of her crime. Jason, for whom she had done so
much, wishing to marry Creusa, princess of Corinth, put away Medea. She,
enraged at his ingratitude, called on the gods for vengeance, sent a
poisoned robe as a gift to the bride, and then killing her own children,
and setting fire to the palace, mounted her serpent-drawn chariot and
fled to Athens, where she married King Ægeus, the father of Theseus, and
we shall meet her again when we come to the adventures of that hero.

The incantations of Medea will remind the reader of those of the witches
in “Macbeth.” The following lines are those which seem most strikingly
to recall the ancient model:

    “Round about the caldron go;
    In the poisoned entrails throw.
      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
    Fillet of a fenny snake
    In the caldron boil and bake;
    Eye of newt and toe of frog,
    Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
    Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
    Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing:
      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
    Maw of ravening salt-sea shark,
    Root of hemlock digged in the dark,” etc.
                     —_Macbeth_, Act IV., Scene 1

And again:

    _Macbeth._—What is’t you do?
    _Witches._—A deed without a name.

There is another story of Medea almost too revolting for record even of
a sorceress, a class of persons to whom both ancient and modern poets
have been accustomed to attribute every degree of atrocity. In her
flight from Colchis she had taken her young brother Absyrtus with her.
Finding the pursuing vessels of Æetes gaining upon the Argonauts, she
caused the lad to be killed and his limbs to be strewn over the sea.
Æetes on reaching the place found these sorrowful traces of his murdered
son; but while he tarried to collect the scattered fragments and bestow
upon them an honorable interment, the Argonauts escaped.



In the poems of Campbell will be found a translation of one of the
choruses of the tragedy of “Medea,” where the poet Euripides has taken
advantage of the occasion to pay a glowing tribute to Athens, his native
city. It begins thus:

    “O haggard queen! to Athens dost thou guide
      Thy glowing chariot, steeped in kindred gore;
    Or seek to hide thy damned parricide
      Where peace and justice dwell for evermore?”

                                  ————


                             CHAPTER XVIII

                         MELEAGER AND ATALANTA

ONE of the heroes of the Argonautic expedition was Meleager, son of
Œneus and Althea, king and queen of Calydon. Althea, when her son was
born, beheld the three destinies, who, as they spun their fatal thread,
foretold that the life of the child should last no longer than a brand
then burning upon the hearth. Althea seized and quenched the brand, and
carefully preserved it for years, while Meleager grew to boyhood, youth,
and manhood. It chanced, then, that Œneus, as he offered sacrifices to
the gods, omitted to pay due honors to Diana; and she, indignant at the
neglect, sent a wild boar of enormous size to lay waste the fields of
Calydon. Its eyes shone with blood and fire, its bristles stood like
threatening spears, its tusks were like those of Indian elephants. The
growing corn was trampled, the vines and olive trees laid waste, the
flocks and herds were driven in wild confusion by the slaughtering foe.
All common aid seemed vain; but Meleager called on the heroes of Greece
to join in a bold hunt for the ravenous monster. Theseus and his friend
Pirithous, Jason, Peleus, afterwards the father of Achilles, Telamon the
father of Ajax, Nestor, then a youth, but who in his age bore arms with
Achilles and Ajax in the Trojan war,—these and many more joined in the
enterprise. With them came Atalanta, the daughter of Iasius, king of
Arcadia. A buckle of polished gold confined her vest, an ivory quiver
hung on her left shoulder, and her left hand bore the bow. Her face
blent feminine beauty with the best graces of martial youth. Meleager
saw and loved.

But now already they were near the monster’s lair. They stretched strong
nets from tree to tree; they uncoupled their dogs, they tried to find
the footprints of their quarry in the grass. From the wood was a descent
to marshy ground. Here the boar, as he lay among the reeds, heard the
shouts of his pursuers, and rushed forth against them. One and another
is thrown down and slain. Jason throws his spear, with a prayer to Diana
for success; and the favoring goddess allows the weapon to touch, but
not to wound, removing the steel point of the spear in its flight.
Nestor, assailed, seeks and finds safety in the branches of a tree.
Telamon rushes on, but stumbling at a projecting root, falls prone. But
an arrow from Atalanta at length for the first time tastes the monster’s
blood. It is a slight wound, but Meleager sees and joyfully proclaims
it. Anceus, excited to envy by the praise given to a female, loudly
proclaims his own valor, and defies alike the boar and the goddess who
had sent it; but as he rushes on, the infuriated beast lays him low with
a mortal wound. Theseus throws his lance, but it is turned aside by a
projecting bough. The dart of Jason misses its object, and kills instead
one of their own dogs. But Meleager, after one unsuccessful stroke,
drives his spear into the monster’s side, then rushes on and despatches
him with repeated blows.

Then rose a shout from those around; they congratulated the conqueror,
crowding to touch his hand. He, placing his foot upon the head of the
slain boar, turned to Atalanta and bestowed on her the head and the
rough hide which were the trophies of his success. But at this, envy
excited the rest to strife. Plexippus and Toxeus, the brothers of
Meleager’s mother, beyond the rest opposed the gift, and snatched from
the maiden the trophy she had received. Meleager, kindling with rage at
the wrong done to himself, and still more at the insult offered to her
whom he loved, forgot the claims of kindred, and plunged his sword into
the offenders’ hearts.

As Althea bore gifts of thankfulness to the temples for the victory of
her son, the bodies of her murdered brothers met her sight. She shrieks,
and beats her breast, and hastens to change the garments of rejoicing
for those of mourning. But when the author of the deed is known, grief
gives way to the stern desire of vengeance on her son. The fatal brand,
which once she rescued from the flames, the brand which the destinies
had linked with Meleager’s life, she brings forth, and commands a fire
to be prepared. Then four times she essays to place the brand upon the
pile; four times draws back, shuddering at the thought of bringing
destruction on her son. The feelings of the mother and the sister
contend within her. Now she is pale at the thought of the proposed deed,
now flushed again with anger at the act of her son. As a vessel, driven
in one direction by the wind, and in the opposite by the tide, the mind
of Althea hangs suspended in uncertainty. But now the sister prevails
above the mother, and she begins as she holds the fatal wood: “Turn, ye
Furies, goddesses of punishment! turn to behold the sacrifice I bring!
Crime must atone for crime. Shall Œneus rejoice in his victor son, while
the house of Thestius is desolate? But, alas! to what deed am I borne
along? Brothers forgive a mother’s weakness! my hand fails me. He
deserves death, but not that I should destroy him. But shall he then
live, and triumph, and reign over Calydon, while you, my brothers,
wander unavenged among the shades? No! thou hast lived by my gift; die,
now, for thine own crime. Return the life which twice I gave thee, first
at thy birth, again when I snatched this brand from the flames. O that
thou hadst then died! Alas! evil is the conquest; but, brothers, ye have
conquered.” And, turning away her face, she threw the fatal wood upon
the burning pile.

It gave, or seemed to give, a deadly groan. Meleager, absent and
unknowing of the cause, felt a sudden pang. He burns, and only by
courageous pride conquers the pain which destroys him. He mourns only
that he perishes by a bloodless and unhonored death. With his last
breath he calls upon his aged father, his brother, and his fond sisters,
upon his beloved Atalanta, and upon his mother, the unknown cause of his
fate. The flames increase, and with them the pain of the hero. Now both
subside; now both are quenched. The brand is ashes, and the life of
Meleager is breathed forth to the wandering winds.

Althea, when the deed was done, laid violent hands upon herself. The
sisters of Meleager mourned their brother with uncontrollable grief;
till Diana, pitying the sorrows of the house that once had aroused her
anger, turned them into birds.

                                ATALANTA

The innocent cause of so much sorrow was a maiden whose face you might
truly say was boyish for a girl, yet too girlish for a boy. Her fortune
had been told, and it was to this effect: “Atalanta, do not marry;
marriage will be your ruin.” Terrified by this oracle, she fled the
society of men, and devoted herself to the sports of the chase. To all
suitors (for she had many) she imposed a condition which was generally
effectual in relieving her of their persecutions,—“I will be the prize
of him who shall conquer me in the race; but death must be the penalty
of all who try and fail.” In spite of this hard condition some would
try. Hippomenes was to be judge of the race. “Can it be possible that
any will be so rash as to risk so much for a wife?” said he. But when he
saw her lay aside her robe for the race, he changed his mind, and said,
“Pardon me, youths, I knew not the prize you were competing for.” As he
surveyed them he wished them all to be beaten, and swelled with envy of
any one that seemed at all likely to win. While such were his thoughts,
the virgin darted forward. As she ran she looked more beautiful than
ever. The breezes seemed to give wings to her feet; her hair flew over
her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment fluttered behind her. A
ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin, such as a crimson curtain
casts on a marble wall. All her competitors were distanced, and were put
to death without mercy. Hippomenes, not daunted by this result, fixing
his eyes on the virgin, said, “Why boast of beating those laggards? I
offer myself for the contest.” Atalanta looked at him with a pitying
countenance, and hardly knew whether she would rather conquer him or
not. “What god can tempt one so young and handsome to throw himself
away? I pity him, not for his beauty (yet he is beautiful), but for his
youth. I wish he would give up the race, or if he will be so mad, I hope
he may outrun me.” While she hesitates, revolving these thoughts, the
spectators grow impatient for the race, and her father prompts her to
prepare. Then Hippomenes addressed a prayer to Venus: “Help me, Venus,
for you have led me on.” Venus heard and was propitious.

In the garden of her temple, in her own island of Cyprus, is a tree with
yellow leaves and yellow branches and golden fruit. Hence she gathered
three golden apples, and, unseen by any one else, gave them to
Hippomenes, and told him how to use them. The signal is given; each
starts from the goal and skims over the sand. So light their tread, you
would almost have thought they might run over the river surface or over
the waving grain without sinking. The cries of the spectators cheered
Hippomenes,—“Now, now, do your best! haste, haste! you gain on her!
relax not! one more effort!” It was doubtful whether the youth or the
maiden heard these cries with the greater pleasure. But his breath began
to fail him, his throat was dry, the goal yet far off. At that moment he
threw down one of the golden apples. The virgin was all amazement. She
stopped to pick it up. Hippomenes shot ahead. Shouts burst forth from
all sides. She redoubled her efforts, and soon overtook him. Again he
threw an apple. She stopped again, but again came up with him. The goal
was near; one chance only remained. “Now, goddess,” said he, “prosper
your gift!” and threw the last apple off at one side. She looked at it,
and hesitated; Venus impelled her to turn aside for it. She did so, and
was vanquished. The youth carried off his prize.

But the lovers were so full of their own happiness that they forgot to
pay due honor to Venus; and the goddess was provoked at their
ingratitude. She caused them to give offence to Cybele. That powerful
goddess was not to be insulted with impunity. She took from them their
human form and turned them into animals of characters resembling their
own: of the huntress-heroine, triumphing in the blood of her lovers, she
made a lioness, and of her lord and master a lion, and yoked them to her
car, where they are still to be seen in all representations, in statuary
or painting, of the goddess Cybele.



Cybele is the Latin name of the goddess called by the Greeks Rhea and
Ops. She was the wife of Cronos and mother of Zeus. In works of art she
exhibits the matronly air which distinguishes Juno and Ceres. Sometimes
she is veiled, and seated on a throne with lions at her side, at other
times riding in a chariot drawn by lions. She wears a mural crown, that
is, a crown whose rim is carved in the form of towers and battlements.
Her priests were called Corybantes.



Byron, in describing the city of Venice, which is built on a low island
in the Adriatic Sea, borrows an illustration from Cybele:

    “She looks a sea-Cybele fresh from ocean,
    Rising with her tiara of proud towers
    At airy distance, with majestic motion,
    A ruler of the waters and their powers.”
                        —_Childe Harold_, IV.

In Moore’s “Rhymes on the Road,” the poet, speaking of Alpine scenery,
alludes to the story of Atalanta and Hippomenes thus:

    “Even here, in this region of wonders, I find
    That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind,
    Or at least, like Hippomenes, turns her astray
    By the golden illusions he flings in her way.”

[Illustration: CIRCE.
 From painting by Burne-Jones.]

[Illustration: THE THREE FATES.
 From painting by Michael Angelo. Pitti Gallery, Florence.]

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XIX

                       HERCULES—HEBE AND GANYMEDE

                                HERCULES

HERCULES was the son of Jupiter and Alcmena. As Juno was always hostile
to the offspring of her husband by mortal mothers, she declared war
against Hercules from his birth. She sent two serpents to destroy him as
he lay in his cradle, but the precocious infant strangled them with his
own hands. He was, however, by the arts of Juno rendered subject to
Eurystheus and compelled to perform all his commands. Eurystheus
enjoined upon him a succession of desperate adventures, which are called
the “Twelve Labors of Hercules.” The first was the fight with the Nemean
lion. The valley of Nemea was infested by a terrible lion. Eurystheus
ordered Hercules to bring him the skin of this monster. After using in
vain his club and arrows against the lion, Hercules strangled the animal
with his hands. He returned carrying the dead lion on his shoulders; but
Eurystheus was so frightened at the sight of it and at this proof of the
prodigious strength of the hero, that he ordered him to deliver the
account of his exploits in future outside the town.

His next labor was the slaughter of the Hydra. This monster ravaged the
country of Argos, and dwelt in a swamp near the well of Amymone. This
well had been discovered by Amymone when the country was suffering from
drought, and the story was that Neptune, who loved her, had permitted
her to touch the rock with his trident, and a spring of three outlets
burst forth. Here the Hydra took up his position, and Hercules was sent
to destroy him. The Hydra had nine heads, of which the middle one was
immortal. Hercules struck off its heads with his club, but in the place
of the head knocked off, two new ones grew forth each time. At length
with the assistance of his faithful servant Iolaus, he burned away the
heads of the Hydra, and buried the ninth or immortal one under a huge
rock.

Another labor was the cleaning of the Augean stables. Augeas, king of
Elis, had a herd of three thousand oxen, whose stalls had not been
cleansed for thirty years. Hercules brought the rivers Alpheus and
Peneus through them, and cleansed them thoroughly in one day.

His next labor was of a more delicate kind. Admeta, the daughter of
Eurystheus, longed to obtain the girdle of the queen of the Amazons, and
Eurystheus ordered Hercules to go and get it. The Amazons were a nation
of women. They were very warlike and held several flourishing cities. It
was their custom to bring up only the female children; the boys were
either sent away to the neighboring nations or put to death. Hercules
was accompanied by a number of volunteers, and after various adventures
at last reached the country of the Amazons. Hippolyta, the queen,
received him kindly, and consented to yield him her girdle, but Juno,
taking the form of an Amazon, went and persuaded the rest that the
strangers were carrying off their queen. They instantly armed and came
in great numbers down to the ship. Hercules, thinking that Hippolyta had
acted treacherously, slew her, and taking her girdle made sail
homewards.

Another task enjoined him was to bring to Eurystheus the oxen of Geryon,
a monster with three bodies, who dwelt in the island Erytheia (the red),
so called because it lay at the west, under the rays of the setting sun.
This description is thought to apply to Spain, of which Geryon was king.
After traversing various countries, Hercules reached at length the
frontiers of Libya and Europe, where he raised the two mountains of
Calpe and Abyla, as monuments of his progress, or, according to another
account, rent one mountain into two and left half on each side, forming
the straits of Gibraltar, the two mountains being called the Pillars of
Hercules. The oxen were guarded by the giant Eurytion and his two-headed
dog, but Hercules killed the giant and his dog and brought away the oxen
in safety to Eurystheus.

The most difficult labor of all was getting the golden apples of the
Hesperides, for Hercules did not know where to find them. These were the
apples which Juno had received at her wedding from the goddess of the
Earth, and which she had intrusted to the keeping of the daughters of
Hesperus, assisted by a watchful dragon. After various adventures
Hercules arrived at Mount Atlas in Africa. Atlas was one of the Titans
who had warred against the gods, and after they were subdued, Atlas was
condemned to bear on his shoulders the weight of the heavens. He was the
father of the Hesperides, and Hercules thought might, if any one could,
find the apples and bring them to him. But how to send Atlas away from
his post, or bear up the heavens while he was gone? Hercules took the
burden on his own shoulders, and sent Atlas to seek the apples. He
returned with them, and though somewhat reluctantly, took his burden
upon his shoulders again, and let Hercules return with the apples to
Eurystheus.



Milton, in his “Comus,” makes the Hesperides the daughters of Hesperus
and nieces of Atlas:

    “. . . amidst the gardens fair
    Of Hesperus and his daughters three,
    That sing about the golden tree.”

The poets, led by the analogy of the lovely appearance of the western
sky at sunset, viewed the west as a region of brightness and glory.
Hence they placed in it the Isles of the Blest, the ruddy Isle Erythea,
on which the bright oxen of Geryon were pastured, and the Isle of the
Hesperides. The apples are supposed by some to be the oranges of Spain,
of which the Greeks had heard some obscure accounts.



A celebrated exploit of Hercules was his victory over Antæus. Antæus,
the son of Terra, the Earth, was a mighty giant and wrestler, whose
strength was invincible so long as he remained in contact with his
mother Earth. He compelled all strangers who came to his country to
wrestle with him, on condition that if conquered (as they all were) they
should be put to death. Hercules encountered him, and finding that it
was of no avail to throw him, for he always rose with renewed strength
from every fall, he lifted him up from the earth and strangled him in
the air.

Cacus was a huge giant, who inhabited a cave on Mount Aventine, and
plundered the surrounding country. When Hercules was driving home the
oxen of Geryon, Cacus stole part of the cattle, while the hero slept.
That their footprints might not serve to show where they had been
driven, he dragged them backward by their tails to his cave; so their
tracks all seemed to show that they had gone in the opposite direction.
Hercules was deceived by this stratagem, and would have failed to find
his oxen, if it had not happened that in driving the remainder of the
herd past the cave where the stolen ones were concealed, those within
began to low, and were thus discovered. Cacus was slain by Hercules.

The last exploit we shall record was bringing Cerberus from the lower
world. Hercules descended into Hades, accompanied by Mercury and
Minerva. He obtained permission from Pluto to carry Cerberus to the
upper air, provided he could do it without the use of weapons; and in
spite of the monster’s struggling, he seized him, held him fast, and
carried him to Eurystheus, and afterwards brought him back again. When
he was in Hades he obtained the liberty of Theseus, his admirer and
imitator, who had been detained a prisoner there for an unsuccessful
attempt to carry off Proserpine.

Hercules in a fit of madness killed his friend Iphitus, and was
condemned for this offence to become the slave of Queen Omphale for
three years. While in this service the hero’s nature seemed changed. He
lived effeminately, wearing at times the dress of a woman, and spinning
wool with the hand-maidens of Omphale, while the queen wore his lion’s
skin. When this service was ended he married Dejanira and lived in peace
with her three years. On one occasion as he was travelling with his
wife, they came to a river, across which the Centaur Nessus carried
travellers for a stated fee. Hercules himself forded the river, but gave
Dejanira to Nessus to be carried across. Nessus attempted to run away
with her, but Hercules heard her cries and shot an arrow into the heart
of Nessus. The dying Centaur told Dejanira to take a portion of his
blood and keep it, as it might be used as a charm to preserve the love
of her husband.

Dejanira did so and before long fancied she had occasion to use it.
Hercules in one of his conquests had taken prisoner a fair maiden, named
Iole, of whom he seemed more fond than Dejanira approved. When Hercules
was about to offer sacrifices to the gods in honor of his victory, he
sent to his wife for a white robe to use on the occasion. Dejanira,
thinking it a good opportunity to try her love-spell, steeped the
garment in the blood of Nessus. We are to suppose she took care to wash
out all traces of it, but the magic power remained, and as soon as the
garment became warm on the body of Hercules the poison penetrated into
all his limbs and caused him the most intense agony. In his frenzy he
seized Lichas, Who had brought him the fatal robe, and hurled him into
the sea. He wrenched off the garment, but it stuck to his flesh, and
with it he tore away whole pieces of his body. In this state he embarked
on board a ship and was conveyed home. Dejanira, on seeing what she had
unwittingly done, hung herself. Hercules, prepared to die, ascended
Mount Œta, where he built a funeral pile of trees, gave his bow and
arrows to Philoctetes, and laid himself down on the pile, his head
resting on his club, and his lion’s skin spread over him. With a
countenance as serene as if he were taking his place at a festal board
he commanded Philoctetes to apply the torch. The flames spread apace and
soon invested the whole mass.



Milton thus alludes to the frenzy of Hercules:

    “As when Alcides,[18] from Œchalia crowned
    With conquest, felt the envenomed robe, and tore,
    Through pain, up by the roots Thessalian pines
    And Lichas from the top of Œta threw
    Into the Euboic Sea.”

The gods themselves felt troubled at seeing the champion of the earth so
brought to his end. But Jupiter with cheerful countenance thus addressed
them: “I am pleased to see your concern, my princes, and am gratified to
perceive that I am the ruler of a loyal people, and that my son enjoys
your favor. For although your interest in him arises from his noble
deeds, yet it is not the less gratifying to me. But now I say to you,
Fear not. He who conquered all else is not to be conquered by those
flames which you see blazing on Mount Œta. Only his mother’s share in
him can perish; what he derived from me is immortal. I shall take him,
dead to earth, to the heavenly shores, and I require of you all to
receive him kindly. If any of you feel grieved at his attaining this
honor, yet no one can deny that he has deserved it.” The gods all gave
their assent; Juno only heard the closing words with some displeasure
that she should be so particularly pointed at, yet not enough to make
her regret the determination of her husband. So when the flames had
consumed the mother’s share of Hercules, the diviner part, instead of
being injured thereby, seemed to start forth with new vigor, to assume a
more lofty port and a more awful dignity. Jupiter enveloped him in a
cloud, and took him up in a four-horse chariot to dwell among the stars.
As he took his place in heaven, Atlas felt the added weight.

Juno, now reconciled to him, gave him her daughter Hebe in marriage.



The poet Schiller, in one of his pieces called the “Ideal and Life,”
illustrates the contrast between the practical and the imaginative in
some beautiful stanzas, of which the last two may be thus translated:

    “Deep degraded to a coward’s slave,
    Endless contests bore Alcides brave,
    Through the thorny path of suffering led;
    Slew the Hydra, crushed the lion’s might,
    Threw himself, to bring his friend to light,
    Living, in the skiff that bears the dead.
    All the torments, every toil of earth
    Juno’s hatred on him could impose,
    Well he bore them, from his fated birth
    To life’s grandly mournful close.

    “Till the god, the earthly part forsaken,
    From the man in flames asunder taken,
    Drank the heavenly ether’s purer breath.
    Joyous in the new unwonted lightness,
    Soared he upwards to celestial brightness,
    Earth’s dark heavy burden lost in death.
    High Olympus gives harmonious greeting
    To the hall where reigns his sire adored;
    Youth’s bright goddess, with a blush at meeting,
    Gives the nectar to her lord.”
                                  —_S. G. B._

                           HEBE AND GANYMEDE

Hebe, the daughter of Juno, and goddess of youth, was cup-bearer to the
gods. The usual story is that she resigned her office on becoming the
wife of Hercules. But there is another statement which our countryman
Crawford, the sculptor, has adopted in his group of Hebe and Ganymede,
now in the Athenæum gallery. According to this, Hebe was dismissed from
her office in consequence of a fall which she met with one day when in
attendance on the gods. Her successor was Ganymede, a Trojan boy, whom
Jupiter, in the disguise of an eagle, seized and carried off from the
midst of his playfellows on Mount Ida, bore up to heaven, and installed
in the vacant place.



Tennyson, in his “Palace of Art,” describes among the decorations on the
walls a picture representing this legend:

    “There, too, flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh
      Half buried in the eagle’s down,
    Sole as a flying star shot through the sky
      Above the pillared town.”

And in Shelley’s “Prometheus” Jupiter calls to his cup-bearer thus:

    “Pour forth heaven’s wine, Idæan Ganymede,
    And let it fill the Dædal cups like fire.”

The beautiful legend of the “Choice of Hercules” may be found in the
“Tatler,” No. 97.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER XX

                   THESEUS—DÆDALUS—CASTOR AND POLLUX

                                THESEUS

THESEUS was the son of Ægeus, king of Athens, and of Æthra, daughter of
the king of Trœzen. He was brought up at Trœzen, and when arrived at
manhood was to proceed to Athens and present himself to his father.
Ægeus on parting from Æthra, before the birth of his son, placed his
sword and shoes under a large stone and directed her to send his son to
him when he became strong enough to roll away the stone and take them
from under it. When she thought the time had come, his mother led
Theseus to the stone, and he removed it with ease and took the sword and
shoes. As the roads were infested with robbers, his grandfather pressed
him earnestly to take the shorter and safer way to his father’s
country—by sea; but the youth, feeling in himself the spirit and the
soul of a hero, and eager to signalize himself like Hercules, with whose
fame all Greece then rang, by destroying the evil-doers and monsters
that oppressed the country, determined on the more perilous and
adventurous journey by land.

His first day’s journey brought him to Epidaurus, where dwelt a man
named Periphetes, a son of Vulcan. This ferocious savage always went
armed with a club of iron, and all travellers stood in terror of his
violence. When he saw Theseus approach he assailed him, but speedily
fell beneath the blows of the young hero, who took possession of his
club and bore it ever afterwards as a memorial of his first victory.

Several similar contests with the petty tyrants and marauders of the
country followed, in all of which Theseus was victorious. One of these
evil-doers was called Procrustes, or the Stretcher. He had an iron
bedstead, on which he used to tie all travellers who fell into his
hands. If they were shorter than the bed, he stretched their limbs to
make them fit it; if they were longer than the bed, he lopped off a
portion. Theseus served him as he had served others.

Having overcome all the perils of the road, Theseus at length reached
Athens, where new dangers awaited him. Medea, the sorceress, who had
fled from Corinth after her separation from Jason, had become the wife
of Ægeus, the father of Theseus. Knowing by her arts who he was, and
fearing the loss of her influence with her husband if Theseus should be
acknowledged as his son, she filled the mind of Ægeus with suspicions of
the young stranger, and induced him to present him a cup of poison; but
at the moment when Theseus stepped forward to take it, the sight of the
sword which he wore discovered to his father who he was, and prevented
the fatal draught. Medea, detected in her arts, fled once more from
deserved punishment, and arrived in Asia, where the country afterwards
called Medea received its name from her. Theseus was acknowledged by his
father, and declared his successor.

The Athenians were at that time in deep affliction, on account of the
tribute which they were forced to pay to Minos, king of Crete. This
tribute consisted of seven youths and seven maidens, who were sent every
year to be devoured by the Minotaur, a monster with a bull’s body and a
human head. It was exceedingly strong and fierce, and was kept in a
labyrinth constructed by Dædalus, so artfully contrived that whoever was
enclosed in it could by no means find his way out unassisted. Here the
Minotaur roamed, and was fed with human victims.

Theseus resolved to deliver his countrymen from this calamity, or to die
in the attempt. Accordingly, when the time of sending off the tribute
came, and the youths and maidens were, according to custom, drawn by lot
to be sent, he offered himself as one of the victims, in spite of the
entreaties of his father. The ship departed under black sails, as usual,
which Theseus promised his father to change for white, in case of his
returning victorious. When they arrived in Crete, the youths and maidens
were exhibited before Minos; and Ariadne, the daughter of the king,
being present, became deeply enamored of Theseus, by whom her love was
readily returned. She furnished him with a sword, with which to
encounter the Minotaur, and with a clew of thread by which he might find
his way out of the labyrinth. He was successful, slew the Minotaur,
escaped from the labyrinth, and taking Ariadne as the companion of his
way, with his rescued companions sailed for Athens. On their way they
stopped at the island of Naxos, where Theseus abandoned Ariadne, leaving
her asleep.[19] His excuse for this ungrateful treatment of his
benefactress was that Minerva appeared to him in a dream and commanded
him to do so.

On approaching the coast of Attica, Theseus forgot the signal appointed
by his father, and neglected to raise the white sails, and the old king,
thinking his son had perished, put an end to his own life. Theseus thus
became king of Athens.

One of the most celebrated of the adventures of Theseus is his
expedition against the Amazons. He assailed them before they had
recovered from the attack of Hercules, and carried off their queen
Antiope. The Amazons in their turn invaded the country of Athens and
penetrated into the city itself; and the final battle in which Theseus
overcame them was fought in the very midst of the city. This battle was
one of the favorite subjects of the ancient sculptors, and is
commemorated in several works of art that are still extant.

The friendship between Theseus and Pirithous was of a most intimate
nature, yet it originated in the midst of arms. Pirithous had made an
irruption into the plain of Marathon, and carried off the herds of the
king of Athens. Theseus went to repel the plunderers. The moment
Pirithous beheld him, he was seized with admiration; he stretched out
his hand as a token of peace, and cried, “Be judge thyself—what
satisfaction dost thou require?” “Thy friendship,” replied the Athenian,
and they swore inviolable fidelity. Their deeds corresponded to their
professions, and they ever continued true brothers in arms. Each of them
aspired to espouse a daughter of Jupiter. Theseus fixed his choice on
Helen, then but a child, afterwards so celebrated as the cause of the
Trojan war, and with the aid of his friend he carried her off. Pirithous
aspired to the wife of the monarch of Erebus; and Theseus, though aware
of the danger, accompanied the ambitious lover in his descent to the
under-world. But Pluto seized and set them on an enchanted rock at his
palace gate, where they remained till Hercules arrived and liberated
Theseus, leaving Pirithous to his fate.

After the death of Antiope, Theseus married Phædra, daughter of Minos,
king of Crete. Phædra saw in Hippolytus, the son of Theseus, a youth
endowed with all the graces and virtues of his father, and of an age
corresponding to her own. She loved him, but he repulsed her advances,
and her love was changed to hate. She used her influence over her
infatuated husband to cause him to be jealous of his son, and he
imprecated the vengeance of Neptune upon him. As Hippolytus was one day
driving his chariot along the shore, a sea-monster raised himself above
the waters, and frightened the horses so that they ran away and dashed
the chariot to pieces. Hippolytus was killed, but by Diana’s assistance
Æsculapius restored him to life. Diana removed Hippolytus from the power
of his deluded father and false stepmother, and placed him in Italy
under the protection of the nymph Egeria.

Theseus at length lost the favor of his people, and retired to the court
of Lycomedes, king of Scyros, who at first received him kindly, but
afterwards treacherously slew him. In a later age the Athenian general
Cimon discovered the place where his remains were laid, and caused them
to be removed to Athens, where they were deposited in a temple called
the Theseum, erected in honor of the hero.



The queen of the Amazons whom Theseus espoused is by some called
Hippolyta. That is the name she bears in Shakspeare’s “Midsummer Night’s
Dream,”—the subject of which is the festivities attending the nuptials
of Theseus and Hippolyta.

Mrs. Hemans has a poem on the ancient Greek tradition that the “Shade of
Theseus” appeared strengthening his countrymen at the battle of
Marathon.

Theseus is a semi-historical personage. It is recorded of him that he
united the several tribes by whom the territory of Attica was then
possessed into one state, of which Athens was the capital. In
commemoration of this important event, he instituted the festival of
Panathenæa, in honor of Minerva, the patron deity of Athens. This
festival differed from the other Grecian games chiefly in two
particulars. It was peculiar to the Athenians, and its chief feature was
a solemn procession in which the Peplus, or sacred robe of Minerva, was
carried to the Parthenon, and suspended before the statue of the
goddess. The Peplus was covered with embroidery, worked by select
virgins of the noblest families in Athens. The procession consisted of
persons of all ages and both sexes. The old men carried olive branches
in their hands, and the young men bore arms. The young women carried
baskets on their heads, containing the sacred utensils, cakes, and all
things necessary for the sacrifices. The procession formed the subject
of the bas-reliefs which embellished the outside of the temple of the
Parthenon. A considerable portion of these sculptures is now in the
British Museum among those known as the “Elgin marbles.”

                        OLYMPIC AND OTHER GAMES

It seems not inappropriate to mention here the other celebrated national
games of the Greeks. The first and most distinguished were the Olympic,
founded, it was said, by Jupiter himself. They were celebrated at
Olympia in Elis. Vast numbers of spectators flocked to them from every
part of Greece, and from Asia, Africa, and Sicily. They were repeated
every fifth year in midsummer, and continued five days. They gave rise
to the custom of reckoning time and dating events by Olympiads. The
first Olympiad is generally considered as corresponding with the year
776 B.C. The Pythian games were celebrated in the vicinity of Delphi,
the Isthmian on the Corinthian isthmus, the Nemean at Nemea, a city of
Argolis.

The exercises in these games were of five sorts: running, leaping,
wrestling, throwing the quoit, and hurling the javelin, or boxing.
Besides these exercises of bodily strength and agility, there were
contests in music, poetry, and eloquence. Thus these games furnished
poets, musicians, and authors the best opportunities to present their
productions to the public, and the fame of the victors was diffused far
and wide.

                                DÆDALUS

The labyrinth from which Theseus escaped by means of the clew of Ariadne
was built by Dædalus, a most skilful artificer. It was an edifice with
numberless winding passages and turnings opening into one another, and
seeming to have neither beginning nor end, like the river Mæander, which
returns on itself, and flows now onward, now backward, in its course to
the sea. Dædalus built the labyrinth for King Minos, but afterwards lost
the favor of the king, and was shut up in a tower. He contrived to make
his escape from his prison, but could not leave the island by sea, as
the king kept strict watch on all the vessels, and permitted none to
sail without being carefully searched. “Minos may control the land and
sea,” said Dædalus, “but not the regions of the air. I will try that
way.” So he set to work to fabricate wings for himself and his young son
Icarus. He wrought feathers together, beginning with the smallest and
adding larger, so as to form an increasing surface. The larger ones he
secured with thread and the smaller with wax, and gave the whole a
gentle curvature like the wings of a bird. Icarus, the boy, stood and
looked on, sometimes running to gather up the feathers which the wind
had blown away, and then handling the wax and working it over with his
fingers, by his play impeding his father in his labors. When at last the
work was done, the artist, waving his wings, found himself buoyed
upward, and hung suspended, poising himself on the beaten air. He next
equipped his son in the same manner, and taught him how to fly, as a
bird tempts her young ones from the lofty nest into the air. When all
was prepared for flight he said, “Icarus, my son, I charge you to keep
at a moderate height, for if you fly too low the damp will clog your
wings, and if too high the heat will melt them. Keep near me and you
will be safe.” While he gave him these instructions and fitted the wings
to his shoulders, the face of the father was wet with tears, and his
hands trembled. He kissed the boy, not knowing that it was for the last
time. Then rising on his wings, he flew off, encouraging him to follow,
and looked back from his own flight to see how his son managed his
wings. As they flew the ploughman stopped his work to gaze, and the
shepherd leaned on his staff and watched them, astonished at the sight,
and thinking they were gods who could thus cleave the air.

They passed Samos and Delos on the left and Lebynthos on the right, when
the boy, exulting in his career, began to leave the guidance of his
companion and soar upward as if to reach heaven. The nearness of the
blazing sun softened the wax which held the feathers together, and they
came off. He fluttered with his arms, but no feathers remained to hold
the air. While his mouth uttered cries to his father it was submerged in
the blue waters of the sea, which thenceforth was called by his name.
His father cried, “Icarus, Icarus, where are you?” At last he saw the
feathers floating on the water, and bitterly lamenting his own arts, he
buried the body and called the land Icaria in memory of his child.
Dædalus arrived safe in Sicily, where he built a temple to Apollo, and
hung up his wings, an offering to the god.

Dædalus was so proud of his achievements that he could not bear the idea
of a rival. His sister had placed her son Perdix under his charge to be
taught the mechanical arts. He was an apt scholar and gave striking
evidences of ingenuity. Walking on the seashore he picked up the spine
of a fish. Imitating it, he took a piece of iron and notched it on the
edge, and thus invented the _saw_. He put two pieces of iron together,
connecting them at one end with a rivet, and sharpening the other ends,
and made a _pair of compasses_. Dædalus was so envious of his nephew’s
performances that he took an opportunity, when they were together one
day on the top of a high tower, to push him off. But Minerva, who favors
ingenuity, saw him falling, and arrested his fate by changing him into a
bird called after his name, the Partridge. This bird does not build his
nest in the trees, nor take lofty flights, but nestles in the hedges,
and mindful of his fall, avoids high places.

The death of Icarus is told in the following lines by Darwin:

    “. . . with melting wax and loosened strings
    Sunk hapless Icarus on unfaithful wings;
    Headlong he rushed through the affrighted air,
    With limbs distorted and dishevelled hair;
    His scattered plumage danced upon the wave,
    And sorrowing Nereids decked his watery grave;
    O’er his pale corse their pearly sea-flowers shed,
    And strewed with crimson moss his marble bed;
    Struck in their coral towers the passing bell,
    And wide in ocean tolled his echoing knell.”

                           CASTOR AND POLLUX

Castor and Pollux were the offspring of Leda and the Swan, under which
disguise Jupiter had concealed himself. Leda gave birth to an egg from
which sprang the twins. Helen, so famous afterwards as the cause of the
Trojan war, was their sister.

When Theseus and his friend Pirithous had carried off Helen from Sparta,
the youthful heroes Castor and Pollux, with their followers, hastened to
her rescue. Theseus was absent from Attica and the brothers were
successful in recovering their sister.

Castor was famous for taming and managing horses, and Pollux for skill
in boxing. They were united by the warmest affection and inseparable in
all their enterprises. They accompanied the Argonautic expedition.
During the voyage a storm arose, and Orpheus prayed to the Samothracian
gods, and played on his harp, whereupon the storm ceased and stars
appeared on the heads of the brothers. From this incident, Castor and
Pollux came afterwards to be considered the patron deities of seamen and
voyagers, and the lambent flames, which in certain states of the
atmosphere play round the sails and masts of vessels, were called by
their names.

After the Argonautic expedition, we find Castor and Pollux engaged in a
war with Idas and Lynceus. Castor was slain, and Pollux, inconsolable
for the loss of his brother, besought Jupiter to be permitted to give
his own life as a ransom for him. Jupiter so far consented as to allow
the two brothers to enjoy the boon of life alternately, passing one day
under the earth and the next in the heavenly abodes. According to
another form of the story, Jupiter rewarded the attachment of the
brothers by placing them among the stars as Gemini the Twins.

They received divine honors under the name of Dioscuri (sons of Jove).
They were believed to have appeared occasionally in later times, taking
part with one side or the other, in hard-fought fields, and were said on
such occasions to be mounted on magnificent white steeds. Thus in the
early history of Rome they are said to have assisted the Romans at the
battle of Lake Regillus, and after the victory a temple was erected in
their honor on the spot where they appeared.



Macaulay, in his “Lays of Ancient Rome,” thus alludes to the legend:

    “So like they were, no mortal
      Might one from other know;
    White as snow their armor was,
      Their steeds were white as snow.
    Never on earthly anvil
      Did such rare armor gleam,
    And never did such gallant steeds
      Drink of an earthly stream.
      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
    “Back comes the chief in triumph
      Who in the hour of fight
    Hath seen the great Twin Brethren
      In harness on his right.
    Safe comes the ship to haven,
      Through billows and through gales,
    If once the great Twin Brethren
      Sit shining on the sails.”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XXI

                            BACCHUS—ARIADNE

                                BACCHUS

BACCHUS was the son of Jupiter and Semele. Juno, to gratify her
resentment against Semele, contrived a plan for her destruction.
Assuming the form of Beroë, her aged nurse, she insinuated doubts
whether it was indeed Jove himself who came as a lover. Heaving a sigh,
she said, “I hope it will turn out so, but I can’t help being afraid.
People are not always what they pretend to be. If he is indeed Jove,
make him give some proof of it. Ask him to come arrayed in all his
splendors, such as he wears in heaven. That will put the matter beyond a
doubt.” Semele was persuaded to try the experiment. She asks a favor,
without naming what it is. Jove gives his promise, and confirms it with
the irrevocable oath, attesting the river Styx, terrible to the gods
themselves. Then she made known her request. The god would have stopped
her as she spake, but she was too quick for him. The words escaped, and
he could neither unsay his promise nor her request. In deep distress he
left her and returned to the upper regions. There he clothed himself in
his splendors, not putting on all his terrors, as when he overthrew the
giants, but what is known among the gods as his lesser panoply. Arrayed
in this, he entered the chamber of Semele. Her mortal frame could not
endure the splendors of the immortal radiance. She was consumed to
ashes.

Jove took the infant Bacchus and gave him in charge to the Nysæan
nymphs, who nourished his infancy and childhood, and for their care were
rewarded by Jupiter by being placed, as the Hyades, among the stars.
When Bacchus grew up he discovered the culture of the vine and the mode
of extracting its precious juice; but Juno struck him with madness, and
drove him forth a wanderer through various parts of the earth. In
Phrygia the goddess Rhea cured him and taught him her religious rites,
and he set out on a progress through Asia, teaching the people the
cultivation of the vine. The most famous part of his wanderings is his
expedition to India, which is said to have lasted several years.
Returning in triumph, he undertook to introduce his worship into Greece,
but was opposed by some princes, who dreaded its introduction on account
of the disorders and madness it brought with it.

As he approached his native city Thebes, Pentheus the king, who had no
respect for the new worship, forbade its rites to be performed. But when
it was known that Bacchus was advancing, men and women, but chiefly the
latter, young and old, poured forth to meet him and to join his
triumphal march.



Mr. Longfellow in his “Drinking Song” thus describes the march of
Bacchus:

    “Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow;
      Ivy crowns that brow, supernal
    As the forehead of Apollo,
      And possessing youth eternal.

    “Round about him fair Bacchantes,
      Bearing cymbals, flutes and thyrses,
    Wild from Naxian groves of Zante’s
      Vineyards, sing delirious verses.”

It was in vain Pentheus remonstrated, commanded, and threatened. “Go,”
said he to his attendants, “seize this vagabond leader of the rout and
bring him to me. I will soon make him confess his false claim of
heavenly parentage and renounce his counterfeit worship.” It was in vain
his nearest friends and wisest counsellors remonstrated and begged him
not to oppose the god. Their remonstrances only made him more violent.

But now the attendants returned whom he had despatched to seize Bacchus.
They had been driven away by the Bacchanals, but had succeeded in taking
one of them prisoner, whom, with his hands tied behind him, they brought
before the king. Pentheus, beholding him with wrathful countenance,
said, “Fellow! you shall speedily be put to death, that your fate may be
a warning to others; but though I grudge the delay of your punishment,
speak, tell us who you are, and what are these new rites you presume to
celebrate.”

The prisoner, unterrified, responded, “My name is Acetes; my country is
Mæonia; my parents were poor people, who had no fields or flocks to
leave me, but they left me their fishing rods and nets and their
fisherman’s trade. This I followed for some time, till growing weary of
remaining in one place, I learned the pilot’s art and how to guide my
course by the stars. It happened as I was sailing for Delos we touched
at the island of Dia and went ashore. Next morning I sent the men for
fresh water, and myself mounted the hill to observe the wind; when my
men returned bringing with them a prize, as they thought, a boy of
delicate appearance, whom they had found asleep. They judged he was a
noble youth, perhaps a king’s son, and they might get a liberal ransom
for him. I observed his dress, his walk, his face. There was something
in them which I felt sure was more than mortal. I said to my men, ‘What
god there is concealed in that form I know not, but some one there
certainly is. Pardon us, gentle deity, for the violence we have done
you, and give success to our undertakings.’ Dictys, one of my best hands
for climbing the mast and coming down by the ropes, and Melanthus, my
steersman, and Epopeus, the leader of the sailor’s cry, one and all
exclaimed, ‘Spare your prayers for us.’ So blind is the lust of gain!
When they proceeded to put him on board I resisted them. ‘This ship
shall not be profaned by such impiety,’ said I. ‘I have a greater share
in her than any of you.’ But Lycabas, a turbulent fellow, seized me by
the throat and attempted to throw me overboard, and I scarcely saved
myself by clinging to the ropes. The rest approved the deed.

“Then Bacchus (for it was indeed he), as if shaking off his drowsiness,
exclaimed, ‘What are you doing with me? What is this fighting about? Who
brought me here? Where are you going to carry me?’ One of them replied,
‘Fear nothing; tell us where you wish to go and we will take you there.’
‘Naxos is my home,’ said Bacchus; ‘take me there and you shall be well
rewarded.’ They promised so to do, and told me to pilot the ship to
Naxos. Naxos lay to the right, and I was trimming the sails to carry us
there, when some by signs and others by whispers signified to me their
will that I should sail in the opposite direction, and take the boy to
Egypt to sell him for a slave. I was confounded and said, ‘Let some one
else pilot the ship;’ withdrawing myself from any further agency in
their wickedness. They cursed me, and one of them, exclaiming, ‘Don’t
flatter yourself that we depend on you for our safety,’ took my place as
pilot, and bore away from Naxos.

“Then the god, pretending that he had just become aware of their
treachery, looked out over the sea and said in a voice of weeping,
‘Sailors, these are not the shores you promised to take me to; yonder
island is not my home. What have I done that you should treat me so? It
is small glory you will gain by cheating a poor boy.’ I wept to hear
him, but the crew laughed at both of us, and sped the vessel fast over
the sea. All at once—strange as it may seem, it is true,—the vessel
stopped, in the mid sea, as fast as if it was fixed on the ground. The
men, astonished, pulled at their oars, and spread more sail, trying to
make progress by the aid of both, but all in vain. Ivy twined round the
oars and hindered their motion, and clung to the sails, with heavy
clusters of berries. A vine, laden with grapes, ran up the mast, and
along the sides of the vessel. The sound of flutes was heard and the
odor of fragrant wine spread all around. The god himself had a chaplet
of vine leaves, and bore in his hand a spear wreathed with ivy. Tigers
crouched at his feet, and forms of lynxes and spotted panthers played
around him. The men were seized with terror or madness; some leaped
overboard; others preparing to do the same beheld their companions in
the water undergoing a change, their bodies becoming flattened and
ending in a crooked tail. One exclaimed, ‘What miracle is this!’ and as
he spoke his mouth widened, his nostrils expanded, and scales covered
all his body. Another, endeavoring to pull the oar, felt his hands
shrink up and presently to be no longer hands but fins; another, trying
to raise his arms to a rope, found he had no arms, and curving his
mutilated body, jumped into the sea. What had been his legs became the
two ends of a crescent-shaped tail. The whole crew became dolphins and
swam about the ship, now upon the surface, now under it, scattering the
spray, and spouting the water from their broad nostrils. Of twenty men I
alone was left. Trembling with fear, the god cheered me. ‘Fear not,’
said he; ‘steer towards Naxos.’ I obeyed, and when we arrived there, I
kindled the altars and celebrated the sacred rites of Bacchus.”

Pentheus here exclaimed, “We have wasted time enough on this silly
story. Take him away and have him executed without delay.” Acetes was
led away by the attendants and shut up fast in prison; but while they
were getting ready the instruments of execution the prison doors came
open of their own accord and the chains fell from his limbs, and when
they looked for him he was nowhere to be found.

Pentheus would take no warning, but instead of sending others,
determined to go himself to the scene of the solemnities. The mountain
Citheron was all alive with worshippers, and the cries of the Bacchanals
resounded on every side. The noise roused the anger of Pentheus as the
sound of a trumpet does the fire of a war-horse. He penetrated through
the wood and reached an open space where the chief scene of the orgies
met his eyes. At the same moment the women saw him; and first among them
his own mother, Agave, blinded by the god, cried out, “See there the
wild boar, the hugest monster that prowls in these woods! Come on,
sisters! I will be the first to strike the wild boar.” The whole band
rushed upon him, and while he now talks less arrogantly, now excuses
himself, and now confesses his crime and implores pardon, they press
upon him and wound him. In vain he cries to his aunts to protect him
from his mother. Autonoë seized one arm, Ino the other, and between them
he was torn to pieces, while his mother shouted, “Victory! Victory! we
have done it; the glory is ours!”

So the worship of Bacchus was established in Greece.



There is an allusion to the story of Bacchus and the mariners in
Milton’s “Comus,” at line 46. The story of Circe will be found in
Chapter XXIX.

    “Bacchus that first from out the purple grapes
    Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine,
    After the Tuscan mariners transformed,
    Coasting the Tyrrhene shore as the winds listed
    On Circe’s island fell (who knows not Circe,
    The daughter of the Sun? whose charmed cup
    Whoever tasted lost his upright shape,
    And downward fell into a grovelling swine).”

                                ARIADNE

We have seen in the story of Theseus how Ariadne, the daughter of King
Minos, after helping Theseus to escape from the labyrinth, was carried
by him to the island of Naxos and was left there asleep, while the
ungrateful Theseus pursued his way home without her. Ariadne, on waking
and finding herself deserted, abandoned herself to grief. But Venus took
pity on her, and consoled her with the promise that she should have an
immortal lover, instead of the mortal one she had lost.

The island where Ariadne was left was the favorite island of Bacchus,
the same that he wished the Tyrrhenian mariners to carry him to, when
they so treacherously attempted to make prize of him. As Ariadne sat
lamenting her fate, Bacchus found her, consoled her, and made her his
wife. As a marriage present he gave her a golden crown, enriched with
gems, and when she died, he took her crown and threw it up into the sky.
As it mounted the gems grew brighter and were turned into stars, and
preserving its form Ariadne’s crown remains fixed in the heavens as a
constellation, between the kneeling Hercules and the man who holds the
serpent.



Spenser alludes to Ariadne’s crown, though he has made some mistakes in
his mythology. It was at the wedding of Pirithous, and not Theseus, that
the Centaurs and Lapithæ quarrelled.

      “Look how the crown which Ariadne wore
      Upon her ivory forehead that same day
      That Theseus her unto his bridal bore,
      Then the bold Centaurs made that bloody fray
      With the fierce Lapiths which did them dismay;
      Being now placed in the firmament,
      Through the bright heaven doth her beams display,
      And is unto the stars an ornament,
    Which round about her move in order excellent.”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XXII

  THE RURAL DEITIES—ERISICHTHON—RHŒCUS—THE WATER DEITIES—CAMENÆ—WINDS

                           THE RURAL DEITIES

PAN, the god of woods and fields, of flocks and shepherds, dwelt in
grottos, wandered on the mountains and in valleys, and amused himself
with the chase or in leading the dances of the nymphs. He was fond of
music, and as we have seen, the inventor of the syrinx, or shepherd’s
pipe, which he himself played in a masterly manner. Pan, like other gods
who dwelt in forests, was dreaded by those whose occupations caused them
to pass through the woods by night, for the gloom and loneliness of such
scenes dispose the mind to superstitious fears. Hence sudden fright
without any visible cause was ascribed to Pan, and called a Panic
terror.

As the name of the god signifies _all_, Pan came to be considered a
symbol of the universe and personification of Nature; and later still to
be regarded as a representative of all the gods and of heathenism
itself.

Sylvanus and Faunus were Latin divinities, whose characteristics are so
nearly the same as those of Pan that we may safely consider them as the
same personage under different names.

The wood-nymphs, Pan’s partners in the dance, were but one class of
nymphs. There were beside them the Naiads, who presided over brooks and
fountains, the Oreads, nymphs of mountains and grottos, and the Nereids,
sea-nymphs. The three last named were immortal, but the wood-nymphs,
called Dryads or Hamadryads, were believed to perish with the trees
which had been their abode and with which they had come into existence.
It was therefore an impious act wantonly to destroy a tree, and in some
aggravated cases were severely punished, as in the instance of
Erisichthon, which we are about to record.



Milton in his glowing description of the early creation, thus alludes to
Pan as the personification of Nature:

    “. . . Universal Pan,
    Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,
    Led on the eternal spring.”

And describing Eve’s abode:

    “. . . In shadier bower,
    More sacred or sequestered, though but feigned,
    Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor nymph
    Nor Faunus haunted.”
                           —_Paradise Lost_, B. IV.

It was a pleasing trait in the old Paganism that it loved to trace in
every operation of nature the agency of deity. The imagination of the
Greeks peopled all the regions of earth and sea with divinities, to
whose agency it attributed those phenomena which our philosophy ascribes
to the operation of the laws of nature. Sometimes in our poetical moods
we feel disposed to regret the change, and to think that the heart has
lost as much as the head has gained by the substitution. The poet
Wordsworth thus strongly expresses this sentiment:

    “. . . Great God, I’d rather be
    A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn,
    So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
    Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
    Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,
    And hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.”

Schiller, in his poem “Die Götter Griechenlands,” expresses his regret
for the overthrow of the beautiful mythology of ancient times in a way
which has called forth an answer from a Christian poet, Mrs. E. Barrett
Browning, in her poem called “The Dead Pan.” The two following verses
are a specimen:

    “By your beauty which confesses
    Some chief Beauty conquering you,
    By our grand heroic guesses
    Through your falsehood at the True,
    We will weep _not_! earth shall roll
    Heir to each god’s aureole,
                    And Pan is dead.

    “Earth outgrows the mythic fancies
    Sung beside her in her youth;
    And those debonaire romances
    Sound but dull beside the truth.
    Phœbus’ chariot course is run!
    Look up, poets, to the sun!
                    Pan, Pan is dead.”

These lines are founded on an early Christian tradition that when the
heavenly host told the shepherds at Bethlehem of the birth of Christ, a
deep groan, heard through all the isles of Greece, told that the great
Pan was dead, and that all the royalty of Olympus was dethroned and the
several deities were sent wandering in cold and darkness. So Milton in
his “Hymn on the Nativity”:

    “The lonely mountains o’er,
    And the resounding shore,
      A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
    From haunted spring and dale,
    Edged with poplar pale,
      The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
    With flower-enwoven tresses torn,
    The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.”

                              ERISICHTHON

Erisichthon was a profane person and a despiser of the gods. On one
occasion he presumed to violate with the axe a grove sacred to Ceres.
There stood in this grove a venerable oak so large that it seemed a wood
in itself, its ancient trunk towering aloft, whereon votive garlands
were often hung and inscriptions carved expressing the gratitude of
suppliants to the nymph of the tree. Often had the Dryads danced round
it hand in hand. Its trunk measured fifteen cubits round, and it
overtopped the other trees as they overtopped the shrubbery. But for all
that, Erisichthon saw no reason why he should spare it and he ordered
his servants to cut it down. When he saw them hesitate he snatched an
axe from one, and thus impiously exclaimed: “I care not whether it be a
tree beloved of the goddess or not; were it the goddess herself it
should come down if it stood in my way.” So saying, he lifted the axe
and the oak seemed to shudder and utter a groan. When the first blow
fell upon the trunk blood flowed from the wound. All the bystanders were
horror-struck, and one of them ventured to remonstrate and hold back the
fatal axe. Erisichthon, with a scornful look, said to him, “Receive the
reward of your piety;” and turned against him the weapon which he had
held aside from the tree, gashed his body with many wounds, and cut off
his head. Then from the midst of the oak came a voice, “I who dwell in
this tree am a nymph beloved of Ceres, and dying by your hands forewarn
you that punishment awaits you.” He desisted not from his crime, and at
last the tree, sundered by repeated blows and drawn by ropes, fell with
a crash and prostrated a great part of the grove in its fall.

The Dryads in dismay at the loss of their companion and at seeing the
pride of the forest laid low, went in a body to Ceres, all clad in
garments of mourning, and invoked punishment upon Erisichthon. She
nodded her assent, and as she bowed her head the grain ripe for harvest
in the laden fields bowed also. She planned a punishment so dire that
one would pity him, if such a culprit as he could be pitied,—to deliver
him over to Famine. As Ceres herself could not approach Famine, for the
Fates have ordained that these two goddesses shall never come together,
she called an Oread from her mountain and spoke to her in these words:
“There is a place in the farthest part of ice-clad Scythia, a sad and
sterile region without trees and without crops. Cold dwells there, and
Fear and Shuddering, and Famine. Go and tell the last to take possession
of the bowels of Erisichthon. Let not abundance subdue her, nor the
power of my gifts drive her away. Be not alarmed at the distance” (for
Famine dwells very far from Ceres), “but take my chariot. The dragons
are fleet and obey the rein, and will take you through the air in a
short time.” So she gave her the reins, and she drove away and soon
reached Scythia. On arriving at Mount Caucasus she stopped the dragons
and found Famine in a stony field, pulling up with teeth and claws the
scanty herbage. Her hair was rough, her eyes sunk, her face pale, her
lips blanched, her jaws covered with dust, and her skin drawn tight, so
as to show all her bones. As the Oread saw her afar off (for she did not
dare to come near), she delivered the commands of Ceres; and, though she
stopped as short a time as possible, and kept her distance as well as
she could, yet she began to feel hungry, and turned the dragons’ heads
and drove back to Thessaly.

Famine obeyed the commands of Ceres and sped through the air to the
dwelling of Erisichthon, entered the bedchamber of the guilty man, and
found him asleep. She enfolded him with her wings and breathed herself
into him, infusing her poison into his veins. Having discharged her
task, she hastened to leave the land of plenty and returned to her
accustomed haunts. Erisichthon still slept, and in his dreams craved
food, and moved his jaws as if eating. When he awoke, his hunger was
raging. Without a moment’s delay he would have food set before him, of
whatever kind earth, sea, or air produces; and complained of hunger even
while he ate. What would have sufficed for a city or a nation, was not
enough for him. The more he ate the more he craved. His hunger was like
the sea, which receives all the rivers, yet is never filled; or like
fire, that burns all the fuel that is heaped upon it, yet is still
voracious for more.

His property rapidly diminished under the unceasing demands of his
appetite, but his hunger continued unabated. At length he had spent all
and had only his daughter left, a daughter worthy of a better parent.
_Her too he sold._ She scorned to be the slave of a purchaser and as she
stood by the seaside raised her hands in prayer to Neptune. He heard her
prayer, and though her new master was not far off and had his eye upon
her a moment before, Neptune changed her form and made her assume that
of a fisherman busy at his occupation. Her master, looking for her and
seeing her in her altered form, addressed her and said, “Good fisherman,
whither went the maiden whom I saw just now, with hair dishevelled and
in humble garb, standing about where you stand? Tell me truly; so may
your luck be good and not a fish nibble at your hook and get away.” She
perceived that her prayer was answered and rejoiced inwardly at hearing
herself inquired of about herself. She replied, “Pardon me, stranger,
but I have been so intent upon my line that I have seen nothing else;
but I wish I may never catch another fish if I believe any woman or
other person except myself to have been hereabouts for some time.” He
was deceived and went his way, thinking his slave had escaped. Then she
resumed her own form. Her father was well pleased to find her still with
him, and the money too that he got by the sale of her; so he sold her
again. But she was changed by the favor of Neptune as often as she was
sold, now into a horse, now a bird, now an ox, and now a stag,—got away
from her purchasers and came home. By this base method the starving
father procured food; but not enough for his wants, and at last hunger
compelled him to devour his limbs, and he strove to nourish his body by
eating his body, till death relieved him from the vengeance of Ceres.

                                 RHŒCUS

The Hamadryads could appreciate services as well as punish injuries. The
story of Rhœcus proves this. Rhœcus, happening to see an oak just ready
to fall, ordered his servants to prop it up. The nymph, who had been on
the point of perishing with the tree, came and expressed her gratitude
to him for having saved her life and bade him ask what reward he would.
Rhœcus boldly asked her love and the nymph yielded to his desire. She at
the same time charged him to be constant and told him that a bee should
be her messenger and let him know when she would admit his society. One
time the bee came to Rhœcus when he was playing at draughts and he
carelessly brushed it away. This so incensed the nymph that she deprived
him of sight.



Our countryman, J. R. Lowell, has taken this story for the subject of
one of his shorter poems. He introduces it thus:

    “Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,
    As full of freedom, youth and beauty still,
    As the immortal freshness of that grace
    Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.”

                           THE WATER DEITIES

Oceanus and Tethys were the Titans who ruled over the watery element.
When Jove and his brothers overthrew the Titans and assumed their power,
Neptune and Amphitrite succeeded to the dominion of the waters in place
of Oceanus and Tethys.

                                NEPTUNE

Neptune was the chief of the water deities. The symbol of his power was
the trident, or spear with three points, with which he used to shatter
rocks, to call forth or subdue storms, to shake the shores and the like.
He created the horse and was the patron of horse races. His own horses
had brazen hoofs and golden manes. They drew his chariot over the sea,
which became smooth before him, while the monsters of the deep gambolled
about his path.

                               AMPHITRITE

Amphitrite was the wife of Neptune. She was the daughter of Nereus and
Doris, and the mother of Triton. Neptune, to pay his court to
Amphitrite, came riding on a dolphin. Having won her he rewarded the
dolphin by placing him among the stars.

                            NEREUS AND DORIS

Nereus and Doris were the parents of the Nereids, the most celebrated of
whom were Amphitrite, Thetis, the mother of Achilles, and Galatea, who
was loved by the Cyclops Polyphemus. Nereus was distinguished for his
knowledge and his love of truth and justice, whence he was termed an
elder; the gift of prophecy was also assigned to him.

                           TRITON AND PROTEUS

Triton was the son of Neptune and Amphitrite, and the poets make him his
father’s trumpeter. Proteus was also a son of Neptune. He, like Nereus,
is styled a sea-elder for his wisdom and knowledge of future events. His
peculiar power was that of changing his shape at will.

                                 THETIS

Thetis, the daughter of Nereus and Doris, was so beautiful that Jupiter
himself sought her in marriage; but having learned from Prometheus the
Titan that Thetis should bear a son who should grow greater than his
father, Jupiter desisted from his suit and decreed that Thetis should be
the wife of a mortal. By the aid of Chiron the Centaur, Peleus succeeded
in winning the goddess for his bride and their son was the renowned
Achilles. In our chapter on the Trojan war it will appear that Thetis
was a faithful mother to him, aiding him in all difficulties, and
watching over his interests from the first to the last.

                         LEUCOTHEA AND PALÆMON

Ino, the daughter of Cadmus and wife of Athamas, flying from her frantic
husband with her little son Melicertes in her arms, sprang from a cliff
into the sea. The gods, out of compassion, made her a goddess of the
sea, under the name of Leucothea, and him a god, under that of Palæmon.
Both were held powerful to save from shipwreck and were invoked by
sailors. Palæmon was usually represented riding on a dolphin. The
Isthmian games were celebrated in his honor. He was called Portunus by
the Romans, and believed to have jurisdiction of the ports and shores.



Milton alludes to all these deities in the song at the conclusion of
“Comus”:

    “. . . Sabrina fair,
    Listen and appear to us,
    In name of great Oceanus;
    By the earth-shaking Neptune’s mace,
    And Tethys’ grave, majestic pace,
    By hoary Nereus’ wrinkled look,
    And the Carpathian wizard’s hook,[20]
    By scaly Triton’s winding shell,
    And old soothsaying Glaucus’ spell,
    By Leucothea’s lovely hands,
    And her son who rules the strands.
    By Thetis’ tinsel-slippered feet,
    And the songs of Sirens sweet;” etc.

Armstrong, the poet of the “Art of preserving Health,” under the
inspiration of Hygeia, the goddess of health, thus celebrates the
Naiads. Pæon is a name both of Apollo and Æsculapius.

    “Come, ye Naiads! to the fountains lead!
    Propitious maids! the task remains to sing
    Your gifts (so Pæon, so the powers of Health
    Command), to praise your crystal element.
    O comfortable streams! with eager lips
    And trembling hands the languid thirsty quaff
    New life in you; fresh vigor fills their veins.
    No warmer cups the rural ages knew,
    None warmer sought the sires of humankind;
    Happy in temperate peace their equal days
    Felt not the alternate fits of feverish mirth
    And sick dejection; still serene and pleased,
    Blessed with divine immunity from ills,
    Long centuries they lived; their only fate
    Was ripe old age, and rather sleep than death.”

                               THE CAMENÆ

By this name the Latins designated the Muses, but included under it also
some other deities, principally nymphs of fountains. Egeria was one of
them, whose fountain and grotto are still shown. It was said that Numa,
the second king of Rome, was favored by this nymph with secret
interviews, in which she taught him those lessons of wisdom and of law
which he imbodied in the institutions of his rising nation. After the
death of Numa the nymph pined away and was changed into a fountain.



Byron, in “Childe Harold,” Canto IV., thus alludes to Egeria and her
grotto:

    “Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,
    Egeria! all thy heavenly bosom beating
    For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;
    The purple midnight veiled that mystic meeting
    With her most starry canopy;” etc.

Tennyson, also, in his “Palace of Art,” gives us a glimpse of the royal
lover expecting the interview:

    “Holding one hand against his ear,
        To list a footfall ere he saw
    The wood-nymph, stayed the Tuscan king to hear
        Of wisdom and of law.”

                               THE WINDS

When so many less active agencies were personified, it is not to be
supposed that the winds failed to be so. They were Boreas or Aquilo, the
north wind; Zephyrus or Favonius, the west; Notus or Auster, the south;
and Eurus, the east. The first two have been chiefly celebrated by the
poets, the former as the type of rudeness, the latter of gentleness.
Boreas loved the nymph Orithyia, and tried to play the lover’s part, but
met with poor success. It was hard for him to breathe gently, and
sighing was out of the question. Weary at last of fruitless endeavors,
he acted out his true character, seized the maiden and carried her off.
Their children were Zetes and Calais, winged warriors, who accompanied
the Argonautic expedition, and did good service in an encounter with
those monstrous birds the Harpies.



Zephyrus was the lover of Flora. Milton alludes to them in “Paradise
Lost,” where he describes Adam waking and contemplating Eve still
asleep.

    “. . . He on his side
    Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love,
    Hung over her enamored, and beheld
    Beauty which, whether waking or asleep,
    Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice,
    Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
    Her hand soft touching, whispered thus: ‘Awake!
    My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,
    Heaven’s last, best gift, my ever-new delight.’”

Dr. Young, the poet of the “Night Thoughts,” addressing the idle and
luxurious, says:

    “Ye delicate! who nothing can support
    (Yourselves most insupportable) for whom
    The winter rose must blow, . . .
    . . . and silky soft
    Favonius breathe still softer or be chid!”

[Illustration: HERCULES IN BATTLE WITH A CENTAUR.
 Florence. John of Bologna.]

[Illustration: PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.
 From painting by A. Maignan.]

                                  ————


                             CHAPTER XXIII

      ACHELOUS AND HERCULES—ADMETUS AND ALCESTIS—ANTIGONE—PENELOPE

                         ACHELOUS AND HERCULES

THE river-god Achelous told the story of Erisichthon to Theseus and his
companions, whom he was entertaining at his hospitable board, while they
were delayed on their journey by the overflow of his waters. Having
finished his story, he added, “But why should I tell of other persons’
transformations when I myself am an instance of the possession of this
power? Sometimes I become a serpent, and sometimes a bull, with horns on
my head. Or I should say I once could do so; but now I have but one
horn, having lost one.” And here he groaned and was silent.

Theseus asked him the cause of his grief, and how he lost his horn. To
which question the river-god replied as follows: “Who likes to tell of
his defeats? Yet I will not hesitate to relate mine, comforting myself
with the thought of the greatness of my conqueror, for it was Hercules.
Perhaps you have heard of the fame of Dejanira, the fairest of maidens,
whom a host of suitors strove to win. Hercules and myself were of the
number, and the rest yielded to us two. He urged in his behalf his
descent from Jove and his labors by which he had exceeded the exactions
of Juno, his stepmother. I, on the other hand, said to the father of the
maiden, ‘Behold me, the king of the waters that flow through your land.
I am no stranger from a foreign shore, but belong to the country, a part
of your realm. Let it not stand in my way that royal Juno owes me no
enmity nor punishes me with heavy tasks. As for this man, who boasts
himself the son of Jove, it is either a false pretence, or disgraceful
to him if true, for it cannot be true except by his mother’s shame.’ As
I said this Hercules scowled upon me, and with difficulty restrained his
rage. ‘My hand will answer better than my tongue,’ said he. ‘I yield to
you the victory in words, but trust my cause to the strife of deeds.’
With that he advanced towards me, and I was ashamed, after what I had
said, to yield. I threw off my green vesture and presented myself for
the struggle. He tried to throw me, now attacking my head, now my body.
My bulk was my protection, and he assailed me in vain. For a time we
stopped, then returned to the conflict. We each kept our position,
determined not to yield, foot to foot, I bending over him, clenching his
hand in mine, with my forehead almost touching his. Thrice Hercules
tried to throw me off, and the fourth time he succeeded, brought me to
the ground, and himself upon my back. I tell you the truth, it was as if
a mountain had fallen on me. I struggled to get my arms at liberty,
panting and reeking with perspiration. He gave me no chance to recover,
but seized my throat. My knees were on the earth and my mouth in the
dust.

“Finding that I was no match for him in the warrior’s art, I resorted to
others and glided away in the form of a serpent. I curled my body in a
coil and hissed at him with my forked tongue. He smiled scornfully at
this, and said, ‘It was the labor of my infancy to conquer snakes.’ So
saying he clasped my neck with his hands. I was almost choked, and
struggled to get my neck out of his grasp. Vanquished in this form, I
tried what alone remained to me and assumed the form of a bull. He
grasped my neck with his arm, and dragging my head down to the ground,
overthrew me on the sand. Nor was this enough. His ruthless hand rent my
horn from my head. The Naiades took it, consecrated it, and filled it
with fragrant flowers. Plenty adopted my horn and made it her own, and
called it ‘Cornucopia.’”



The ancients were fond of finding a hidden meaning in their mythological
tales. They explain this fight of Achelous with Hercules by saying
Achelous was a river that in seasons of rain overflowed its banks. When
the fable says that Achelous loved Dejanira, and sought a union with
her, the meaning is that the river in its windings flowed through part
of Dejanira’s kingdom. It was said to take the form of a snake because
of its winding, and of a bull because it made a brawling or roaring in
its course. When the river swelled, it made itself another channel. Thus
its head was horned. Hercules prevented the return of these periodical
overflows by embankments and canals; and therefore he was said to have
vanquished the river-god and cut off his horn. Finally, the lands
formerly subject to overflow, but now redeemed, became very fertile, and
this is meant by the horn of plenty.

There is another account of the origin of the Cornucopia. Jupiter at his
birth was committed by his mother Rhea to the care of the daughters of
Melisseus, a Cretan king. They fed the infant deity with the milk of the
goat Amalthea. Jupiter broke off one of the horns of the goat and gave
it to his nurses, and endowed it with the wonderful power of becoming
filled with whatever the possessor might wish.

The name of Amalthea is also given by some writers to the mother of
Bacchus. It is thus used by Milton, “Paradise Lost,” Book IV.:

    “. . . That Nyseian isle,
    Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,
    Whom Gentiles Ammon call, and Libyan Jove,
    Hid Amalthea and her florid son,
    Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea’s eye.”

                          ADMETUS AND ALCESTIS

Æsculapius, the son of Apollo, was endowed by his father with such skill
in the healing art that he even restored the dead to life. At this Pluto
took alarm, and prevailed on Jupiter to launch a thunderbolt at
Æsculapius. Apollo was indignant at the destruction of his son, and
wreaked his vengeance on the innocent workmen who had made the
thunderbolt. These were the Cyclopes, who have their workshop under
Mount Ætna, from which the smoke and flames of their furnaces are
constantly issuing. Apollo shot his arrows at the Cyclopes, which so
incensed Jupiter that he condemned him as a punishment to become the
servant of a mortal for the space of one year. Accordingly Apollo went
into the service of Admetus, king of Thessaly, and pastured his flocks
for him on the verdant banks of the river Amphrysos.

Admetus was a suitor, with others, for the hand of Alcestis, the
daughter of Pelias, who promised her to him who should come for her in a
chariot drawn by lions and boars. This task Admetus performed by the
assistance of his divine herdsman, and was made happy in the possession
of Alcestis. But Admetus fell ill, and being near to death, Apollo
prevailed on the Fates to spare him on condition that some one would
consent to die in his stead. Admetus, in his joy at this reprieve,
thought little of the ransom, and perhaps remembering the declarations
of attachment which he had often heard from his courtiers and dependents
fancied that it would be easy to find a substitute. But it was not so.
Brave warriors, who would willingly have perilled their lives for their
prince, shrunk from the thought of dying for him on the bed of sickness;
and old servants who had experienced his bounty and that of his house
from their childhood up, were not willing to lay down the scanty remnant
of their days to show their gratitude. Men asked, “Why does not one of
his parents do it? They cannot in the course of nature live much longer,
and who can feel like them the call to rescue the life they gave from an
untimely end?” But the parents, distressed though they were at the
thought of losing him, shrunk from the call. Then Alcestis, with a
generous self-devotion, proffered herself as the substitute. Admetus,
fond as he was of life, would not have submitted to receive it at such a
cost; but there was no remedy. The condition imposed by the Fates had
been met, and the decree was irrevocable. Alcestis sickened as Admetus
revived, and she was rapidly sinking to the grave.

Just at this time Hercules arrived at the palace of Admetus, and found
all the inmates in great distress for the impending loss of the devoted
wife and beloved mistress. Hercules, to whom no labor was too arduous,
resolved to attempt her rescue. He went and lay in wait at the door of
the chamber of the dying queen, and when Death came for his prey, he
seized him and forced him to resign his victim. Alcestis recovered, and
was restored to her husband.



Milton alludes to the story of Alcestis in his Sonnet “on his deceased
wife”:

    “Methought I saw my late espoused saint
      Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
      Whom Jove’s great son to her glad husband gave,
    Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.”

J. R. Lowell has chosen the “Shepherd of King Admetus” for the subject
of a short poem. He makes that event the first introduction of poetry to
men.

    “Men called him but a shiftless youth,
      In whom no good they saw,
    And yet unwittingly, in truth,
      They made his careless words their law.

    “And day by day more holy grew
      Each spot where he had trod,
    Till after-poets only knew
      Their first-born brother was a god.”

                                ANTIGONE

A large proportion both of the interesting persons and of the exalted
acts of legendary Greece belongs to the female sex. Antigone was as
bright an example of filial and sisterly fidelity as was Alcestis of
connubial devotion. She was the daughter of Œdipus and Jocasta, who with
all their descendants were the victims of an unrelenting fate, dooming
them to destruction. Œdipus in his madness had torn out his eyes, and
was driven forth from his kingdom Thebes, dreaded and abandoned by all
men, as an object of divine vengeance. Antigone, his daughter, alone
shared his wanderings and remained with him till he died, and then
returned to Thebes.

Her brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, had agreed to share the kingdom
between them, and reign alternately year by year. The first year fell to
the lot of Eteocles, who, when his time expired, refused to surrender
the kingdom to his brother. Polynices fled to Adrastus, king of Argos,
who gave him his daughter in marriage, and aided him with an army to
enforce his claim to the kingdom. This led to the celebrated expedition
of the “Seven against Thebes,” which furnished ample materials for the
epic and tragic poets of Greece.

Amphiaraus, the brother-in-law of Adrastus, opposed the enterprise, for
he was a soothsayer, and knew by his art that no one of the leaders
except Adrastus would live to return. But Amphiaraus, on his marriage to
Eriphyle, the king’s sister, had agreed that whenever he and Adrastus
should differ in opinion, the decision should be left to Eriphyle.
Polynices, knowing this, gave Eriphyle the collar of Harmonia, and
thereby gained her to his interest. This collar or necklace was a
present which Vulcan had given to Harmonia on her marriage with Cadmus,
and Polynices had taken it with him on his flight from Thebes. Eriphyle
could not resist so tempting a bribe, and by her decision the war was
resolved on, and Amphiaraus went to his certain fate. He bore his part
bravely in the contest, but could not avert his destiny. Pursued by the
enemy, he fled along the river, when a thunderbolt launched by Jupiter
opened the ground, and he, his chariot, and his charioteer were
swallowed up.

It would not be in place here to detail all the acts of heroism or
atrocity which marked the contest; but we must not omit to record the
fidelity of Evadne as an offset to the weakness of Eriphyle. Capaneus,
the husband of Evadne, in the ardor of the fight declared that he would
force his way into the city in spite of Jove himself. Placing a ladder
against the wall he mounted, but Jupiter, offended at his impious
language, struck him with a thunderbolt. When his obsequies were
celebrated, Evadne cast herself on his funeral pile and perished.

Early in the contest Eteocles consulted the soothsayer Tiresias as to
the issue. Tiresias in his youth had by chance seen Minerva bathing. The
goddess in her wrath deprived him of his sight, but afterwards relenting
gave him in compensation the knowledge of future events. When consulted
by Eteocles, he declared that victory should fall to Thebes if Menœceus,
the son of Creon, gave himself a voluntary victim. The heroic youth,
learning the response, threw away his life in the first encounter.

The siege continued long, with various success. At length both hosts
agreed that the brothers should decide their quarrel by single combat.
They fought and fell by each other’s hands. The armies then renewed the
fight, and at last the invaders were forced to yield, and fled, leaving
their dead unburied. Creon, the uncle of the fallen princes, now become
king, caused Eteocles to be buried with distinguished honor, but
suffered the body of Polynices to lie where it fell, forbidding every
one on pain of death to give it burial.

Antigone, the sister of Polynices, heard with indignation the revolting
edict which consigned her brother’s body to the dogs and vultures,
depriving it of those rites which were considered essential to the
repose of the dead. Unmoved by the dissuading counsel of an affectionate
but timid sister, and unable to procure assistance, she determined to
brave the hazard, and to bury the body with her own hands. She was
detected in the act, and Creon gave orders that she should be buried
alive, as having deliberately set at naught the solemn edict of the
city. Her lover, Hæmon, the son of Creon, unable to avert her fate,
would not survive her, and fell by his own hand.

Antigone forms the subject of two fine tragedies of the Grecian poet
Sophocles. Mrs. Jameson, in her “Characteristics of Women,” has compared
her character with that of Cordelia, in Shakspeare’s “King Lear.” The
perusal of her remarks cannot fail to gratify our readers.

The following is the lamentation of Antigone over Œdipus, when death has
at last relieved him from his sufferings:

    “Alas! I only wished I might have died
    With my poor father; wherefore should I ask
    For longer life?
    O, I was fond of misery with him;
    E’en what was most unlovely grew beloved
    When he was with me. O my dearest father,
    Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid,
    Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou still
    Wast dear, and shalt be ever.”
                 —_Francklin’s Sophocles._

                                PENELOPE

Penelope is another of those mythic heroines whose beauties were rather
those of character and conduct than of person. She was the daughter of
Icarius, a Spartan prince. Ulysses, king of Ithaca, sought her in
marriage, and won her, over all competitors. When the moment came for
the bride to leave her father’s house, Icarius, unable to bear the
thoughts of parting with his daughter, tried to persuade her to remain
with him, and not accompany her husband to Ithaca. Ulysses gave Penelope
her choice, to stay or go with him. Penelope made no reply, but dropped
her veil over her face. Icarius urged her no further, but when she was
gone erected a statue to Modesty on the spot where they parted.

Ulysses and Penelope had not enjoyed their union more than a year when
it was interrupted by the events which called Ulysses to the Trojan war.
During his long absence, and when it was doubtful whether he still
lived, and highly improbable that he would ever return, Penelope was
importuned by numerous suitors, from whom there seemed no refuge but in
choosing one of them for her husband. Penelope, however, employed every
art to gain time, still hoping for Ulysses’ return. One of her arts of
delay was engaging in the preparation of a robe for the funeral canopy
of Laertes, her husband’s father. She pledged herself to make her choice
among the suitors when the robe was finished. During the day she worked
at the robe, but in the night she undid the work of the day. This is the
famous Penelope’s web, which is used as a proverbial expression for
anything which is perpetually doing but never done. The rest of
Penelope’s history will be told when we give an account of her husband’s
adventures.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XXIV

                              ORPHEUS AND
    EURYDICE—ARISTÆUS—AMPHION—LINUS—THAMYRIS—MARSYAS—MELAMPUS—MUSÆUS

                          ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

ORPHEUS was the son of Apollo and the Muse Calliope. He was presented by
his father with a Lyre and taught to play upon it, which he did to such
perfection that nothing could withstand the charm of his music. Not only
his fellow-mortals but wild beasts were softened by his strains, and
gathering round him laid by their fierceness, and stood entranced with
his lay. Nay, the very trees and rocks were sensible to the charm. The
former crowded round him and the latter relaxed somewhat of their
hardness, softened by his notes.

Hymen had been called to bless with his presence the nuptials of Orpheus
with Eurydice; but though he attended, he brought no happy omens with
him. His very torch smoked and brought tears into their eyes. In
coincidence with such prognostics, Eurydice, shortly after her marriage,
while wandering with the nymphs, her companions, was seen by the
shepherd Aristæus, who was struck with her beauty and made advances to
her. She fled, and in flying trod upon a snake in the grass, was bitten
in the foot, and died. Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the
upper air, both gods and men, and finding it all unavailing resolved to
seek his wife in the regions of the dead. He descended by a cave
situated on the side of the promontory of Tænarus and arrived at the
Stygian realm. He passed through crowds of ghosts and presented himself
before the throne of Pluto and Proserpine. Accompanying the words with
the lyre, he sung, “O deities of the underworld, to whom all we who live
must come, hear my words, for they are true. I come not to spy out the
secrets of Tartarus, nor to try my strength against the three-headed dog
with snaky hair who guards the entrance. I come to seek my wife, whose
opening years the poisonous viper’s fang has brought to an untimely end.
Love has led me here, Love, a god all powerful with us who dwell on the
earth, and, if old traditions say true, not less so here. I implore you
by these abodes full of terror, these realms of silence and uncreated
things, unite again the thread of Eurydice’s life. We all are destined
to you, and sooner or later must pass to your domain. She too, when she
shall have filled her term of life, will rightly be yours. But till then
grant her to me, I beseech you. If you deny me I cannot return alone;
you shall triumph in the death of us both.”

As he sang these tender strains, the very ghosts shed tears. Tantalus,
in spite of his thirst, stopped for a moment his efforts for water,
Ixion’s wheel stood still, the vulture ceased to tear the giant’s liver,
the daughters of Danaüs rested from their task of drawing water in a
sieve, and Sisyphus sat on his rock to listen. Then for the first time,
it is said, the cheeks of the Furies were wet with tears. Proserpine
could not resist, and Pluto himself gave way. Eurydice was called. She
came from among the new-arrived ghosts, limping with her wounded foot.
Orpheus was permitted to take her away with him on one condition, that
he should not turn around to look at her till they should have reached
the upper air. Under this condition they proceeded on their way, he
leading, she following, through passages dark and steep, in total
silence, till they had nearly reached the outlet into the cheerful upper
world, when Orpheus, in a moment of forgetfulness, to assure himself
that she was still following, cast a glance behind him, when instantly
she was borne away. Stretching out their arms to embrace each other,
they grasped only the air! Dying now a second time, she yet cannot
reproach her husband, for how can she blame his impatience to behold
her? “Farewell,” she said, “a last farewell,”—and was hurried away, so
fast that the sound hardly reached his ears.

Orpheus endeavored to follow her, and besought permission to return and
try once more for her release; but the stern ferryman repulsed him and
refused passage. Seven days he lingered about the brink, without food or
sleep; then bitterly accusing of cruelty the powers of Erebus, he sang
his complaints to the rocks and mountains, melting the hearts of tigers
and moving the oaks from their stations. He held himself aloof from
womankind, dwelling constantly on the recollection of his sad mischance.
The Thracian maidens tried their best to captivate him, but he repulsed
their advances. They bore with him as long as they could; but finding
him insensible one day, excited by the rites of Bacchus, one of them
exclaimed, “See yonder our despiser!” and threw at him her javelin. The
weapon, as soon as it came within the sound of his lyre, fell harmless
at his feet. So did also the stones that they threw at him. But the
women raised a scream and drowned the voice of the music, and then the
missiles reached him and soon were stained with his blood. The maniacs
tore him limb from limb, and threw his head and his lyre into the river
Hebrus, down which they floated, murmuring sad music, to which the
shores responded a plaintive symphony. The Muses gathered up the
fragments of his body and buried them at Libethra, where the nightingale
is said to sing over his grave more sweetly than in any other part of
Greece. His lyre was placed by Jupiter among the stars. His shade passed
a second time to Tartarus, where he sought out his Eurydice and embraced
her with eager arms. They roam the happy fields together now, sometimes
he leading, sometimes she; and Orpheus gazes as much as he will upon
her, no longer incurring a penalty for a thoughtless glance.



The story of Orpheus has furnished Pope with an illustration of the
power of music, for his “Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day.” The following
stanza relates the conclusion of the story:

    “But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes;
    Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
    How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
    No crime was thine, if ’tis no crime to love.
          Now under hanging mountains,
          Beside the falls of fountains,
          Or where Hebrus wanders,
          Rolling in meanders,
              All alone,
              He makes his moan,
              And calls her ghost,
            Forever, ever, ever lost!
          Now with furies surrounded,
          Despairing, confounded,
          He trembles, he glows,
          Amidst Rhodope’s snows.
    See, wild as the winds o’er the desert he flies;
    Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals’ cries;
              Ah, see, he dies!
    Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,
    Eurydice still trembled on his tongue:
    Eurydice the woods
    Eurydice the floods
    Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.”

The superior melody of the nightingale’s song over the grave of Orpheus
is alluded to by Southey in his “Thalaba”:

          “Then on his ear what sounds
            Of harmony arose!
    Far music and the distance-mellowed song
          From bowers of merriment;
            The waterfall remote;
      The murmuring of the leafy groves;
            The single nightingale
    Perched in the rosier by, so richly toned,
    That never from that most melodious bird
    Singing a love song to his brooding mate,
      Did Thracian shepherd by the grave
      Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody,
    Though there the spirit of the sepulchre
      All his own power infuse, to swell
      The incense that he loves.”

                        ARISTÆUS, THE BEE-KEEPER

Man avails himself of the instincts of the inferior animals for his own
advantage. Hence sprang the art of keeping bees. Honey must first have
been known as a wild product, the bees building their structures in
hollow trees or holes in the rocks, or any similar cavity that chance
offered. Thus occasionally the carcass of a dead animal would be
occupied by the bees for that purpose. It was no doubt from some such
incident that the superstition arose that the bees were engendered by
the decaying flesh of the animal; and Virgil, in the following story,
shows how this supposed fact may be turned to account for renewing the
swarm when it has been lost by disease or accident:

Aristæus, who first taught the management of bees, was the son of the
water-nymph Cyrene. His bees had perished, and he resorted for aid to
his mother. He stood at the river-side and thus addressed her: “O
mother, the pride of my life is taken from me! I have lost my precious
bees. My care and skill have availed me nothing, and you my mother have
not warded off from me the blow of misfortune.” His mother heard these
complaints as she sat in her palace at the bottom of the river, with her
attendant nymphs around her. They were engaged in female occupations,
spinning and weaving, while one told stories to amuse the rest. The sad
voice of Aristæus interrupting their occupation, one of them put her
head above the water and seeing him, returned and gave information to
his mother, who ordered that he should be brought into her presence. The
river at her command opened itself and let him pass in, while it stood
curled like a mountain on either side. He descended to the region where
the fountains of the great rivers lie; he saw the enormous receptacles
of waters and was almost deafened with the roar, while he surveyed them
hurrying off in various directions to water the face of the earth.
Arriving at his mother’s apartment, he was hospitably received by Cyrene
and her nymphs, who spread their table with the richest dainties. They
first poured out libations to Neptune, then regaled themselves with the
feast, and after that Cyrene thus addressed him: “There is an old
prophet named Proteus, who dwells in the sea and is a favorite of
Neptune, whose herd of sea-calves he pastures. We nymphs hold him in
great respect, for he is a learned sage and knows all things, past,
present, and to come. He can tell you, my son, the cause of the
mortality among your bees, and how you may remedy it. But he will not do
it voluntarily, however you may entreat him. You must compel him by
force. If you seize him and chain him, he will answer your questions in
order to get released, for he cannot by all his arts get away if you
hold fast the chains. I will carry you to his cave, where he comes at
noon to take his midday repose. Then you may easily secure him. But when
he finds himself captured, his resort is to a power he possesses of
changing himself into various forms. He will become a wild boar or a
fierce tiger, a scaly dragon or lion with yellow mane. Or he will make a
noise like the crackling of flames or the rush of water, so as to tempt
you to let go the chain, when he will make his escape. But you have only
to keep him fast bound, and at last when he finds all his arts
unavailing, he will return to his own figure and obey your commands.” So
saying she sprinkled her son with fragrant nectar, the beverage of the
gods, and immediately an unusual vigor filled his frame, and courage his
heart, while perfume breathed all around him.

The nymph led her son to the prophet’s cave and concealed him among the
recesses of the rocks, while she herself took her place behind the
clouds. When noon came and the hour when men and herds retreat from the
glaring sun to indulge in quiet slumber, Proteus issued from the water,
followed by his herd of sea-calves which spread themselves along the
shore. He sat on the rock and counted his herd; then stretched himself
on the floor of the cave and went to sleep. Aristæus hardly allowed him
to get fairly asleep before he fixed the fetters on him and shouted
aloud. Proteus, waking and finding himself captured, immediately
resorted to his arts, becoming first a fire, then a flood, then a
horrible wild beast, in rapid succession. But finding all would not do,
he at last resumed his own form and addressed the youth in angry
accents: “Who are you, bold youth, who thus invade my abode, and what do
you want of me?” Aristæus replied, “Proteus, you know already, for it is
needless for any one to attempt to deceive you. And do you also cease
your efforts to elude me. I am led hither by divine assistance, to know
from you the cause of my misfortune and how to remedy it.” At these
words the prophet, fixing on him his gray eyes with a piercing look,
thus spoke: “You receive the merited reward of your deeds, by which
Eurydice met her death, for in flying from you she trod upon a serpent,
of whose bite she died. To avenge her death, the nymphs, her companions,
have sent this destruction to your bees. You have to appease their
anger, and thus it must be done: Select four bulls, of perfect form and
size, and four cows of equal beauty, build four altars to the nymphs,
and sacrifice the animals, leaving their carcasses in the leafy grove.
To Orpheus and Eurydice you shall pay such funeral honors as may allay
their resentment. Returning after nine days, you will examine the bodies
of the cattle slain and see what will befall.” Aristæus faithfully
obeyed these directions. He sacrificed the cattle, he left their bodies
in the grove, he offered funeral honors to the shades of Orpheus and
Eurydice; then returning on the ninth day he examined the bodies of the
animals, and, wonderful to relate! a swarm of bees had taken possession
of one of the carcasses and were pursuing their labors there as in a
hive.



In “The Task,” Cowper alludes to the story of Aristæus, when speaking of
the ice-palace built by the Empress Anne of Russia. He has been
describing the fantastic forms which ice assumes in connection with
waterfalls, etc.:

    “Less worthy of applause though more admired
    Because a novelty, the work of man,
    Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,
    Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,
    The wonder of the north. No forest fell
    When thou wouldst build, no quarry sent its stores
    T’ enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods
    And make thy marble of the glassy wave.
    In such a palace Aristæus found
    Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale
    Of his lost bees to her maternal ear.”

Milton also appears to have had Cyrene and her domestic scene in his
mind when he describes to us Sabrina, the nymph of the river Severn, in
the Guardian-spirit’s Song in “Comus”:

              “Sabrina fair!
        Listen where thou art sitting
    Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave
        In twisted braids of lilies knitting
    The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;
        Listen for dear honor’s sake,
        Goddess of the silver lake!
              Listen and save.”

The following are other celebrated mythical poets and musicians, some of
whom were hardly inferior to Orpheus himself:

                                AMPHION

Amphion was the son of Jupiter and Antiope, queen of Thebes. With his
twin brother Zethus he was exposed at birth on Mount Cithæron, where
they grew up among the shepherds, not knowing their parentage. Mercury
gave Amphion a lyre and taught him to play upon it, and his brother
occupied himself in hunting and tending the flocks. Meanwhile Antiope,
their mother, who had been treated with great cruelty by Lycus, the
usurping king of Thebes, and by Dirce, his wife, found means to inform
her children of their rights and to summon them to her assistance. With
a band of their fellow-herdsmen they attacked and slew Lycus, and tying
Dirce by the hair of her head to a bull, let him drag her till she was
dead. Amphion, having become king of Thebes, fortified the city with a
wall. It is said that when he played on his lyre the stones moved of
their own accord and took their places in the wall.

See Tennyson’s poem of “Amphion” for an amusing use made of this story.

                                 LINUS

Linus was the instructor of Hercules in music, but having one day
reproved his pupil rather harshly, he roused the anger of Hercules, who
struck him with his lyre and killed him.

                                THAMYRIS

An ancient Thracian bard, who in his presumption challenged the Muses to
a trial of skill, and being overcome in the contest, was deprived by
them of his sight. Milton alludes to him with other blind bards, when
speaking of his own blindness, “Paradise Lost,” Book III., 35.

                                MARSYAS

Minerva invented the flute, and played upon it to the delight of all the
celestial auditors; but the mischievous urchin Cupid having dared to
laugh at the queer face which the goddess made while playing, Minerva
threw the instrument indignantly away, and it fell down to earth, and
was found by Marsyas. He blew upon it, and drew from it such ravishing
sounds that he was tempted to challenge Apollo himself to a musical
contest. The god of course triumphed, and punished Marsyas by flaying
him alive.

                                MELAMPUS

Melampus was the first mortal endowed with prophetic powers. Before his
house there stood an oak tree containing a serpent’s nest. The old
serpents were killed by the servants, but Melampus took care of the
young ones and fed them carefully. One day when he was asleep under the
oak the serpents licked his ears with their tongues. On awaking he was
astonished to find that he now understood the language of birds and
creeping things. This knowledge enabled him to foretell future events,
and he became a renowned soothsayer. At one time his enemies took him
captive and kept him strictly imprisoned. Melampus in the silence of the
night heard the woodworms in the timbers talking together, and found out
by what they said that the timbers were nearly eaten through and the
roof would soon fall in. He told his captors and demanded to be let out,
warning them also. They took his warning, and thus escaped destruction,
and rewarded Melampus and held him in high honor.

                                 MUSÆUS

A semi-mythological personage who was represented by one tradition to be
the son of Orpheus. He is said to have written sacred poems and oracles.
Milton couples his name with that of Orpheus in his “Il Penseroso”:

    “But O, sad virgin, that thy power
    Might raise Musæus from his bower,
    Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
    Such notes as warbled to the string,
    Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,
    And made Hell grant what love did seek.”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XXV

                     ARION—IBYCUS—SIMONIDES—SAPPHO

THE poets whose adventures compose this chapter were real persons some
of whose works yet remain, and their influence on poets who succeeded
them is yet more important than their poetical remains. The adventures
recorded of them in the following stories rest on the same authority as
other narratives of the “Age of Fable,” that is, of the poets who have
told them. In their present form, the first two are translated from the
German, Arion from Schlegel, and Ibycus from Schiller.

                                 ARION

Arion was a famous musician, and dwelt in the court of Periander, king
of Corinth, with whom he was a great favorite. There was to be a musical
contest in Sicily, and Arion longed to compete for the prize. He told
his wish to Periander, who besought him like a brother to give up the
thought. “Pray stay with me,” he said, “and be contented. He who strives
to win may lose.” Arion answered, “A wandering life best suits the free
heart of a poet. The talent which a god bestowed on me, I would fain
make a source of pleasure to others. And if I win the prize, how will
the enjoyment of it be increased by the consciousness of my widespread
fame!” He went, won the prize, and embarked with his wealth in a
Corinthian ship for home. On the second morning after setting sail, the
wind breathed mild and fair. “O Periander,” he exclaimed, “dismiss your
fears! Soon shall you forget them in my embrace. With what lavish
offerings will we display our gratitude to the gods, and how merry will
we be at the festal board!” The wind and sea continued propitious. Not a
cloud dimmed the firmament. He had not trusted too much to the
ocean—but he had to man. He overheard the seamen exchanging hints with
one another, and found they were plotting to possess themselves of his
treasure. Presently they surrounded him loud and mutinous, and said,
“Arion, you must die! If you would have a grave on shore, yield yourself
to die on this spot; but if otherwise, cast yourself into the sea.”
“Will nothing satisfy you but my life?” said he. “Take my gold, and
welcome. I willingly buy my life at that price.” “No, no; we cannot
spare you. Your life would be too dangerous to us. Where could we go to
escape from Periander, if he should know that you had been robbed by us?
Your gold would be of little use to us, if on returning home, we could
never more be free from fear.” “Grant me, then,” said he, “a last
request, since nought will avail to save my life, that I may die, as I
have lived, as becomes a bard. When I shall have sung my death song, and
my harp-strings shall have ceased to vibrate, then I will bid farewell
to life, and yield uncomplaining to my fate.” This prayer, like the
others, would have been unheeded,—they thought only of their
booty,—but to hear so famous a musician, that moved their rude hearts.
“Suffer me,” he added, “to arrange my dress. Apollo will not favor me
unless I be clad in my minstrel garb.”

He clothed his well-proportioned limbs in gold and purple fair to see,
his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned his arms,
his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his neck and
shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors. His left hand held the
lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck its chords. Like one
inspired, he seemed to drink the morning air and glitter in the morning
ray. The seamen gazed with admiration. He strode forward to the vessel’s
side and looked down into the deep blue sea. Addressing his lyre, he
sang, “Companion of my voice, come with me to the realm of shades.
Though Cerberus may growl, we know the power of song can tame his rage.
Ye heroes of Elysium, who have passed the darkling flood,—ye happy
souls, soon shall I join your band. Yet can ye relieve my grief? Alas, I
leave my friend behind me. Thou, who didst find thy Eurydice, and lose
her again as soon as found; when she had vanished like a dream, how
didst thou hate the cheerful light! I must away, but I will not fear.
The gods look down upon us. Ye who slay me unoffending, when I am no
more, your time of trembling shall come. Ye Nereids, receive your guest,
who throws himself upon your mercy!” So saying, he sprang into the deep
sea. The waves covered him, and the seamen held on their way, fancying
themselves safe from all danger of detection.

But the strains of his music had drawn round him the inhabitants of the
deep to listen, and Dolphins followed the ship as if chained by a spell.
While he struggled in the waves, a Dolphin offered him his back, and
carried him mounted thereon safe to shore. At the spot where he landed,
a monument of brass was afterwards erected upon the rocky shore, to
preserve the memory of the event.

When Arion and the dolphin parted, each to his own element, Arion thus
poured forth his thanks: “Farewell, thou faithful, friendly fish! Would
that I could reward thee; but thou canst not wend with me, nor I with
thee. Companionship we may not have. May Galatea, queen of the deep,
accord thee her favor, and thou, proud of the burden, draw her chariot
over the smooth mirror of the deep.”

Arion hastened from the shore, and soon saw before him the towers of
Corinth. He journeyed on, harp in hand, singing as he went, full of love
and happiness, forgetting his losses, and mindful only of what remained,
his friend and his lyre. He entered the hospitable halls, and was soon
clasped in the embrace of Periander. “I come back to thee, my friend,”
he said. “The talent which a god bestowed has been the delight of
thousands, but false knaves have stripped me of my well-earned treasure;
yet I retain the consciousness of wide spread fame.” Then he told
Periander all the wonderful events that had befallen him, who heard him
with amazement. “Shall such wickedness triumph?” said he. “Then in vain
is power lodged in my hands. That we may discover the criminals, you
must remain here in concealment, and so they will approach without
suspicion.” When the ship arrived in the harbor, he summoned the
mariners before him. “Have you heard anything of Arion?” he inquired. “I
anxiously look for his return.” They replied, “We left him well and
prosperous in Tarentum.” As they said these words, Arion stepped forth
and faced them. His well-proportioned limbs were arrayed in gold and
purple fair to see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels
adorned his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over
his neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors; his left
hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck its
chords. They fell prostrate at his feet, as if a lightning bolt had
struck them. “We meant to murder him, and he has become a god. O Earth,
open and receive us!” Then Periander spoke. “He lives, the master of the
lay! Kind Heaven protects the poet’s life. As for you, I invoke not the
spirit of vengeance; Arion wishes not your blood. Ye slaves of avarice,
begone! Seek some barbarous land, and never may aught beautiful delight
your souls!”

Spenser represents Arion, mounted on his dolphin, accompanying the train
of Neptune and Amphitrite:

      “Then was there heard a most celestial sound
      Of dainty music which did next ensue,
      And, on the floating waters as enthroned,
      Arion with his harp unto him drew
      The ears and hearts of all that goodly crew;
      Even when as yet the dolphin which him bore
      Through the Ægean Seas from pirates’ view,
      Stood still, by him astonished at his lore,
    And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar.”

Byron, in his “Childe Harold,” Canto II., alludes to the story of Arion,
when, describing his voyage, he represents one of the seamen making
music to entertain the rest:

      “The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!
      Long streams of light o’er dancing waves expand;
      Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe;
      Such be our fate when we return to land!
      Meantime some rude Arion’s restless hand
      Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;
      A circle there of merry listeners stand,
      Or to some well-known measure featly move
    Thoughtless as if on shore they still were free to rove.”

                                 IBYCUS

In order to understand the story of Ibycus which follows it is necessary
to remember, first, that the theatres of the ancients were immense
fabrics capable of containing from ten to thirty thousand spectators,
and as they were used only on festival occasions, and admission was free
to all, they were usually filled. They were without roofs and open to
the sky, and the performances were in the daytime. Secondly, the
appalling representation of the Furies is not exaggerated in the story.
It is recorded that Æschylus, the tragic poet, having on one occasion
represented the Furies in a chorus of fifty performers, the terror of
the spectators was such that many fainted and were thrown into
convulsions, and the magistrates forbade a like representation for the
future.

Ibycus, the pious poet, was on his way to the chariot races and musical
competitions held at the Isthmus of Corinth, which attracted all of
Grecian lineage. Apollo had bestowed on him the gift of song, the
honeyed lips of the poet, and he pursued his way with lightsome step,
full of the god. Already the towers of Corinth crowning the height
appeared in view, and he had entered with pious awe the sacred grove of
Neptune. No living object was in sight, only a flock of cranes flew
overhead taking the same course as himself in their migration to a
southern clime. “Good luck to you, ye friendly squadrons,” he exclaimed,
“my companions from across the sea. I take your company for a good omen.
We come from far and fly in search of hospitality. May both of us meet
that kind reception which shields the stranger guest from harm!”

He paced briskly on, and soon was in the middle of the wood. There
suddenly, at a narrow pass, two robbers stepped forth and barred his
way. He must yield or fight. But his hand, accustomed to the lyre, and
not to the strife of arms, sank powerless. He called for help on men and
gods, but his cry reached no defender’s ear. “Then here must I die,”
said he, “in a strange land, unlamented, cut off by the hand of outlaws,
and see none to avenge my cause.” Sore wounded, he sank to the earth,
when hoarse screamed the cranes overhead. “Take up my cause, ye cranes,”
he said, “since no voice but yours answers to my cry.” So saying he
closed his eyes in death.

The body, despoiled and mangled, was found, and though disfigured with
wounds, was recognized by the friend in Corinth who had expected him as
a guest. “Is it thus I find you restored to me?” he exclaimed. “I who
hoped to entwine your temples with the wreath of triumph in the strife
of song!”

The guests assembled at the festival heard the tidings with dismay. All
Greece felt the wound, every heart owned its loss. They crowded round
the tribunal of the magistrates, and demanded vengeance on the murderers
and expiation with their blood.

But what trace or mark shall point out the perpetrator from amidst the
vast multitude attracted by the splendor of the feast? Did he fall by
the hands of robbers or did some private enemy slay him? The
all-discerning sun alone can tell, for no other eye beheld it. Yet not
improbably the murderer even now walks in the midst of the throng, and
enjoys the fruits of his crime, while vengeance seeks for him in vain.
Perhaps in their own temple’s enclosure he defies the gods, mingling
freely in this throng of men that now presses into the amphitheatre.

For now crowded together, row on row, the multitude fill the seats till
it seems as if the very fabric would give way. The murmur of voices
sounds like the roar of the sea, while the circles widening in their
ascent rise tier on tier, as if they would reach the sky.

And now the vast assemblage listens to the awful voice of the chorus
personating the Furies, which in solemn guise advances with measured
step, and moves around the circuit of the theatre. Can they be mortal
women who compose that awful group, and can that vast concourse of
silent forms be living beings?

The choristers, clad in black, bore in their fleshless hands torches
blazing with a pitchy flame. Their cheeks were bloodless, and in place
of hair writhing and swelling serpents curled around their brows.
Forming a circle, these awful beings sang their hymns, rending the
hearts of the guilty, and enchaining all their faculties. It rose and
swelled, overpowering the sound of the instruments, stealing the
judgment, palsying the heart, curdling the blood.

“Happy the man who keeps his heart pure from guilt and crime! Him we
avengers touch not; he treads the path of life secure from us. But woe!
woe! to him who has done the deed of secret murder. We the fearful
family of Night fasten ourselves upon his whole being. Thinks he by
flight to escape us? We fly still faster in pursuit, twine our snakes
around his feet, and bring him to the ground. Unwearied we pursue; no
pity checks our course; still on and on, to the end of life, we give him
no peace nor rest.” Thus the Eumenides sang, and moved in solemn
cadence, while stillness like the stillness of death sat over the whole
assembly as if in the presence of superhuman beings; and then in solemn
march completing the circuit of the theatre, they passed out at the back
of the stage.

Every heart fluttered between illusion and reality, and every breast
panted with undefined terror, quailing before the awful power that
watches secret crimes and winds unseen the skein of destiny. At that
moment a cry burst forth from one of the uppermost benches—“Look! look!
comrade, yonder are the cranes of Ibycus!” And suddenly there appeared
sailing across the sky a dark object which a moment’s inspection showed
to be a flock of cranes flying directly over the theatre. “Of Ibycus!
did he say?” The beloved name revived the sorrow in every breast. As
wave follows wave over the face of the sea, so ran from mouth to mouth
the words, “Of Ibycus! him whom we all lament, whom some murderer’s hand
laid low! What have the cranes to do with him?” And louder grew the
swell of voices, while like a lightning’s flash the thought sped through
every heart, “Observe the power of the Eumenides! The pious poet shall
be avenged! the murderer has informed against himself. Seize the man who
uttered that cry and the other to whom he spoke!”

The culprit would gladly have recalled his words, but it was too late.
The faces of the murderers, pale with terror, betrayed their guilt. The
people took them before the judge, they confessed their crime, and
suffered the punishment they deserved.

                               SIMONIDES

Simonides was one of the most prolific of the early poets of Greece, but
only a few fragments of his compositions have descended to us. He wrote
hymns, triumphal odes, and elegies. In the last species of composition
he particularly excelled. His genius was inclined to the pathetic, and
none could touch with truer effect the chords of human sympathy. The
“Lamentation of Danaë,” the most important of the fragments which remain
of his poetry, is based upon the tradition that Danaë and her infant son
were confined by order of her father, Acrisius, in a chest and set
adrift on the sea. The chest floated towards the island of Seriphus,
where both were rescued by Dictys, a fisherman, and carried to
Polydectes, king of the country, who received and protected them. The
child, Perseus, when grown up became a famous hero, whose adventures
have been recorded in a previous chapter.

Simonides passed much of his life at the courts of princes, and often
employed his talents in panegyric and festal odes, receiving his reward
from the munificence of those whose exploits he celebrated. This
employment was not derogatory, but closely resembles that of the
earliest bards, such as Demodocus, described by Homer, or of Homer
himself, as recorded by tradition.

On one occasion, when residing at the court of Scopas, king of Thessaly,
the prince desired him to prepare a poem in celebration of his exploits,
to be recited at a banquet. In order to diversify his theme, Simonides,
who was celebrated for his piety, introduced into his poem the exploits
of Castor and Pollux. Such digressions were not unusual with the poets
on similar occasions, and one might suppose an ordinary mortal might
have been content to share the praises of the sons of Leda. But vanity
is exacting; and as Scopas sat at his festal board among his courtiers
and sycophants, he grudged every verse that did not rehearse his own
praises. When Simonides approached to receive the promised reward Scopas
bestowed but half the expected sum, saying, “Here is payment for my
portion of thy performance; Castor and Pollux will doubtless compensate
thee for so much as relates to them.” The disconcerted poet returned to
his seat amidst the laughter which followed the great man’s jest. In a
little time he received a message that two young men on horseback were
waiting without and anxious to see him. Simonides hastened to the door,
but looked in vain for the visitors. Scarcely, however, had he left the
banqueting hall when the roof fell in with a loud crash, burying Scopas
and all his guests beneath the ruins. On inquiring as to the appearance
of the young men who had sent for him, Simonides was satisfied that they
were no other than Castor and Pollux themselves.

                                 SAPPHO

Sappho was a poetess who flourished in a very early age of Greek
literature. Of her works few fragments remain, but they are enough to
establish her claim to eminent poetical genius. The story of Sappho
commonly alluded to is that she was passionately in love with a
beautiful youth named Phaon, and failing to obtain a return of affection
she threw herself from the promontory of Leucadia into the sea, under a
superstition that those who should take that “Lover’s-leap” would, if
not destroyed, be cured of their love.



Byron alludes to the story of Sappho in “Childe Harold,” Canto II.:

    “Childe Harold sailed and passed the barren spot
    Where sad Penelope o’erlooked the wave,
    And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,
    The lover’s refuge and the Lesbian’s grave.
    Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save
    That breast imbued with such immortal fire?

    “’Twas on a Grecian autumn’s gentle eve
    Childe Harold hailed Leucadia’s cape afar;” etc.

Those who wish to know more of Sappho and her “leap” are referred to the
“Spectator,” Nos. 223 and 229. See also Moore’s “Evenings in Greece.”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XXVI

          ENDYMION—ORION—AURORA AND TITHONUS—ACIS AND GALATEA

                           DIANA AND ENDYMION

ENDYMION was a beautiful youth who fed his flock on Mount Latmos. One
calm, clear night Diana, the moon, looked down and saw him sleeping. The
cold heart of the virgin goddess was warmed by his surpassing beauty,
and she came down to him, kissed him, and watched over him while he
slept.

Another story was that Jupiter bestowed on him the gift of perpetual
youth united with perpetual sleep. Of one so gifted we can have but few
adventures to record. Diana, it was said, took care that his fortunes
should not suffer by his inactive life, for she made his flock increase,
and guarded his sheep and lambs from the wild beasts.

The story of Endymion has a peculiar charm from the human meaning which
it so thinly veils. We see in Endymion the young poet, his fancy and his
heart seeking in vain for that which can satisfy them, finding his
favorite hour in the quiet moonlight, and nursing there beneath the
beams of the bright and silent witness the melancholy and the ardor
which consumes him. The story suggests aspiring and poetic love, a life
spent more in dreams than in reality, and an early and welcome
death.—_S. G. B._



The “Endymion” of Keats is a wild and fanciful poem, containing some
exquisite poetry, as this, to the moon:

    “. . . The sleeping kine
    Couched in thy brightness dream of fields divine.
    Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
    Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes,
    And yet thy benediction passeth not
    One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
    Where pleasure may be sent; the nested wren
    Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken;” etc., etc.

Dr. Young, in the “Night Thoughts,” alludes to Endymion thus:

    “. . . These thoughts, O night, are thine;
    From thee they came like lovers’ secret sighs,
    While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign,
    In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere,
    Her shepherd cheered, of her enamoured less
    Than I of thee.”

Fletcher, in the “Faithful Shepherdess,” tells:

    “How the pale Phœbe, hunting in a grove,
    First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
    She took eternal fire that never dies;
    How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,
    His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
    Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,
    Gilding the mountain with her brother’s light,
    To kiss her sweetest.”

                                 ORION

Orion was the son of Neptune. He was a handsome giant and a mighty
hunter. His father gave him the power of wading through the depths of
the sea, or, as others say, of walking on its surface.

Orion loved Merope, the daughter of Œnopion, king of Chios, and sought
her in marriage. He cleared the island of wild beasts, and brought the
spoils of the chase as presents to his beloved; but as Œnopion
constantly deferred his consent, Orion attempted to gain possession of
the maiden by violence. Her father, incensed at this conduct, having
made Orion drunk, deprived him of his sight and cast him out on the
seashore. The blinded hero followed the sound of a Cyclops’ hammer till
he reached Lemnos, and came to the forge of Vulcan, who, taking pity on
him, gave him Kedalion, one of his men, to be his guide to the abode of
the sun. Placing Kedalion on his shoulders, Orion proceeded to the east,
and there meeting the sun-god, was restored to sight by his beam.

After this he dwelt as a hunter with Diana, with whom he was a favorite,
and it is even said she was about to marry him. Her brother was highly
displeased and often chid her, but to no purpose. One day, observing
Orion wading through the sea with his head just above the water, Apollo
pointed it out to his sister and maintained that she could not hit that
black thing on the sea. The archer-goddess discharged a shaft with fatal
aim. The waves rolled the dead body of Orion to the land, and bewailing
her fatal error with many tears, Diana placed him among the stars, where
he appears as a giant, with a girdle, sword, lion’s skin, and club.
Sirius, his dog, follows him, and the Pleiads fly before him.

The Pleiads were daughters of Atlas, and nymphs of Diana’s train. One
day Orion saw them and became enamoured and pursued them. In their
distress they prayed to the gods to change their form, and Jupiter in
pity turned them into pigeons, and then made them a constellation in the
sky. Though their number was seven, only six stars are visible, for
Electra, one of them, it is said left her place that she might not
behold the ruin of Troy, for that city was founded by her son Dardanus.
The sight had such an effect on her sisters that they have looked pale
ever since.



Mr. Longfellow has a poem on the “Occultation of Orion.” The following
lines are those in which he alludes to the mythic story. We must premise
that on the celestial globe Orion is represented as robed in a lion’s
skin and wielding a club. At the moment the stars of the constellation,
one by one, were quenched in the light of the moon, the poet tells us

    “Down fell the red skin of the lion
    Into the river at his feet.
    His mighty club no longer beat
    The forehead of the bull; but he
    Reeled as of yore beside the sea,
    When blinded by Œnopion
      He sought the blacksmith at his forge,
      And climbing up the narrow gorge,
    Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun.”

Tennyson has a different theory of the Pleiads:

    “Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,
    Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.”
                                                    —_Locksley Hall._

Byron alludes to the lost Pleiad:

    “Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below.”

See also Mrs. Hemans’s verses on the same subject.

                          AURORA AND TITHONUS

The goddess of the Dawn, like her sister the Moon, was at times inspired
with the love of mortals. Her greatest favorite was Tithonus, son of
Laomedon, king of Troy. She stole him away, and prevailed on Jupiter to
grant him immortality; but, forgetting to have youth joined in the gift,
after some time she began to discern, to her great mortification, that
he was growing old. When his hair was quite white she left his society;
but he still had the range of her palace, lived on ambrosial food, and
was clad in celestial raiment. At length he lost the power of using his
limbs, and then she shut him up in his chamber, whence his feeble voice
might at times be heard. Finally she turned him into a grasshopper.

Memnon was the son of Aurora and Tithonus. He was king of the
Æthiopians, and dwelt in the extreme east, on the shore of Ocean. He
came with his warriors to assist the kindred of his father in the war of
Troy. King Priam received him with great honors, and listened with
admiration to his narrative of the wonders of the ocean shore.

The very day after his arrival, Memnon, impatient of repose, led his
troops to the field. Antilochus, the brave son of Nestor, fell by his
hand, and the Greeks were put to flight, when Achilles appeared and
restored the battle. A long and doubtful contest ensued between him and
the son of Aurora; at length victory declared for Achilles, Memnon fell,
and the Trojans fled in dismay.

Aurora, who from her station in the sky had viewed with apprehension the
danger of her son, when she saw him fall, directed his brothers, the
Winds, to convey his body to the banks of the river Esepus in
Paphlagonia. In the evening Aurora came, accompanied by the Hours and
the Pleiads, and wept and lamented over her son. Night, in sympathy with
her grief, spread the heaven with clouds; all nature mourned for the
offspring of the Dawn. The Æthiopians raised his tomb on the banks of
the stream in the grove of the Nymphs, and Jupiter caused the sparks and
cinders of his funeral pile to be turned into birds, which, dividing
into two flocks, fought over the pile till they fell into the flame.
Every year at the anniversary of his death they return and celebrate his
obsequies in like manner. Aurora remains inconsolable for the loss of
her son. Her tears still flow, and may be seen at early morning in the
form of dew-drops on the grass.



Unlike most of the marvels of ancient mythology, there still exist some
memorials of this. On the banks of the river Nile, in Egypt, are two
colossal statues, one of which is said to be the statue of Memnon.
Ancient writers record that when the first rays of the rising sun fall
upon this statue a sound is heard to issue from it, which they compare
to the snapping of a harp-string. There is some doubt about the
identification of the existing statue with the one described by the
ancients, and the mysterious sounds are still more doubtful. Yet there
are not wanting some modern testimonies to their being still audible. It
has been suggested that sounds produced by confined air making its
escape from crevices or caverns in the rocks may have given some ground
for the story. Sir Gardner Wilkinson, a late traveller, of the highest
authority, examined the statue itself, and discovered that it was
hollow, and that “in the lap of the statue is a stone, which on being
struck emits a metallic sound, that might still be made use of to
deceive a visitor who was predisposed to believe its powers.”

The vocal statue of Memnon is a favorite subject of allusion with the
poets. Darwin, in his “Botanic Garden,” says:

    “So to the sacred Sun in Memnon’s fane
    Spontaneous concords choired the matin strain;
    Touched by his orient beam responsive rings
    The living lyre and vibrates all its strings;
    Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong,
    And holy echoes swell the adoring song.”
                                  Book I., 1. 182.

                            ACIS AND GALATEA

Scylla was a fair virgin of Sicily, a favorite of the Sea-Nymphs. She
had many suitors, but repelled them all, and would go to the grotto of
Galatea, and tell her how she was persecuted. One day the goddess, while
Scylla dressed her hair, listened to the story, and then replied, “Yet,
maiden, your persecutors are of the not ungentle race of men, whom, if
you will, you can repel; but I, the daughter of Nereus, and protected by
such a band of sisters, found no escape from the passion of the Cyclops
but in the depths of the sea;” and tears stopped her utterance, which
when the pitying maiden had wiped away with her delicate finger, and
soothed the goddess, “Tell me, dearest,” said she, “the cause of your
grief.” Galatea then said, “Acis was the son of Faunus and a Naiad. His
father and mother loved him dearly, but their love was not equal to
mine. For the beautiful youth attached himself to me alone, and he was
just sixteen years old, the down just beginning to darken his cheeks. As
much as I sought his society, so much did the Cyclops seek mine; and if
you ask me whether my love for Acis or my hatred of Polyphemus was the
stronger, I cannot tell you; they were in equal measure. O Venus, how
great is thy power! this fierce giant, the terror of the woods, whom no
hapless stranger escaped unharmed, who defied even Jove himself, learned
to feel what love was, and, touched with a passion for me, forgot his
flocks and his well-stored caverns. Then for the first time he began to
take some care of his appearance, and to try to make himself agreeable;
he harrowed those coarse locks of his with a comb, and mowed his beard
with a sickle, looked at his harsh features in the water, and composed
his countenance. His love of slaughter, his fierceness and thirst of
blood prevailed no more, and ships that touched at his island went away
in safety. He paced up and down the seashore, imprinting huge tracks
with his heavy tread, and, when weary, lay tranquilly in his cave.

“There is a cliff which projects into the sea, which washes it on either
side. Thither one day the huge Cyclops ascended, and sat down while his
flocks spread themselves around. Laying down his staff, which would have
served for a mast to hold a vessel’s sail, and taking his instrument
compacted of numerous pipes, he made the hills and the waters echo the
music of his song. I lay hid under a rock by the side of my beloved
Acis, and listened to the distant strain. It was full of extravagant
praises of my beauty, mingled with passionate reproaches of my coldness
and cruelty.

“When he had finished he rose up, and, like a raging bull that cannot
stand still, wandered off into the woods. Acis and I thought no more of
him, till on a sudden he came to a spot which gave him a view of us as
we sat. ‘I see you,’ he exclaimed, ‘and I will make this the last of
your love-meetings.’ His voice was a roar such as an angry Cyclops alone
could utter. Ætna trembled at the sound. I, overcome with terror,
plunged into the water. Acis turned and fled, crying, ‘Save me, Galatea,
save me, my parents!’ The Cyclops pursued him, and tearing a rock from
the side of the mountain hurled it at him. Though only a corner of it
touched him, it overwhelmed him.

“All that fate left in my power I did for Acis. I endowed him with the
honors of his grandfather, the river-god. The purple blood flowed out
from under the rock, but by degrees grew paler and looked like the
stream of a river rendered turbid by rains, and in time it became clear.
The rock cleaved open, and the water, as it gushed from the chasm,
uttered a pleasing murmur.”

Thus Acis was changed into a river, and the river retains the name of
Acis.



Dryden, in his “Cymon and Iphigenia,” has told the story of a clown
converted into a gentleman by the power of love, in a way that shows
traces of kindred to the old story of Galatea and the Cyclops.

    “What not his father’s care nor tutor’s art
    Could plant with pains in his unpolished heart,
    The best instructor, Love, at once inspired,
    As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fired.
    Love taught him shame, and shame with love at strife
    Soon taught the sweet civilities of life.”

                                  ————


                             CHAPTER XXVII

                             THE TROJAN WAR

MINERVA was the goddess of wisdom, but on one occasion she did a very
foolish thing; she entered into competition with Juno and Venus for the
prize of beauty. It happened thus: At the nuptials of Peleus and Thetis
all the gods were invited with the exception of Eris, or Discord.
Enraged at her exclusion, the goddess threw a golden apple among the
guests, with the inscription, “For the fairest.” Thereupon Juno, Venus,
and Minerva each claimed the apple. Jupiter, not willing to decide in so
delicate a matter, sent the goddesses to Mount Ida, where the beautiful
shepherd Paris was tending his flocks, and to him was committed the
decision. The goddesses accordingly appeared before him. Juno promised
him power and riches, Minerva glory and renown in war, and Venus the
fairest of women for his wife, each attempting to bias his decision in
her own favor. Paris decided in favor of Venus and gave her the golden
apple, thus making the two other goddesses his enemies. Under the
protection of Venus, Paris sailed to Greece, and was hospitably received
by Menelaus, king of Sparta. Now Helen, the wife of Menelaus, was the
very woman whom Venus had destined for Paris, the fairest of her sex.
She had been sought as a bride by numerous suitors, and before her
decision was made known, they all, at the suggestion of Ulysses, one of
their number, took an oath that they would defend her from all injury
and avenge her cause if necessary. She chose Menelaus, and was living
with him happily when Paris became their guest. Paris, aided by Venus,
persuaded her to elope with him, and carried her to Troy, whence arose
the famous Trojan war, the theme of the greatest poems of antiquity,
those of Homer and Virgil.

Menelaus called upon his brother chieftains of Greece to fulfil their
pledge, and join him in his efforts to recover his wife. They generally
came forward, but Ulysses, who had married Penelope, and was very happy
in his wife and child, had no disposition to embark in such a
troublesome affair. He therefore hung back and Palamedes was sent to
urge him. When Palamedes arrived at Ithaca Ulysses pretended to be mad.
He yoked an ass and an ox together to the plough and began to sow salt.
Palamedes, to try him, placed the infant Telemachus before the plough,
whereupon the father turned the plough aside, showing plainly that he
was no madman, and after that could no longer refuse to fulfil his
promise. Being now himself gained for the undertaking, he lent his aid
to bring in other reluctant chiefs, especially Achilles. This hero was
the son of that Thetis at whose marriage the apple of Discord had been
thrown among the goddesses. Thetis was herself one of the immortals, a
sea-nymph, and knowing that her son was fated to perish before Troy if
he went on the expedition, she endeavored to prevent his going. She sent
him away to the court of King Lycomedes, and induced him to conceal
himself in the disguise of a maiden among the daughters of the king.
Ulysses, hearing he was there, went disguised as a merchant to the
palace and offered for sale female ornaments, among which he had placed
some arms. While the king’s daughters were engrossed with the other
contents of the merchant’s pack, Achilles handled the weapons and
thereby betrayed himself to the keen eye of Ulysses, who found no great
difficulty in persuading him to disregard his mother’s prudent counsels
and join his countrymen in the war.

Priam was king of Troy, and Paris, the shepherd and seducer of Helen,
was his son. Paris had been brought up in obscurity, because there were
certain ominous forebodings connected with him from his infancy that he
would be the ruin of the state. These forebodings seemed at length
likely to be realized, for the Grecian armament now in preparation was
the greatest that had ever been fitted out. Agamemnon, king of Mycenæ,
and brother of the injured Menelaus, was chosen commander-in-chief.
Achilles was their most illustrious warrior. After him ranked Ajax,
gigantic in size and of great courage, but dull of intellect; Diomede,
second only to Achilles in all the qualities of a hero; Ulysses, famous
for his sagacity; and Nestor, the oldest of the Grecian chiefs, and one
to whom they all looked up for counsel. But Troy was no feeble enemy.
Priam, the king, was now old, but he had been a wise prince and had
strengthened his state by good government at home and numerous alliances
with his neighbors. But the principal stay and support of his throne was
his son Hector, one of the noblest characters painted by heathen
antiquity. He felt, from the first, a presentiment of the fall of his
country, but still persevered in his heroic resistance, yet by no means
justified the wrong which brought this danger upon her. He was united in
marriage with Andromache, and as a husband and father his character was
not less admirable than as a warrior. The principal leaders on the side
of the Trojans, besides Hector, were Æneas and Deiphobus, Glaucus and
Sarpedon.

After two years of preparation the Greek fleet and army assembled in the
port of Aulis in Bœotia. Here Agamemnon in hunting killed a stag which
was sacred to Diana, and the goddess in return visited the army with
pestilence, and produced a calm which prevented the ships from leaving
the port. Calchas, the soothsayer, thereupon announced that the wrath of
the virgin goddess could only be appeased by the sacrifice of a virgin
on her altar, and that none other but the daughter of the offender would
be acceptable. Agamemnon, however reluctant, yielded his consent, and
the maiden Iphigenia was sent for under the pretence that she was to be
married to Achilles. When she was about to be sacrificed the goddess
relented and snatched her away, leaving a hind in her place, and
Iphigenia, enveloped in a cloud, was carried to Tauris, where Diana made
her priestess of her temple.



Tennyson, in his “Dream of Fair Women,” makes Iphigenia thus describe
her feelings at the moment of sacrifice:

    “I was cut off from hope in that sad place,
      Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears;
    My father held his hand upon his face;
            I, blinded by my tears,

    “Still strove to speak; my voice was thick with sighs,
      As in a dream. Dimly I could descry
    The stern black-bearded kings, with wolfish eyes,
            Waiting to see me die.

    “The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat,
      The temples and the people and the shore;
    One drew a sharp knife through my tender throat
            Slowly,—and—nothing more.”

The wind now proving fair the fleet made sail and brought the forces to
the coast of Troy. The Trojans came to oppose their landing, and at the
first onset Protesilaus fell by the hand of Hector. Protesilaus had left
at home his wife, Laodamia, who was most tenderly attached to him. When
the news of his death reached her she implored the gods to be allowed to
converse with him only three hours. The request was granted. Mercury led
Protesilaus back to the upper world, and when he died a second time
Laodamia died with him. There was a story that the nymphs planted elm
trees round his grave which grew very well till they were high enough to
command a view of Troy, and then withered away, while fresh branches
sprang from the roots.



Wordsworth has taken the story of Protesilaus and Laodamia for the
subject of a poem. It seems the oracle had declared that victory should
be the lot of that party from which should fall the first victim to the
war. The poet represents Protesilaus, on his brief return to earth, as
relating to Laodamia the story of his fate:

    “‘The wished-for wind was given; I then revolved
      The oracle, upon the silent sea;
    And if no worthier led the way, resolved
      That of a thousand vessels mine should be
    The foremost prow impressing to the strand,—
    Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

    “‘Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter was the pang
      When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife!
    On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
      And on the joys we shared in mortal life,
    The paths which we had trod,—these fountains, flowers;
    My new planned cities and unfinished towers.

    “‘But should suspense permit the foe to cry,
      “Behold they tremble! haughty their array,
    Yet of their number no one dares to die?”
      In soul I swept the indignity away:
    Old frailties then recurred: but lofty thought
    In act embodied my deliverance wrought.’

  .      .      .      .      .      .      .

    “. . . upon the side
      Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
    A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
      From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
      And ever when such stature they had gained
    That Ilium’s walls were subject to their view,
    The trees’ tall summits withered at the sight,
    A constant interchange of growth and blight!”

                              “THE ILIAD”

The war continued without decisive results for nine years. Then an event
occurred which seemed likely to be fatal to the cause of the Greeks, and
that was a quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon. It is at this point
that the great poem of Homer, “The Iliad,” begins. The Greeks, though
unsuccessful against Troy, had taken the neighboring and allied cities,
and in the division of the spoil a female captive, by name Chryseis,
daughter of Chryses, priest of Apollo, had fallen to the share of
Agamemnon. Chryses came bearing the sacred emblems of his office, and
begged the release of his daughter. Agamemnon refused. Thereupon Chryses
implored Apollo to afflict the Greeks till they should be forced to
yield their prey. Apollo granted the prayer of his priest, and sent
pestilence into the Grecian camp. Then a council was called to
deliberate how to allay the wrath of the gods and avert the plague.
Achilles boldly charged their misfortunes upon Agamemnon as caused by
his withholding Chryseis. Agamemnon, enraged, consented to relinquish
his captive, but demanded that Achilles should yield to him in her stead
Briseis, a maiden who had fallen to Achilles’ share in the division of
the spoil. Achilles submitted, but forthwith declared that he would take
no further part in the war. He withdrew his forces from the general camp
and openly avowed his intention of returning home to Greece.

The gods and goddesses interested themselves as much in this famous war
as the parties themselves. It was well known to them that fate had
decreed that Troy should fall, at last, if her enemies should persevere
and not voluntarily abandon the enterprise. Yet there was room enough
left for chance to excite by turns the hopes and fears of the powers
above who took part with either side. Juno and Minerva, in consequence
of the slight put upon their charms by Paris, were hostile to the
Trojans; Venus for the opposite cause favored them. Venus enlisted her
admirer Mars on the same side, but Neptune favored the Greeks. Apollo
was neutral, sometimes taking one side, sometimes the other, and Jove
himself, though he loved the good King Priam, yet exercised a degree of
impartiality; not, however, without exceptions.

Thetis, the mother of Achilles, warmly resented the injury done to her
son. She repaired immediately to Jove’s palace and besought him to make
the Greeks repent of their injustice to Achilles by granting success to
the Trojan arms. Jupiter consented, and in the battle which ensued the
Trojans were completely successful. The Greeks were driven from the
field and took refuge in their ships.

Then Agamemnon called a council of his wisest and bravest chiefs. Nestor
advised that an embassy should be sent to Achilles to persuade him to
return to the field; that Agamemnon should yield the maiden, the cause
of the dispute, with ample gifts to atone for the wrong he had done.
Agamemnon consented, and Ulysses, Ajax, and Phœnix were sent to carry to
Achilles the penitent message. They performed that duty, but Achilles
was deaf to their entreaties. He positively refused to return to the
field, and persisted in his resolution to embark for Greece without
delay.

The Greeks had constructed a rampart around their ships, and now instead
of besieging Troy they were in a manner besieged themselves, within
their rampart. The next day after the unsuccessful embassy to Achilles,
a battle was fought, and the Trojans, favored by Jove, were successful,
and succeeded in forcing a passage through the Grecian rampart, and were
about to set fire to the ships. Neptune, seeing the Greeks so pressed,
came to their rescue. He appeared in the form of Calchas the prophet,
encouraged the warriors with his shouts, and appealed to each
individually till he raised their ardor to such a pitch that they forced
the Trojans to give way. Ajax performed prodigies of valor, and at
length encountered Hector. Ajax shouted defiance, to which Hector
replied, and hurled his lance at the huge warrior. It was well aimed and
struck Ajax, where the belts that bore his sword and shield crossed each
other on the breast. The double guard prevented its penetrating and it
fell harmless. Then Ajax, seizing a huge stone, one of those that served
to prop the ships, hurled it at Hector. It struck him in the neck and
stretched him on the plain. His followers instantly seized him and bore
him off, stunned and wounded.

While Neptune was thus aiding the Greeks and driving back the Trojans,
Jupiter saw nothing of what was going on, for his attention had been
drawn from the field by the wiles of Juno. That goddess had arrayed
herself in all her charms, and to crown all had borrowed of Venus her
girdle, called “Cestus,” which had the effect to heighten the wearer’s
charms to such a degree that they were quite irresistible. So prepared,
Juno went to join her husband, who sat on Olympus watching the battle.
When he beheld her she looked so charming that the fondness of his early
love revived, and, forgetting the contending armies and all other
affairs of state, he thought only of her and let the battle go as it
would.

But this absorption did not continue long, and when, upon turning his
eyes downward, he beheld Hector stretched on the plain almost lifeless
from pain and bruises, he dismissed Juno in a rage, commanding her to
send Iris and Apollo to him. When Iris came he sent her with a stern
message to Neptune, ordering him instantly to quit the field. Apollo was
despatched to heal Hector’s bruises and to inspirit his heart. These
orders were obeyed with such speed that, while the battle still raged,
Hector returned to the field and Neptune betook himself to his own
dominions.

An arrow from Paris’s bow wounded Machaon, son of Æsculapius, who
inherited his father’s art of healing, and was therefore of great value
to the Greeks as their surgeon, besides being one of their bravest
warriors. Nestor took Machaon in his chariot and conveyed him from the
field. As they passed the ships of Achilles, that hero, looking out over
the field, saw the chariot of Nestor and recognized the old chief, but
could not discern who the wounded chief was. So calling Patroclus, his
companion and dearest friend, he sent him to Nestor’s tent to inquire.

Patroclus, arriving at Nestor’s tent, saw Machaon wounded, and having
told the cause of his coming would have hastened away, but Nestor
detained him, to tell him the extent of the Grecian calamities. He
reminded him also how, at the time of departing for Troy, Achilles and
himself had been charged by their respective fathers with different
advice: Achilles to aspire to the highest pitch of glory, Patroclus, as
the elder, to keep watch over his friend, and to guide his inexperience.
“Now,” said Nestor, “is the time for such influence. If the gods so
please, thou mayest win him back to the common cause; but if not let him
at least send his soldiers to the field, and come thou, Patroclus, clad
in his armor, and perhaps the very sight of it may drive back the
Trojans.”

Patroclus was strongly moved with this address, and hastened back to
Achilles, revolving in his mind all he had seen and heard. He told the
prince the sad condition of affairs at the camp of their late
associates: Diomede, Ulysses, Agamemnon, Machaon, all wounded, the
rampart broken down, the enemy among the ships preparing to burn them,
and thus to cut off all means of return to Greece. While they spoke the
flames burst forth from one of the ships. Achilles, at the sight,
relented so far as to grant Patroclus his request to lead the Myrmidons
(for so were Achilles’ soldiers called) to the field, and to lend him
his armor, that he might thereby strike more terror into the minds of
the Trojans. Without delay the soldiers were marshalled, Patroclus put
on the radiant armor and mounted the chariot of Achilles, and led forth
the men ardent for battle. But before he went, Achilles strictly charged
him that he should be content with repelling the foe. “Seek not,” said
he, “to press the Trojans without me, lest thou add still more to the
disgrace already mine.” Then exhorting the troops to do their best he
dismissed them full of ardor to the fight.

Patroclus and his Myrmidons at once plunged into the contest where it
raged hottest; at the sight of which the joyful Grecians shouted and the
ships reëchoed the acclaim. The Trojans, at the sight of the well-known
armor, struck with terror, looked everywhere for refuge. First those who
had got possession of the ship and set it on fire left and allowed the
Grecians to retake it and extinguish the flames. Then the rest of the
Trojans fled in dismay. Ajax, Menelaus, and the two sons of Nestor
performed prodigies of valor. Hector was forced to turn his horses’
heads and retire from the enclosure, leaving his men entangled in the
fosse to escape as they could. Patroclus drove them before him, slaying
many, none daring to make a stand against him.

At last Sarpedon, son of Jove, ventured to oppose himself in fight to
Patroclus. Jupiter looked down upon him and would have snatched him from
the fate which awaited him, but Juno hinted that if he did so it would
induce all others of the inhabitants of heaven to interpose in like
manner whenever any of their offspring were endangered; to which reason
Jove yielded. Sarpedon threw his spear, but missed Patroclus, but
Patroclus threw his with better success. It pierced Sarpedon’s breast
and he fell, and, calling to his friends to save his body from the foe,
expired. Then a furious contest arose for the possession of the corpse.
The Greeks succeeded and stripped Sarpedon of his armor; but Jove would
not allow the remains of his son to be dishonored, and by his command
Apollo snatched from the midst of the combatants the body of Sarpedon
and committed it to the care of the twin brothers Death and Sleep, by
whom it was transported to Lycia, the native land of Sarpedon, where it
received due funeral rites.

Thus far Patroclus had succeeded to his utmost wish in repelling the
Trojans and relieving his countrymen, but now came a change of fortune.
Hector, borne in his chariot, confronted him. Patroclus threw a vast
stone at Hector, which missed its aim, but smote Cebriones, the
charioteer, and knocked him from the car. Hector leaped from the chariot
to rescue his friend, and Patroclus also descended to complete his
victory. Thus the two heroes met face to face. At this decisive moment
the poet, as if reluctant to give Hector the glory, records that Phœbus
took part against Patroclus. He struck the helmet from his head and the
lance from his hand. At the same moment an obscure Trojan wounded him in
the back, and Hector, pressing forward, pierced him with his spear. He
fell mortally wounded.

Then arose a tremendous conflict for the body of Patroclus, but his
armor was at once taken possession of by Hector, who retiring a short
distance divested himself of his own armor and put on that of Achilles,
then returned to the fight. Ajax and Menelaus defended the body, and
Hector and his bravest warriors struggled to capture it. The battle
raged with equal fortunes, when Jove enveloped the whole face of heaven
with a dark cloud. The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and Ajax,
looking round for some one whom he might despatch to Achilles to tell
him of the death of his friend, and of the imminent danger that his
remains would fall into the hands of the enemy, could see no suitable
messenger. It was then that he exclaimed in those famous lines so often
quoted,

    “Father of heaven and earth! deliver thou
    Achaia’s host from darkness; clear the skies;
    Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such,
    Destruction with it; but, O, give us day.”
                                   —_Cowper._

Or, as rendered by Pope,

    “. . . Lord of earth and air!
    O king! O father! hear my humble prayer!
    Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;
    Give me to see and Ajax asks no more;
    If Greece must perish we thy will obey,
    But let us perish in the face of day.”

Jupiter heard the prayer and dispersed the clouds. Then Ajax sent
Antilochus to Achilles with the intelligence of Patroclus’s death, and
of the conflict raging for his remains. The Greeks at last succeeded in
bearing off the body to the ships, closely pursued by Hector and Æneas
and the rest of the Trojans.

Achilles heard the fate of his friend with such distress that Antilochus
feared for a while that he would destroy himself. His groans reached the
ears of his mother, Thetis, far down in the deeps of ocean where she
abode, and she hastened to him to inquire the cause. She found him
overwhelmed with self-reproach that he had indulged his resentment so
far, and suffered his friend to fall a victim to it. But his only
consolation was the hope of revenge. He would fly instantly in search of
Hector. But his mother reminded him that he was now without armor, and
promised him, if he would but wait till the morrow, she would procure
for him a suit of armor from Vulcan more than equal to that he had lost.
He consented, and Thetis immediately repaired to Vulcan’s palace. She
found him busy at his forge making tripods for his own use, so artfully
constructed that they moved forward of their own accord when wanted, and
retired again when dismissed. On hearing the request of Thetis, Vulcan
immediately laid aside his work and hastened to comply with her wishes.
He fabricated a splendid suit of armor for Achilles, first a shield
adorned with elaborate devices, then a helmet crested with gold, then a
corselet and greaves of impenetrable temper, all perfectly adapted to
his form, and of consummate workmanship. It was all done in one night,
and Thetis, receiving it, descended with it to earth, and laid it down
at Achilles’ feet at the dawn of day.

The first glow of pleasure that Achilles had felt since the death of
Patroclus was at the sight of this splendid armor. And now, arrayed in
it, he went forth into the camp, calling all the chiefs to council. When
they were all assembled he addressed them. Renouncing his displeasure
against Agamemnon and bitterly lamenting the miseries that had resulted
from it, he called on them to proceed at once to the field. Agamemnon
made a suitable reply, laying all the blame on Ate, the goddess of
discord; and thereupon complete reconcilement took place between the
heroes.

Then Achilles went forth to battle inspired with a rage and thirst for
vengeance that made him irresistible. The bravest warriors fled before
him or fell by his lance. Hector, cautioned by Apollo, kept aloof; but
the god, assuming the form of one of Priam’s sons, Lycaon, urged Æneas
to encounter the terrible warrior. Æneas, though he felt himself
unequal, did not decline the combat. He hurled his spear with all his
force against the shield the work of Vulcan. It was formed of five metal
plates; two were of brass, two of tin, and one of gold. The spear
pierced two thicknesses, but was stopped in the third. Achilles threw
his with better success. It pierced through the shield of Æneas, but
glanced near his shoulder and made no wound. Then Æneas seized a stone,
such as two men of modern times could hardly lift, and was about to
throw it, and Achilles, with sword drawn, was about to rush upon him,
when Neptune, who looked out upon the contest, moved with pity for
Æneas, who he saw would surely fall a victim if not speedily rescued,
spread a cloud between the combatants, and lifting Æneas from the
ground, bore him over the heads of warriors and steeds to the rear of
the battle. Achilles, when the mist cleared away, looked round in vain
for his adversary, and acknowledging the prodigy, turned his arms
against other champions. But none dared stand before him, and Priam
looking down from the city walls beheld his whole army in full flight
towards the city. He gave command to open wide the gates to receive the
fugitives, and to shut them as soon as the Trojans should have passed,
lest the enemy should enter likewise. But Achilles was so close in
pursuit that that would have been impossible if Apollo had not, in the
form of Agenor, Priam’s son, encountered Achilles for a while, then
turned to fly, and taken the way apart from the city. Achilles pursued
and had chased his supposed victim far from the walls, when Apollo
disclosed himself, and Achilles, perceiving how he had been deluded,
gave up the chase.

But when the rest had escaped into the town Hector stood without
determined to await the combat. His old father called to him from the
walls and begged him to retire nor tempt the encounter. His mother,
Hecuba, also besought him to the same effect, but all in vain. “How can
I,” said he to himself, “by whose command the people went to this day’s
contest, where so many have fallen, seek safety for myself against a
single foe? But what if I offer him to yield up Helen and all her
treasures and ample of our own beside? Ah, no! it is too late. He would
not even hear me through, but slay me while I spoke.” While he thus
ruminated, Achilles approached, terrible as Mars, his armor flashing
lightning as he moved. At that sight Hector’s heart failed him and he
fled. Achilles swiftly pursued. They ran, still keeping near the walls,
till they had thrice encircled the city. As often as Hector approached
the walls Achilles intercepted him and forced him to keep out in a wider
circle. But Apollo sustained Hector’s strength and would not let him
sink in weariness. Then Pallas, assuming the form of Deiphobus, Hector’s
bravest brother, appeared suddenly at his side. Hector saw him with
delight, and thus strengthened stopped his flight and turned to meet
Achilles. Hector threw his spear, which struck the shield of Achilles
and bounded back. He turned to receive another from the hand of
Deiphobus, but Deiphobus was gone. Then Hector understood his doom and
said, “Alas! it is plain this is my hour to die! I thought Deiphobus at
hand, but Pallas deceived me, and he is still in Troy. But I will not
fall inglorious.” So saying he drew his falchion from his side and
rushed at once to combat. Achilles, secured behind his shield, waited
the approach of Hector. When he came within reach of his spear, Achilles
choosing with his eye a vulnerable part where the armor leaves the neck
uncovered, aimed his spear at that part and Hector fell, death-wounded,
and feebly said, “Spare my body! Let my parents ransom it, and let me
receive funeral rites from the sons and daughters of Troy.” To which
Achilles replied, “Dog, name not ransom nor pity to me, on whom you have
brought such dire distress. No! trust me, naught shall save thy carcass
from the dogs. Though twenty ransoms and thy weight in gold were
offered, I would refuse it all.”

So saying he stripped the body of its armor, and fastening cords to the
feet tied them behind his chariot, leaving the body to trail along the
ground. Then mounting the chariot he lashed the steeds and so dragged
the body to and fro before the city. What words can tell the grief of
King Priam and Queen Hecuba at this sight! His people could scarce
restrain the old king from rushing forth. He threw himself in the dust
and besought them each by name to give him way. Hecuba’s distress was
not less violent. The citizens stood round them weeping. The sound of
the mourning reached the ears of Andromache, the wife of Hector, as she
sat among her maidens at work, and anticipating evil she went forth to
the wall. When she saw the sight there presented, she would have thrown
herself headlong from the wall, but fainted and fell into the arms of
her maidens. Recovering, she bewailed her fate, picturing to herself her
country ruined, herself a captive, and her son dependent for his bread
on the charity of strangers.

When Achilles and the Greeks had taken their revenge on the killer of
Patroclus they busied themselves in paying due funeral rites to their
friend. A pile was erected, and the body burned with due solemnity; and
then ensued games of strength and skill, chariot races, wrestling,
boxing, and archery. Then the chiefs sat down to the funeral banquet and
after that retired to rest. But Achilles neither partook of the feast
nor of sleep. The recollection of his lost friend kept him awake,
remembering their companionship in toil and dangers, in battle or on the
perilous deep. Before the earliest dawn he left his tent, and joining to
his chariot his swift steeds, he fastened Hector’s body to be dragged
behind. Twice he dragged him around the tomb of Patroclus, leaving him
at length stretched in the dust. But Apollo would not permit the body to
be torn or disfigured with all this abuse, but preserved it free from
all taint or defilement.

While Achilles indulged his wrath in thus disgracing brave Hector,
Jupiter in pity summoned Thetis to his presence. He told her to go to
her son and prevail on him to restore the body of Hector to his friends.
Then Jupiter sent Iris to King Priam to encourage him to go to Achilles
and beg the body of his son. Iris delivered her message, and Priam
immediately prepared to obey. He opened his treasuries and took out rich
garments and cloths, with ten talents in gold and two splendid tripods
and a golden cup of matchless workmanship. Then he called to his sons
and bade them draw forth his litter and place in it the various articles
designed for a ransom to Achilles. When all was ready, the old king with
a single companion as aged as himself, the herald Idæus, drove forth
from the gates, parting there with Hecuba, his queen, and all his
friends, who lamented him as going to certain death.

But Jupiter, beholding with compassion the venerable king, sent Mercury
to be his guide and protector. Mercury, assuming the form of a young
warrior, presented himself to the aged couple, and while at the sight of
him they hesitated whether to fly or yield, the god approached, and
grasping Priam’s hand offered to be their guide to Achilles’ tent. Priam
gladly accepted his offered service, and he, mounting the carriage,
assumed the reins and soon conveyed them to the tent of Achilles.
Mercury’s wand put to sleep all the guards, and without hinderance he
introduced Priam into the tent where Achilles sat, attended by two of
his warriors. The old king threw himself at the feet of Achilles, and
kissed those terrible hands which had destroyed so many of his sons.
“Think, O Achilles,” he said, “of thy own father, full of days like me,
and trembling on the gloomy verge of life. Perhaps even now some
neighbor chief oppresses him and there is none at hand to succor him in
his distress. Yet doubtless knowing that Achilles lives he still
rejoices, hoping that one day he shall see thy face again. But no
comfort cheers me, whose bravest sons, so late the flower of Ilium, all
have fallen. Yet one I had, one more than all the rest the strength of
my age, whom, fighting for his country, thou hast slain. I come to
redeem his body, bringing inestimable ransom with me. Achilles!
reverence the gods! recollect thy father! for his sake show compassion
to me!” These words moved Achilles, and he wept; remembering by turns
his absent father and his lost friend. Moved with pity of Priam’s silver
locks and beard, he raised him from the earth, and thus spake: “Priam, I
know that thou hast reached this place conducted by some god, for
without aid divine no mortal even in his prime of youth had dared the
attempt. I grant thy request, moved thereto by the evident will of
Jove.” So saying he arose, and went forth with his two friends, and
unloaded of its charge the litter, leaving two mantles and a robe for
the covering of the body, which they placed on the litter, and spread
the garments over it, that not unveiled it should be borne back to Troy.
Then Achilles dismissed the old king with his attendants, having first
pledged himself to allow a truce of twelve days for the funeral
solemnities.

As the litter approached the city and was descried from the walls, the
people poured forth to gaze once more on the face of their hero.
Foremost of all, the mother and the wife of Hector came, and at the
sight of the lifeless body renewed their lamentations. The people all
wept with them, and to the going down of the sun there was no pause or
abatement of their grief.

The next day preparations were made for the funeral solemnities. For
nine days the people brought wood and built the pile, and on the tenth
they placed the body on the summit and applied the torch; while all Troy
thronging forth encompassed the pile. When it had completely burned,
they quenched the cinders with wine, collected the bones and placed them
in a golden urn, which they buried in the earth, and reared a pile of
stones over the spot.

    “Such honors Ilium to her hero paid,
    And peaceful slept the mighty Hector’s shade.”
                                          —_Pope._

                                  ————


                             CHAPTER XXVIII

       THE FALL OF TROY—RETURN OF THE GREEKS—ORESTES AND ELECTRA

                            THE FALL OF TROY

THE story of the Iliad ends with the death of Hector, and it is from the
Odyssey and later poems that we learn the fate of the other heroes.
After the death of Hector, Troy did not immediately fall, but receiving
aid from new allies still continued its resistance. One of these allies
was Memnon, the Æthiopian prince, whose story we have already told.
Another was Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons, who came with a band of
female warriors. All the authorities attest their valor and the fearful
effect of their war cry. Penthesilea slew many of the bravest warriors,
but was at last slain by Achilles. But when the hero bent over his
fallen foe, and contemplated her beauty, youth, and valor, he bitterly
regretted his victory. Thersites, an insolent brawler and demagogue,
ridiculed his grief, and was in consequence slain by the hero.

Achilles by chance had seen Polyxena, daughter of King Priam, perhaps on
the occasion of the truce which was allowed the Trojans for the burial
of Hector. He was captivated with her charms, and to win her in marriage
agreed to use his influence with the Greeks to grant peace to Troy.
While in the temple of Apollo, negotiating the marriage, Paris
discharged at him a poisoned arrow, which, guided by Apollo, wounded
Achilles in the heel, the only vulnerable part about him. For Thetis his
mother had dipped him when an infant in the river Styx, which made every
part of him invulnerable except the heel by which she held him.[21]

The body of Achilles so treacherously slain was rescued by Ajax and
Ulysses. Thetis directed the Greeks to bestow her son’s armor on the
hero who of all the survivors should be judged most deserving of it.
Ajax and Ulysses were the only claimants; a select number of the other
chiefs were appointed to award the prize. It was awarded to Ulysses,
thus placing wisdom before valor; whereupon Ajax slew himself. On the
spot where his blood sank into the earth a flower sprang up, called the
hyacinth, bearing on its leaves the first two letters of the name of
Ajax, Ai, the Greek for “woe.” Thus Ajax is a claimant with the boy
Hyacinthus for the honor of giving birth to this flower. There is a
species of Larkspur which represents the hyacinth of the poets in
preserving the memory of this event, the Delphinium Ajacis—Ajax’s
Larkspur.

It was now discovered that Troy could not be taken but by the aid of the
arrows of Hercules. They were in possession of Philoctetes, the friend
who had been with Hercules at the last and lighted his funeral pyre.
Philoctetes had joined the Grecian expedition against Troy, but had
accidentally wounded his foot with one of the poisoned arrows, and the
smell from his wound proved so offensive that his companions carried him
to the isle of Lemnos and left him there. Diomed was now sent to induce
him to rejoin the army. He succeeded. Philoctetes was cured of his wound
by Machaon, and Paris was the first victim of the fatal arrows. In his
distress Paris bethought him of one whom in his prosperity he had
forgotten. This was the nymph Œnone, whom he had married when a youth,
and had abandoned for the fatal beauty Helen. Œnone, remembering the
wrongs she had suffered, refused to heal the wound, and Paris went back
to Troy and died. Œnone quickly repented, and hastened after him with
remedies, but came too late, and in her grief hung herself.[22]

There was in Troy a celebrated statue of Minerva called the Palladium.
It was said to have fallen from heaven, and the belief was that the city
could not be taken so long as this statue remained within it. Ulysses
and Diomed entered the city in disguise and succeeded in obtaining the
Palladium, which they carried off to the Grecian camp.

But Troy still held out, and the Greeks began to despair of ever
subduing it by force, and by advice of Ulysses resolved to resort to
stratagem. They pretended to be making preparations to abandon the
siege, and a portion of the ships were withdrawn and lay hid behind a
neighboring island. The Greeks then constructed an immense _wooden
horse_, which they gave out was intended as a propitiatory offering to
Minerva, but in fact was filled with armed men. The remaining Greeks
then betook themselves to their ships and sailed away, as if for a final
departure. The Trojans, seeing the encampment broken up and the fleet
gone, concluded the enemy to have abandoned the siege. The gates were
thrown open, and the whole population issued forth rejoicing at the
long-prohibited liberty of passing freely over the scene of the late
encampment. The great _horse_ was the chief object of curiosity. All
wondered what it could be for. Some recommended to take it into the city
as a trophy; others felt afraid of it.

While they hesitate, Laocoön, the priest of Neptune exclaims, “What
madness, citizens, is this? Have you not learned enough of Grecian fraud
to be on your guard against it? For my part, I fear the Greeks even when
they offer gifts.”[23] So saying he threw his lance at the horse’s side.
It struck, and a hollow sound reverberated like a groan. Then perhaps
the people might have taken his advice and destroyed the fatal horse and
all its contents; but just at that moment a group of people appeared,
dragging forward one who seemed a prisoner and a Greek. Stupefied with
terror, he was brought before the chiefs, who reassured him, promising
that his life should be spared on condition of his returning true
answers to the questions asked him. He informed them that he was a
Greek, Sinon by name, and that in consequence of the malice of Ulysses
he had been left behind by his countrymen at their departure. With
regard to the wooden horse, he told them that it was a propitiatory
offering to Minerva, and made so huge for the express purpose of
preventing its being carried within the city; for Calchas the prophet
had told them that if the Trojans took possession of it they would
assuredly triumph over the Greeks. This language turned the tide of the
people’s feelings and they began to think how they might best secure the
monstrous horse and the favorable auguries connected with it, when
suddenly a prodigy occurred which left no room to doubt. There appeared,
advancing over the sea, two immense serpents. They came upon the land,
and the crowd fled in all directions. The serpents advanced directly to
the spot where Laocoön stood with his two sons. They first attacked the
children, winding round their bodies and breathing their pestilential
breath in their faces. The father, attempting to rescue them, is next
seized and involved in the serpents’ coils. He struggles to tear them
away, but they overpower all his efforts and strangle him and the
children in their poisonous folds. This event was regarded as a clear
indication of the displeasure of the gods at Laocoön’s irreverent
treatment of the wooden horse, which they no longer hesitated to regard
as a sacred object, and prepared to introduce with due solemnity into
the city. This was done with songs and triumphal acclamations, and the
day closed with festivity. In the night the armed men who were enclosed
in the body of the horse, being let out by the traitor Sinon, opened the
gates of the city to their friends, who had returned under cover of the
night. The city was set on fire; the people, overcome with feasting and
sleep, put to the sword, and Troy completely subdued.



One of the most celebrated groups of statuary in existence is that of
Laocoön and his children in the embrace of the serpents. A cast of it is
owned by the Boston Athenæum; the original is in the Vatican at Rome.
The following lines are from the “Childe Harold” of Byron:

    “Now turning to the Vatican go see
    Laocoön’s torture dignifying pain;
    A father’s love and mortal’s agony
    With an immortal’s patience blending;—vain
    The struggle! vain against the coiling strain
    And gripe and deepening of the dragon’s grasp
    The old man’s clinch; the long envenomed chain
    Rivets the living links; the enormous asp
    Enforces pang on pang and stifles gasp on gasp.”

The comic poets will also occasionally borrow a classical allusion. The
following is from Swift’s “Description of a City Shower”:

    “Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits,
    While spouts run clattering o’er the roof by fits,
    And ever and anon with frightful din
    The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
    So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed
    Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
    (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
    Instead of paying chairmen, run them through);
    Laocoön struck the outside with a spear,
    And each imprisoned champion quaked with fear.”

King Priam lived to see the downfall of his kingdom and was slain at
last on the fatal night when the Greeks took the city. He had armed
himself and was about to mingle with the combatants, but was prevailed
on by Hecuba, his aged queen, to take refuge with herself and his
daughters as a suppliant at the altar of Jupiter. While there, his
youngest son Polites, pursued by Pyrrhus, the son of Achilles, rushed in
wounded, and expired at the feet of his father; whereupon Priam,
overcome with indignation, hurled his spear with feeble hand against
Pyrrhus,[24] and was forthwith slain by him.

Queen Hecuba and her daughter Cassandra were carried captives to Greece.
Cassandra had been loved by Apollo, and he gave her the gift of
prophecy; but afterwards offended with her, he rendered the gift
unavailing by ordaining that her predictions should never be believed.
Polyxena, another daughter, who had been loved by Achilles, was demanded
by the ghost of that warrior, and was sacrificed by the Greeks upon his
tomb.

                           MENELAUS AND HELEN

Our readers will be anxious to know the fate of Helen, the fair but
guilty occasion of so much slaughter. On the fall of Troy Menelaus
recovered possession of his wife, who had not ceased to love him, though
she had yielded to the might of Venus and deserted him for another.
After the death of Paris she aided the Greeks secretly on several
occasions, and in particular when Ulysses and Diomed entered the city in
disguise to carry off the Palladium. She saw and recognized Ulysses, but
kept the secret and even assisted them in obtaining the image. Thus she
became reconciled to her husband, and they were among the first to leave
the shores of Troy for their native land. But having incurred the
displeasure of the gods they were driven by storms from shore to shore
of the Mediterranean, visiting Cyprus, Phœnicia, and Egypt. In Egypt
they were kindly treated and presented with rich gifts, of which Helen’s
share was a golden spindle and a basket on wheels. The basket was to
hold the wool and spools for the queen’s work.



Dyer, in his poem of the “Fleece,” thus alludes to this incident:

    “. . . many yet adhere
    To the ancient distaff, at the bosom fixed,
    Casting the whirling spindle as they walk.
      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
    This was of old, in no inglorious days,
    The mode of spinning, when the Egyptian prince
    A golden distaff gave that beauteous nymph,
    Too beauteous Helen; no uncourtly gift.”

Milton also alludes to a famous recipe for an invigorating draught,
called Nepenthe, which the Egyptian queen gave to Helen:

    “Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thone
    In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena,
    Is of such power to stir up joy as this,
    To life so friendly or so cool to thirst.”
                                      —_Comus._

Menelaus and Helen at length arrived in safety at Sparta, resumed their
royal dignity, and lived and reigned in splendor; and when Telemachus,
the son of Ulysses, in search of his father, arrived at Sparta, he found
Menelaus and Helen celebrating the marriage of their daughter Hermione
to Neoptolemus, son of Achilles.

                    AGAMEMNON, ORESTES, AND ELECTRA

Agamemnon, the general-in-chief of the Greeks, the brother of Menelaus,
and who had been drawn into the quarrel to avenge his brother’s wrongs,
not his own, was not so fortunate in the issue. During his absence his
wife Clytemnestra had been false to him, and when his return was
expected, she with her paramour, Ægisthus, laid a plan for his
destruction, and at the banquet given to celebrate his return, murdered
him.

It was intended by the conspirators to slay his son Orestes also, a lad
not yet old enough to be an object of apprehension, but from whom, if he
should be suffered to grow up, there might be danger. Electra, the
sister of Orestes, saved her brother’s life by sending him secretly away
to his uncle Strophius, King of Phocis. In the palace of Strophius
Orestes grew up with the king’s son Pylades, and formed with him that
ardent friendship which has become proverbial. Electra frequently
reminded her brother by messengers of the duty of avenging his father’s
death, and when grown up he consulted the oracle of Delphi, which
confirmed him in his design. He therefore repaired in disguise to Argos,
pretending to be a messenger from Strophius, who had come to announce
the death of Orestes, and brought the ashes of the deceased in a funeral
urn. After visiting his father’s tomb and sacrificing upon it, according
to the rites of the ancients, he made himself known to his sister
Electra, and soon after slew both Ægisthus and Clytemnestra.

This revolting act, the slaughter of a mother by her son, though
alleviated by the guilt of the victim and the express command of the
gods, did not fail to awaken in the breasts of the ancients the same
abhorrence that it does in ours. The Eumenides, avenging deities, seized
upon Orestes, and drove him frantic from land to land. Pylades
accompanied him in his wanderings and watched over him. At length, in
answer to a second appeal to the oracle, he was directed to go to Tauris
in Scythia, and to bring thence a statue of Diana which was believed to
have fallen from heaven. Accordingly Orestes and Pylades went to Tauris,
where the barbarous people were accustomed to sacrifice to the goddess
all strangers who fell into their hands. The two friends were seized and
carried bound to the temple to be made victims. But the priestess of
Diana was no other than Iphigenia, the sister of Orestes, who, our
readers will remember, was snatched away by Diana at the moment when she
was about to be sacrificed. Ascertaining from the prisoners who they
were, Iphigenia disclosed herself to them, and the three made their
escape with the statue of the goddess, and returned to Mycenæ.

But Orestes was not yet relieved from the vengeance of the Erinyes. At
length he took refuge with Minerva at Athens. The goddess afforded him
protection, and appointed the court of Areopagus to decide his fate. The
Erinyes brought forward their accusation, and Orestes made the command
of the Delphic oracle his excuse. When the court voted and the voices
were equally divided, Orestes was acquitted by the command of Minerva.



Byron, in “Childe Harold,” Canto IV., alludes to the story of Orestes:

    “O thou who never yet of human wrong
    Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis!
    Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss,
    And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss,
    For that unnatural retribution,—just,
    Had it but been from hands less near,—in this,
    Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust!”

One of the most pathetic scenes in the ancient drama is that in which
Sophocles represents the meeting of Orestes and Electra, on his return
from Phocis. Orestes, mistaking Electra for one of the domestics, and
desirous of keeping his arrival a secret till the hour of vengeance
should arrive, produces the urn in which his ashes are supposed to rest.
Electra, believing him to be really dead, takes the urn and, embracing
it, pours forth her grief in language full of tenderness and despair.



Milton, in one of his sonnets, says:

    “. . . The repeated air
    Of sad Electra’s poet had the power
    To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.”

This alludes to the story that when, on one occasion, the city of Athens
was at the mercy of her Spartan foes, and it was proposed to destroy it,
the thought was rejected upon the accidental quotation, by some one, of
a chorus of Euripides.

                                  TROY

The facts relating to the city of Troy are still unknown to history.
Antiquarians have long sought for the actual city and some record of its
rulers. The most interesting explorations were those conducted about
1890 by the German scholar, Henry Schliemann, who believed that at the
mound of Hissarlik, the traditional site of Troy, he had uncovered the
ancient capital. Schliemann excavated down below the ruins of three or
four settlements, each revealing an earlier civilization, and finally
came upon some royal jewels and other relics said to be “Priam’s
Treasure.” Scholars are by no means agreed as to the historic value of
these discoveries.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XXIX

ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES—THE LOTUS-EATERS—CYCLOPES—CIRCE—SIRENS—SCYLLA AND
                           CHARYBDIS—CALYPSO

                           RETURN OF ULYSSES

THE romantic poem of the Odyssey is now to engage our attention. It
narrates the wanderings of Ulysses (Odysseus in the Greek language) in
his return from Troy to his own kingdom Ithaca.

From Troy the vessels first made land at Ismarus, city of the Ciconians,
where, in a skirmish with the inhabitants, Ulysses lost six men from
each ship. Sailing thence, they were overtaken by a storm which drove
them for nine days along the sea till they reached the country of the
Lotus-eaters. Here, after watering, Ulysses sent three of his men to
discover who the inhabitants were. These men on coming among the
Lotus-eaters were kindly entertained by them, and were given some of
their own food, the lotus plant, to eat. The effect of this food was
such that those who partook of it lost all thoughts of home and wished
to remain in that country. It was by main force that Ulysses dragged
these men away, and he was even obliged to tie them under the benches of
the ships.[25]

They next arrived at the country of the Cyclopes. The Cyclopes were
giants, who inhabited an island of which they were the only possessors.
The name means “round eye,” and these giants were so called because they
had but one eye, and that placed in the middle of the forehead. They
dwelt in caves and fed on the wild productions of the island and on what
their flocks yielded, for they were shepherds. Ulysses left the main
body of his ships at anchor, and with one vessel went to the Cyclopes’
island to explore for supplies. He landed with his companions, carrying
with them a jar of wine for a present, and coming to a large cave they
entered it, and finding no one within examined its contents. They found
it stored with the richest of the flock, quantities of cheese, pails and
bowls of milk, lambs and kids in their pens, all in nice order.
Presently arrived the master of the cave, Polyphemus, bearing an immense
bundle of firewood, which he threw down before the cavern’s mouth. He
then drove into the cave the sheep and goats to be milked, and,
entering, rolled to the cave’s mouth an enormous rock, that twenty oxen
could not draw. Next he sat down and milked his ewes, preparing a part
for cheese, and setting the rest aside for his customary drink. Then,
turning round his great eye, he discerned the strangers, and growled out
to them, demanding who they were, and where from. Ulysses replied most
humbly, stating that they were Greeks, from the great expedition that
had lately won so much glory in the conquest of Troy; that they were now
on their way home, and finished by imploring his hospitality in the name
of the gods. Polyphemus deigned no answer, but reaching out his hand
seized two of the Greeks, whom he hurled against the side of the cave,
and dashed out their brains. He proceeded to devour them with great
relish, and having made a hearty meal, stretched himself out on the
floor to sleep. Ulysses was tempted to seize the opportunity and plunge
his sword into him as he slept, but recollected that it would only
expose them all to certain destruction, as the rock with which the giant
had closed up the door was far beyond their power to remove, and they
would therefore be in hopeless imprisonment. Next morning the giant
seized two more of the Greeks, and despatched them in the same manner as
their companions, feasting on their flesh till no fragment was left. He
then moved away the rock from the door, drove out his flocks, and went
out, carefully replacing the barrier after him. When he was gone Ulysses
planned how he might take vengeance for his murdered friends, and effect
his escape with his surviving companions. He made his men prepare a
massive bar of wood cut by the Cyclops for a staff, which they found in
the cave. They sharpened the end of it, and seasoned it in the fire, and
hid it under the straw on the cavern floor. Then four of the boldest
were selected, with whom Ulysses joined himself as a fifth. The Cyclops
came home at evening, rolled away the stone and drove in his flock as
usual. After milking them and making his arrangements as before, he
seized two more of Ulysses’ companions and dashed their brains out, and
made his evening meal upon them as he had on the others. After he had
supped, Ulysses approaching him handed him a bowl of wine, saying,
“Cyclops, this is wine; taste and drink after thy meal of men’s flesh.”
He took and drank it, and was hugely delighted with it, and called for
more. Ulysses supplied him once again, which pleased the giant so much
that he promised him as a favor that he should be the last of the party
devoured. He asked his name, to which Ulysses replied, “My name is
Noman.”

After his supper the giant lay down to repose, and was soon sound
asleep. Then Ulysses with his four select friends thrust the end of the
stake into the fire till it was all one burning coal, then poising it
exactly above the giant’s only eye, they buried it deeply into the
socket, twirling it round as a carpenter does his auger. The howling
monster with his outcry filled the cavern, and Ulysses with his aids
nimbly got out of his way and concealed themselves in the cave. He,
bellowing, called aloud on all the Cyclopes dwelling in the caves around
him, far and near. They on his cry flocked round the den, and inquired
what grievous hurt had caused him to sound such an alarm and break their
slumbers. He replied, “O friends, I die, and Noman gives the blow.” They
answered, “If no man hurts thee it is the stroke of Jove, and thou must
bear it.” So saying, they left him groaning.

Next morning the Cyclops rolled away the stone to let his flock out to
pasture, but planted himself in the door of the cave to feel of all as
they went out, that Ulysses and his men should not escape with them. But
Ulysses had made his men harness the rams of the flock three abreast,
with osiers which they found on the floor of the cave. To the middle ram
of the three one of the Greeks suspended himself, so protected by the
exterior rams on either side. As they passed, the giant felt of the
animals’ backs and sides, but never thought of their bellies; so the men
all passed safe, Ulysses himself being on the last one that passed. When
they had got a few paces from the cavern, Ulysses and his friends
released themselves from their rams, and drove a good part of the flock
down to the shore to their boat. They put them aboard with all haste,
then pushed off from the shore, and when at a safe distance Ulysses
shouted out, “Cyclops, the gods have well requited thee for thy
atrocious deeds. Know it is Ulysses to whom thou owest thy shameful loss
of sight.” The Cyclops, hearing this, seized a rock that projected from
the side of the mountain, and rending it from its bed, he lifted it high
in the air, then exerting all his force, hurled it in the direction of
the voice. Down came the mass, just clearing the vessel’s stern. The
ocean, at the plunge of the huge rock, heaved the ship towards the land,
so that it barely escaped being swamped by the waves. When they had with
the utmost difficulty pulled off shore, Ulysses was about to hail the
giant again, but his friends besought him not to do so. He could not
forbear, however, letting the giant know that they had escaped his
missile, but waited till they had reached a safer distance than before.
The giant answered them with curses, but Ulysses and his friends plied
their oars vigorously, and soon regained their companions.



Ulysses next arrived at the island of Æolus. To this monarch Jupiter had
intrusted the government of the winds, to send them forth or retain them
at his will. He treated Ulysses hospitably, and at his departure gave
him, tied up in a leathern bag, with a silver string, such winds as
might be hurtful and dangerous, commanding fair winds to blow the barks
towards their country. Nine days they sped before the wind, and all that
time Ulysses had stood at the helm, without sleep. At last quite
exhausted he lay down to sleep. While he slept, the crew conferred
together about the mysterious bag, and concluded it must contain
treasures given by the hospitable king Æolus to their commander. Tempted
to secure some portion for themselves, they loosed the string, when
immediately the winds rushed forth. The ships were driven far from their
course, and back again to the island they had just left. Æolus was so
indignant at their folly that he refused to assist them further, and
they were obliged to labor over their course once more by means of their
oars.

                           THE LÆSTRYGONIANS

Their next adventure was with the barbarous tribe of Læstrygonians. The
vessels all pushed into the harbor, tempted by the secure appearance of
the cove, completely land-locked; only Ulysses moored his vessel
without. As soon as the Læstrygonians found the ships completely in
their power they attacked them, heaving huge stones which broke and
overturned them, and with their spears despatched the seamen as they
struggled in the water. All the vessels with their crews were destroyed,
except Ulysses’ own ship, which had remained outside, and finding no
safety but in flight, he exhorted his men to ply their oars vigorously,
and they escaped.

With grief for their slain companions mixed with joy at their own
escape, they pursued their way till they arrived at the Ææan isle, where
Circe dwelt, the daughter of the sun. Landing here, Ulysses climbed a
hill, and gazing round saw no signs of habitation except in one spot at
the centre of the island, where he perceived a palace embowered with
trees. He sent forward one-half of his crew, under the command of
Eurylochus, to see what prospect of hospitality they might find. As they
approached the palace, they found themselves surrounded by lions,
tigers, and wolves, not fierce, but tamed by Circe’s art, for she was a
powerful magician. All these animals had once been men, but had been
changed by Circe’s enchantments into the forms of beasts. The sounds of
soft music were heard from within, and a sweet female voice singing.
Eurylochus called aloud and the goddess came forth and invited them in;
they all gladly entered except Eurylochus, who suspected danger. The
goddess conducted her guests to a seat, and had them served with wine
and other delicacies. When they had feasted heartily, she touched them
one by one with her wand, and they became immediately changed into
_swine_, in “head, body, voice, and bristles,” yet with their intellects
as before. She shut them in her sties and supplied them with acorns and
such other things as swine love.

Eurylochus hurried back to the ship and told the tale. Ulysses thereupon
determined to go himself, and try if by any means he might deliver his
companions. As he strode onward alone, he met a youth who addressed him
familiarly, appearing to be acquainted with his adventures. He announced
himself as Mercury, and informed Ulysses of the arts of Circe, and of
the danger of approaching her. As Ulysses was not to be dissuaded from
his attempt, Mercury provided him with a sprig of the plant Moly, of
wonderful power to resist sorceries, and instructed him how to act.
Ulysses proceeded, and reaching the palace was courteously received by
Circe, who entertained him as she had done his companions, and after he
had eaten and drank, touched him with her wand, saying, “Hence, seek the
sty and wallow with thy friends.” But he, instead of obeying, drew his
sword and rushed upon her with fury in his countenance. She fell on her
knees and begged for mercy. He dictated a solemn oath that she would
release his companions and practise no further harm against him or them;
and she repeated it, at the same time promising to dismiss them all in
safety after hospitably entertaining them. She was as good as her word.
The men were restored to their shapes, the rest of the crew summoned
from the shore, and the whole magnificently entertained day after day,
till Ulysses seemed to have forgotten his native land, and to have
reconciled himself to an inglorious life of ease and pleasure.

At length his companions recalled him to nobler sentiments, and he
received their admonition gratefully. Circe aided their departure, and
instructed them how to pass safely by the coast of the Sirens. The
Sirens were sea-nymphs who had the power of charming by their song all
who heard them, so that the unhappy mariners were irresistibly impelled
to cast themselves into the sea to their destruction. Circe directed
Ulysses to fill the ears of his seamen with wax, so that they should not
hear the strain; and to cause himself to be bound to the mast, and his
people to be strictly enjoined, whatever he might say or do, by no means
to release him till they should have passed the Sirens’ island. Ulysses
obeyed these directions. He filled the ears of his people with wax, and
suffered them to bind him with cords firmly to the mast. As they
approached the Sirens’ island, the sea was calm, and over the waters
came the notes of music so ravishing and attractive that Ulysses
struggled to get loose, and by cries and signs to his people begged to
be released; but they, obedient to his previous orders, sprang forward
and bound him still faster. They held on their course, and the music
grew fainter till it ceased to be heard, when with joy Ulysses gave his
companions the signal to unseal their ears, and they relieved him from
his bonds.



The imagination of a modern poet, Keats, has discovered for us the
thoughts that passed through the brains of the victims of Circe, after
their transformation. In his “Endymion” he represents one of them, a
monarch in the guise of an elephant, addressing the sorceress in human
language, thus:

    “I sue not for my happy crown again;
    I sue not for my phalanx on the plain;
    I sue not for my lone, my widowed wife;
    I sue not for my ruddy drops of life,
    My children fair, my lovely girls and boys;
    I will forget them; I will pass these joys,
    Ask nought so heavenward; so too—too high;
    Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die;
    To be delivered from this cumbrous flesh,
    From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh,
    And merely given to the cold, bleak air.
    Have mercy, goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!”

                          SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS

Ulysses had been warned by Circe of the two monsters Scylla and
Charybdis. We have already met with Scylla in the story of Glaucus, and
remember that she was once a beautiful maiden and was changed into a
snaky monster by Circe. She dwelt in a cave high up on the cliff, from
whence she was accustomed to thrust forth her long necks (for she had
six heads), and in each of her mouths to seize one of the crew of every
vessel passing within reach. The other terror, Charybdis, was a gulf,
nearly on a level with the water. Thrice each day the water rushed into
a frightful chasm, and thrice was disgorged. Any vessel coming near the
whirlpool when the tide was rushing in must inevitably be ingulfed; not
Neptune himself could save it.

On approaching the haunt of the dread monsters, Ulysses kept strict
watch to discover them. The roar of the waters as Charybdis ingulfed
them, gave warning at a distance, but Scylla could nowhere be discerned.
While Ulysses and his men watched with anxious eyes the dreadful
whirlpool, they were not equally on their guard from the attack of
Scylla, and the monster, darting forth her snaky heads, caught six of
his men, and bore them away, shrieking, to her den. It was the saddest
sight Ulysses had yet seen; to behold his friends thus sacrificed and
hear their cries, unable to afford them any assistance.

Circe had warned him of another danger. After passing Scylla and
Charybdis the next land he would make was Thrinakia, an island whereon
were pastured the cattle of Hyperion, the Sun, tended by his daughters
Lampetia and Phaëthusa. These flocks must not be violated, whatever the
wants of the voyagers might be. If this injunction were transgressed
destruction was sure to fall on the offenders.

Ulysses would willingly have passed the island of the Sun without
stopping, but his companions so urgently pleaded for the rest and
refreshment that would be derived from anchoring and passing the night
on shore, that Ulysses yielded. He bound them, however, with an oath
that they would not touch one of the animals of the sacred flocks and
herds, but content themselves with what provision they yet had left of
the supply which Circe had put on board. So long as this supply lasted
the people kept their oath, but contrary winds detained them at the
island for a month, and after consuming all their stock of provisions,
they were forced to rely upon the birds and fishes they could catch.
Famine pressed them, and at length one day, in the absence of Ulysses,
they slew some of the cattle, vainly attempting to make amends for the
deed by offering from them a portion to the offended powers. Ulysses, on
his return to the shore, was horror-struck at perceiving what they had
done, and the more so on account of the portentous signs which followed.
The skins crept on the ground, and the joints of meat lowed on the spits
while roasting.

The wind becoming fair they sailed from the island. They had not gone
far when the weather changed, and a storm of thunder and lightning
ensued. A stroke of lightning shattered their mast, which in its fall
killed the pilot. At last the vessel itself came to pieces. The keel and
mast floating side by side, Ulysses formed of them a raft, to which he
clung, and, the wind changing, the waves bore him to Calypso’s island.
All the rest of the crew perished.



The following allusion to the topics we have just been considering is
from Milton’s “Comus,” line 252:

    “. . . I have often heard
    My mother Circe and the Sirens three,
    Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades,
    Culling their potent herbs and baneful drugs,
    Who as they sung would take the prisoned soul
    And lap it in Elysium. Scylla wept,
    And chid her barking waves into attention,
    And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause.”

Scylla and Charybdis have become proverbial, to denote opposite dangers
which beset one’s course. See Proverbial Expressions.

                                CALYPSO

Calypso was a sea-nymph, which name denotes a numerous class of female
divinities of lower rank, yet sharing many of the attributes of the
gods. Calypso received Ulysses hospitably, entertained him
magnificently, became enamoured of him, and wished to retain him
forever, conferring on him immortality. But he persisted in his
resolution to return to his country and his wife and son. Calypso at
last received the command of Jove to dismiss him. Mercury brought the
message to her, and found her in her grotto, which is thus described by
Homer:

    “A garden vine, luxuriant on all sides,
    Mantled the spacious cavern, cluster-hung
    Profuse; four fountains of serenest lymph,
    Their sinuous course pursuing side by side,
    Strayed all around, and everywhere appeared
    Meadows of softest verdure, purpled o’er
    With violets; it was a scene to fill
    A god from heaven with wonder and delight.”

Calypso with much reluctance proceeded to obey the commands of Jupiter.
She supplied Ulysses with the means of constructing a raft, provisioned
it well for him, and gave him a favoring gale. He sped on his course
prosperously for many days, till at length, when in sight of land, a
storm arose that broke his mast, and threatened to rend the raft
asunder. In this crisis he was seen by a compassionate sea-nymph, who in
the form of a cormorant alighted on the raft, and presented him a
girdle, directing him to bind it beneath his breast, and if he should be
compelled to trust himself to the waves, it would buoy him up and enable
him by swimming to reach the land.



Fenelon, in his romance of “Telemachus,” has given us the adventures of
the son of Ulysses in search of his father. Among other places at which
he arrived, following on his father’s footsteps, was Calypso’s isle,
and, as in the former case, the goddess tried every art to keep him with
her, and offered to share her immortality with him. But Minerva, who in
the shape of Mentor accompanied him and governed all his movements, made
him repel her allurements, and when no other means of escape could be
found, the two friends leaped from a cliff into the sea, and swam to a
vessel which lay becalmed off shore. Byron alludes to this leap of
Telemachus and Mentor in the following stanza:

      “But not in silence pass Calypso’s isles,
      The sister tenants of the middle deep;
      There for the weary still a haven smiles,
      Though the fair goddess long has ceased to weep,
      And o’er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep
      For him who dared prefer a mortal bride.
      Here too his boy essayed the dreadful leap,
      Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide;
    While thus of both bereft the nymph-queen doubly sighed.”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XXX

                   The PHÆACIANS—FATE OF THE SUITORS

                             THE PHÆACIANS

ULYSSES clung to the raft while any of its timbers kept together, and
when it no longer yielded him support, binding the girdle around him, he
swam. Minerva smoothed the billows before him and sent him a wind that
rolled the waves towards the shore. The surf beat high on the rocks and
seemed to forbid approach; but at length finding calm water at the mouth
of a gentle stream, he landed, spent with toil, breathless and
speechless and almost dead. After some time, reviving, he kissed the
soil, rejoicing, yet at a loss what course to take. At a short distance
he perceived a wood, to which he turned his steps. There, finding a
covert sheltered by intermingling branches alike from the sun and the
rain, he collected a pile of leaves and formed a bed, on which he
stretched himself, and heaping the leaves over him, fell asleep.

The land where he was thrown was Scheria, the country of the Phæacians.
These people dwelt originally near the Cyclopes; but being oppressed by
that savage race, they migrated to the isle of Scheria, under the
conduct of Nausithoüs, their king. They were, the poet tells us, a
people akin to the gods, who appeared manifestly and feasted among them
when they offered sacrifices, and did not conceal themselves from
solitary wayfarers when they met them. They had abundance of wealth and
lived in the enjoyment of it undisturbed by the alarms of war, for as
they dwelt remote from gain-seeking man, no enemy ever approached their
shores, and they did not even require to make use of bows and quivers.
Their chief employment was navigation. Their ships, which went with the
velocity of birds, were endued with intelligence; they knew every port
and needed no pilot. Alcinoüs, the son of Nausithoüs, was now their
king, a wise and just sovereign, beloved by his people.

Now it happened that the very night on which Ulysses was cast ashore on
the Phæacian island, and while he lay sleeping on his bed of leaves,
Nausicaa, the daughter of the king, had a dream sent by Minerva,
reminding her that her wedding-day was not far distant, and that it
would be but a prudent preparation for that event to have a general
washing of the clothes of the family. This was no slight affair, for the
fountains were at some distance, and the garments must be carried
thither. On awaking, the princess hastened to her parents to tell them
what was on her mind; not alluding to her wedding-day, but finding other
reasons equally good. Her father readily assented and ordered the grooms
to furnish forth a wagon for the purpose. The clothes were put therein,
and the queen mother placed in the wagon, likewise, an abundant supply
of food and wine. The princess took her seat and plied the lash, her
attendant virgins following her on foot. Arrived at the river-side, they
turned out the mules to graze, and unlading the carriage, bore the
garments down to the water, and working with cheerfulness and alacrity
soon despatched their labor. Then having spread the garments on the
shore to dry, and having themselves bathed, they sat down to enjoy their
meal; after which they rose and amused themselves with a game of ball,
the princess singing to them while they played. But when they had
refolded the apparel and were about to resume their way to the town,
Minerva caused the ball thrown by the princess to fall into the water,
whereat they all screamed and Ulysses awaked at the sound.

Now we must picture to ourselves Ulysses, a shipwrecked mariner, but a
few hours escaped from the waves, and utterly destitute of clothing,
awaking and discovering that only a few bushes were interposed between
him and a group of young maidens whom, by their deportment and attire,
he discovered to be not mere peasant girls, but of a higher class. Sadly
needing help, how could he yet venture, naked as he was, to discover
himself and make his wants known? It certainly was a case worthy of the
interposition of his patron goddess Minerva, who never failed him at a
crisis. Breaking off a leafy branch from a tree, he held it before him
and stepped out from the thicket. The virgins at sight of him fled in
all directions, Nausicaa alone excepted, for _her_ Minerva aided and
endowed with courage and discernment. Ulysses, standing respectfully
aloof, told his sad case, and besought the fair object (whether queen or
goddess he professed he knew not) for food and clothing. The princess
replied courteously, promising present relief and her father’s
hospitality when he should become acquainted with the facts. She called
back her scattered maidens, chiding their alarm, and reminding them that
the Phæacians had no enemies to fear. This man, she told them, was an
unhappy wanderer, whom it was a duty to cherish, for the poor and
stranger are from Jove. She bade them bring food and clothing, for some
of her brother’s garments were among the contents of the wagon. When
this was done, and Ulysses, retiring to a sheltered place, had washed
his body free from the sea-foam, clothed and refreshed himself with
food, Pallas dilated his form and diffused grace over his ample chest
and manly brows.

The princess, seeing him, was filled with admiration, and scrupled not
to say to her damsels that she wished the gods would sent her such a
husband. To Ulysses she recommended that he should repair to the city,
following herself and train so far as the way lay through the fields;
but when they should approach the city she desired that he would no
longer be seen in her company, for she feared the remarks which rude and
vulgar people might make on seeing her return accompanied by such a
gallant stranger. To avoid which she directed him to stop at a grove
adjoining the city, in which were a farm and garden belonging to the
king. After allowing time for the princess and her companions to reach
the city, he was then to pursue his way thither, and would be easily
guided by any he might meet to the royal abode.

Ulysses obeyed the directions and in due time proceeded to the city, on
approaching which he met a young woman bearing a pitcher forth for
water. It was Minerva, who had assumed that form. Ulysses accosted her
and desired to be directed to the palace of Alcinoüs the king. The
maiden replied respectfully, offering to be his guide; for the palace,
she informed him, stood near her father’s dwelling. Under the guidance
of the goddess, and by her power enveloped in a cloud which shielded him
from observation, Ulysses passed among the busy crowd, and with wonder
observed their harbor, their ships, their forum (the resort of heroes),
and their battlements, till they came to the palace, where the goddess,
having first given him some information of the country, king, and people
he was about to meet, left him. Ulysses, before entering the courtyard
of the palace, stood and surveyed the scene. Its splendor astonished
him. Brazen walls stretched from the entrance to the interior house, of
which the doors were gold, the doorposts silver, the lintels silver
ornamented with gold. On either side were figures of mastiffs wrought in
gold and silver, standing in rows as if to guard the approach. Along the
walls were seats spread through all their length with mantles of finest
texture, the work of Phæacian maidens. On these seats the princes sat
and feasted, while golden statues of graceful youths held in their hands
lighted torches which shed radiance over the scene. Full fifty female
menials served in household offices, some employed to grind the corn,
others to wind off the purple wool or ply the loom. For the Phæacian
women as far exceeded all other women in household arts as the mariners
of that country did the rest of mankind in the management of ships.
Without the court a spacious garden lay, four acres in extent. In it
grew many a lofty tree, pomegranate, pear, apple, fig, and olive.
Neither winter’s cold nor summer’s drought arrested their growth, but
they flourished in constant succession, some budding while others were
maturing. The vineyard was equally prolific. In one quarter you might
see the vines, some in blossom, some loaded with ripe grapes, and in
another observe the vintagers treading the wine press. On the garden’s
borders flowers of all hues bloomed all the year round, arranged with
neatest art. In the midst two fountains poured forth their waters, one
flowing by artificial channels over all the garden, the other conducted
through the courtyard of the palace, whence every citizen might draw his
supplies.

Ulysses stood gazing in admiration, unobserved himself, for the cloud
which Minerva spread around him still shielded him. At length, having
sufficiently observed the scene, he advanced with rapid step into the
hall where the chiefs and senators were assembled, pouring libation to
Mercury, whose worship followed the evening meal. Just then Minerva
dissolved the cloud and disclosed him to the assembled chiefs. Advancing
to the place where the queen sat, he knelt at her feet and implored her
favor and assistance to enable him to return to his native country. Then
withdrawing, he seated himself in the manner of suppliants, at the
hearth side.

For a time none spoke. At last an aged statesman, addressing the king,
said, “It is not fit that a stranger who asks our hospitality should be
kept waiting in suppliant guise, none welcoming him. Let him therefore
be led to a seat among us and supplied with food and wine.” At these
words the king rising gave his hand to Ulysses and led him to a seat,
displacing thence his own son to make room for the stranger. Food and
wine were set before him and he ate and refreshed himself.

The king then dismissed his guests, notifying them that the next day he
would call them to council to consider what had best be done for the
stranger.

When the guests had departed and Ulysses was left alone with the king
and queen, the queen asked him who he was and whence he came, and
(recognizing the clothes which he wore as those which her maidens and
herself had made) from whom he received those garments. He told them of
his residence in Calypso’s isle and his departure thence; of the wreck
of his raft, his escape by swimming, and of the relief afforded by the
princess. The parents heard approvingly, and the king promised to
furnish a ship in which his guest might return to his own land.

The next day the assembled chiefs confirmed the promise of the king. A
bark was prepared and a crew of stout rowers selected, and all betook
themselves to the palace, where a bounteous repast was provided. After
the feast the king proposed that the young men should show their guest
their proficiency in manly sports, and all went forth to the arena for
games of running, wrestling, and other exercises. After all had done
their best, Ulysses being challenged to show what he could do, at first
declined, but being taunted by one of the youths, seized a quoit of
weight far heavier than any of the Phæacians had thrown, and sent it
farther than the utmost throw of theirs. All were astonished, and viewed
their guest with greatly increased respect.

After the games they returned to the hall, and the herald led in
Demodocus, the blind bard,—

    “. . . Dear to the Muse,
    Who yet appointed him both good and ill,
    Took from him sight, but gave him strains divine.”

He took for his theme the “Wooden Horse,” by means of which the Greeks
found entrance into Troy. Apollo inspired him, and he sang so feelingly
the terrors and the exploits of that eventful time that all were
delighted, but Ulysses was moved to tears. Observing which, Alcinoüs,
when the song was done, demanded of him why at the mention of Troy his
sorrows awaked. Had he lost there a father, or brother, or any dear
friend? Ulysses replied by announcing himself by his true name, and at
their request, recounted the adventures which had befallen him since his
departure from Troy. This narrative raised the sympathy and admiration
of the Phæacians for their guest to the highest pitch. The king proposed
that all the chiefs should present him with a gift, himself setting the
example. They obeyed, and vied with one another in loading the
illustrious stranger with costly gifts.

The next day Ulysses set sail in the Phæacian vessel, and in a short
time arrived safe at Ithaca, his own island. When the vessel touched the
strand he was asleep. The mariners, without waking him, carried him on
shore, and landed with him the chest containing his presents, and then
sailed away.

Neptune was so displeased at the conduct of the Phæacians in thus
rescuing Ulysses from his hands that on the return of the vessel to port
he transformed it into a rock, right opposite the mouth of the harbor.



Homer’s description of the ships of the Phæacians has been thought to
look like an anticipation of the wonders of modern steam navigation.
Alcinoüs says to Ulysses:

    “Say from what city, from what regions tossed,
    And what inhabitants those regions boast?
    So shalt thou quickly reach the realm assigned,
    In wondrous ships, self-moved, instinct with mind;
    No helm secures their course, no pilot guides;
    Like man intelligent they plough the tides,
    Conscious of every coast and every bay
    That lies beneath the sun’s all-seeing ray.”
                            —_Odyssey_, Book VIII.



Lord Carlisle, in his “Diary in the Turkish and Greek Waters,” thus
speaks of Corfu, which he considers to be the ancient Phæacian island:

“The sites explain the ‘Odyssey.’ The temple of the sea-god could not
have been more fitly placed, upon a grassy platform of the most elastic
turf, on the brow of a crag commanding harbor, and channel, and ocean.
Just at the entrance of the inner harbor there is a picturesque rock
with a small convent perched upon it, which by one legend is the
transformed pinnace of Ulysses.

“Almost the only river in the island is just at the proper distance from
the probable site of the city and palace of the king, to justify the
princess Nausicaa having had resort to her chariot and to luncheon when
she went with the maidens of the court to wash their garments.”

                          FATE OF THE SUITORS

Ulysses had now been away from Ithaca for twenty years, and when he
awoke he did not recognize his native land. Minerva appeared to him in
the form of a young shepherd, informed him where he was, and told him
the state of things at his palace. More than a hundred nobles of Ithaca
and of the neighboring islands had been for years suing for the hand of
Penelope, his wife, imagining him dead, and lording it over his palace
and people, as if they were owners of both. That he might be able to
take vengeance upon them, it was important that he should not be
recognized. Minerva accordingly metamorphosed him into an unsightly
beggar, and as such he was kindly received by Eumæus, the swine-herd, a
faithful servant of his house.

Telemachus, his son, was absent in quest of his father. He had gone to
the courts of the other kings, who had returned from the Trojan
expedition. While on the search, he received counsel from Minerva to
return home. He arrived and sought Eumæus to learn something of the
state of affairs at the palace before presenting himself among the
suitors. Finding a stranger with Eumæus, he treated him courteously,
though in the garb of a beggar, and promised him assistance. Eumæus was
sent to the palace to inform Penelope privately of her son’s arrival,
for caution was necessary with regard to the suitors, who, as Telemachus
had learned, were plotting to intercept and kill him. When Eumæus was
gone, Minerva presented herself to Ulysses, and directed him to make
himself known to his son. At the same time she touched him, removed at
once from him the appearance of age and penury, and gave him the aspect
of vigorous manhood that belonged to him. Telemachus viewed him with
astonishment, and at first thought he must be more than mortal. But
Ulysses announced himself as his father, and accounted for the change of
appearance by explaining that it was Minerva’s doing.

    “. . . Then threw Telemachus
    His arms around his father’s neck and wept.
    Desire intense of lamentation seized
    On both; soft murmurs uttering, each indulged
    His grief.”

The father and son took counsel together how they should get the better
of the suitors and punish them for their outrages. It was arranged that
Telemachus should proceed to the palace and mingle with the suitors as
formerly; that Ulysses should also go as a beggar, a character which in
the rude old times had different privileges from what we concede to it
now. As traveller and storyteller, the beggar was admitted in the halls
of chieftains, and often treated like a guest; though sometimes, also,
no doubt, with contumely. Ulysses charged his son not to betray, by any
display of unusual interest in him, that he knew him to be other than he
seemed, and even if he saw him insulted, or beaten, not to interpose
otherwise than he might do for any stranger. At the palace they found
the usual scene of feasting and riot going on. The suitors pretended to
receive Telemachus with joy at his return, though secretly mortified at
the failure of their plots to take his life. The old beggar was
permitted to enter, and provided with a portion from the table. A
touching incident occurred as Ulysses entered the courtyard of the
palace. An old dog lay in the yard almost dead with age, and seeing a
stranger enter, raised his head, with ears erect. It was Argus, Ulysses’
own dog, that he had in other days often led to the chase.

    “. . . Soon as he perceived
    Long-lost Ulysses nigh, down fell his ears
    Clapped close, and with his tail glad sign he gave
    Of gratulation, impotent to rise,
    And to approach his master as of old.
    Ulysses, noting him, wiped off a tear
    Unmarked.
    . . . Then his destiny released
    Old Argus, soon as he had lived to see
    Ulysses in the twentieth year restored.”

As Ulysses sat eating his portion in the hall, the suitors began to
exhibit their insolence to him. When he mildly remonstrated, one of them
raised a stool and with it gave him a blow. Telemachus had hard work to
restrain his indignation at seeing his father so treated in his own
hall, but remembering his father’s injunctions, said no more than what
became him as master of the house, though young, and protector of his
guests.

Penelope had protracted her decision in favor of either of her suitors
so long that there seemed to be no further pretence for delay. The
continued absence of her husband seemed to prove that his return was no
longer to be expected. Meanwhile her son had grown up, and was able to
manage his own affairs. She therefore consented to submit the question
of her choice to a trial of skill among the suitors. The test selected
was shooting with the bow. Twelve rings were arranged in a line, and he
whose arrow was sent through the whole twelve was to have the queen for
his prize. A bow that one of his brother heroes had given to Ulysses in
former times was brought from the armory, and with its quiver full of
arrows was laid in the hall. Telemachus had taken care that all other
weapons should be removed, under pretence that in the heat of
competition there was danger, in some rash moment, of putting them to an
improper use.

All things being prepared for the trial, the first thing to be done was
to bend the bow in order to attach the string. Telemachus endeavored to
do it, but found all his efforts fruitless; and modestly confessing that
he had attempted a task beyond his strength, he yielded the bow to
another. _He_ tried it with no better success, and, amidst the laughter
and jeers of his companions, gave it up. Another tried it and another;
they rubbed the bow with tallow, but all to no purpose; it would not
bend. Then spoke Ulysses, humbly suggesting that he should be permitted
to try; for, said he, “beggar as I am, I was once a soldier, and there
is still some strength in these old limbs of mine.” The suitors hooted
with derision, and commanded to turn him out of the hall for his
insolence. But Telemachus spoke up for him, and, merely to gratify the
old man, bade him try. Ulysses took the bow, and handled it with the
hand of a master. With ease he adjusted the cord to its notch, then
fitting an arrow to the bow he drew the string and sped the arrow
unerring through the rings.

Without allowing them time to express their astonishment, he said, “Now
for another mark!” and aimed direct at the most insolent one of the
suitors. The arrow pierced through his throat and he fell dead.
Telemachus, Eumæus, and another faithful follower, well armed, now
sprang to the side of Ulysses. The suitors, in amazement, looked round
for arms, but found none, neither was there any way of escape, for
Eumæus had secured the door. Ulysses left them not long in uncertainty;
he announced himself as the long-lost chief, whose house they had
invaded, whose substance they had squandered, whose wife and son they
had persecuted for ten long years; and told them he meant to have ample
vengeance. All were slain, and Ulysses was left master of his palace and
possessor of his kingdom and his wife.



Tennyson’s poem of “Ulysses” represents the old hero, after his dangers
past and nothing left but to stay at home and be happy, growing tired of
inaction and resolving to set forth again in quest of new adventures:

    “. . . Come, my friends,
    ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
    Push off, and sitting well in order smite
    The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
    To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
    Of all the western stars, until I die.
    It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
    It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
    And see the great Achilles whom we knew;” etc.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XXXI

             ADVENTURES OF ÆNEAS—THE HARPIES—DIDO—PALINURUS

                          ADVENTURES OF ÆNEAS

WE have followed one of the Grecian heroes, Ulysses, in his wanderings
on his return home from Troy, and now we propose to share the fortunes
of the remnant of the _conquered_ people, under their chief Æneas, in
their search for a new home, after the ruin of their native city. On
that fatal night when the wooden horse disgorged its contents of armed
men, and the capture and conflagration of the city were the result,
Æneas made his escape from the scene of destruction, with his father,
and his wife, and young son. The father, Anchises, was too old to walk
with the speed required, and Æneas took him upon his shoulders. Thus
burdened, leading his son and followed by his wife, he made the best of
his way out of the burning city; but, in the confusion, his wife was
swept away and lost.

On arriving at the place of rendezvous, numerous fugitives, of both
sexes, were found, who put themselves under the guidance of Æneas. Some
months were spent in preparation, and at length they embarked. They
first landed on the neighboring shores of Thrace, and were preparing to
build a city, but Æneas was deterred by a prodigy. Preparing to offer
sacrifice, he tore some twigs from one of the bushes. To his dismay the
wounded part dropped blood. When he repeated the act a voice from the
ground cried out to him, “Spare me, Æneas; I am your kinsman, Polydore,
here murdered with many arrows, from which a bush has grown, nourished
with my blood.” These words recalled to the recollection of Æneas that
Polydore was a young prince of Troy, whom his father had sent with ample
treasures to the neighboring land of Thrace, to be there brought up, at
a distance from the horrors of war. The king to whom he was sent had
murdered him and seized his treasures. Æneas and his companions,
considering the land accursed by the stain of such a crime, hastened
away.

They next landed on the island of Delos, which was once a floating
island, till Jupiter fastened it by adamantine chains to the bottom of
the sea. Apollo and Diana were born there, and the island was sacred to
Apollo. Here Æneas consulted the oracle of Apollo, and received an
answer, ambiguous as usual,—“Seek your ancient mother; there the race
of Æneas shall dwell, and reduce all other nations to their sway.” The
Trojans heard with joy and immediately began to ask one another, “Where
is the spot intended by the oracle?” Anchises remembered that there was
a tradition that their forefathers came from Crete and thither they
resolved to steer. They arrived at Crete and began to build their city,
but sickness broke out among them, and the fields that they had planted
failed to yield a crop. In this gloomy aspect of affairs Æneas was
warned in a dream to leave the country and seek a western land, called
Hesperia, whence Dardanus, the true founder of the Trojan race, had
originally migrated. To Hesperia, now called Italy, therefore, they
directed their future course, and not till after many adventures and the
lapse of time sufficient to carry a modern navigator several times round
the world, did they arrive there.

Their first landing was at the island of the Harpies. These were
disgusting birds with the heads of maidens, with long claws and faces
pale with hunger. They were sent by the gods to torment a certain
Phineus, whom Jupiter had deprived of his sight, in punishment of his
cruelty; and whenever a meal was placed before him the Harpies darted
down from the air and carried it off. They were driven away from Phineus
by the heroes of the Argonautic expedition, and took refuge in the
island where Æneas now found them.

When they entered the port the Trojans saw herds of cattle roaming over
the plain. They slew as many as they wished and prepared for a feast.
But no sooner had they seated themselves at the table than a horrible
clamor was heard in the air, and a flock of these odious harpies came
rushing down upon them, seizing in their talons the meat from the dishes
and flying away with it. Æneas and his companions drew their swords and
dealt vigorous blows among the monsters, but to no purpose, for they
were so nimble it was almost impossible to hit them, and their feathers
were like armor impenetrable to steel. One of them, perched on a
neighboring cliff, screamed out, “Is it thus, Trojans, you treat us
innocent birds, first slaughter our cattle and then make war on
ourselves?” She then predicted dire sufferings to them in their future
course, and having vented her wrath flew away. The Trojans made haste to
leave the country, and next found themselves coasting along the shore of
Epirus. Here they landed, and to their astonishment learned that certain
Trojan exiles, who had been carried there as prisoners, had become
rulers of the country. Andromache, the widow of Hector, became the wife
of one of the victorious Grecian chiefs, to whom she bore a son. Her
husband dying, she was left regent of the country, as guardian of her
son, and had married a fellow-captive, Helenus, of the royal race of
Troy. Helenus and Andromache treated the exiles with the utmost
hospitality, and dismissed them loaded with gifts.

From hence Æneas coasted along the shore of Sicily and passed the
country of the Cyclopes. Here they were hailed from the shore by a
miserable object, whom by his garments, tattered as they were, they
perceived to be a Greek. He told them he was one of Ulysses’s
companions, left behind by that chief in his hurried departure. He
related the story of Ulysses’s adventure with Polyphemus, and besought
them to take him off with them as he had no means of sustaining his
existence where he was but wild berries and roots, and lived in constant
fear of the Cyclopes. While he spoke Polyphemus made his appearance; a
terrible monster, shapeless, vast, whose only eye had been put out.[26]
He walked with cautious steps, feeling his way with a staff, down to the
sea-side, to wash his eye-socket in the waves. When he reached the
water, he waded out towards them, and his immense height enabled him to
advance far into the sea, so that the Trojans, in terror, took to their
oars to get out of his way. Hearing the oars, Polyphemus shouted after
them, so that the shores resounded, and at the noise the other Cyclopes
came forth from their caves and woods and lined the shore, like a row of
lofty pine trees. The Trojans plied their oars and soon left them out of
sight.

Æneas had been cautioned by Helenus to avoid the strait guarded by the
monsters Scylla and Charybdis. There Ulysses, the reader will remember,
had lost six of his men, seized by Scylla while the navigators were
wholly intent upon avoiding Charybdis. Æneas, following the advice of
Helenus, shunned the dangerous pass and coasted along the island of
Sicily.

Juno, seeing the Trojans speeding their way prosperously towards their
destined shore, felt her old grudge against them revive, for she could
not forget the slight that Paris had put upon her, in awarding the prize
of beauty to another. In heavenly minds can such resentments dwell![27]
Accordingly she hastened to Æolus, the ruler of the winds,—the same who
supplied Ulysses with favoring gales, giving him the contrary ones tied
up in a bag. Æolus obeyed the goddess and sent forth his sons, Boreas,
Typhon, and the other winds, to toss the ocean. A terrible storm ensued
and the Trojan ships were driven out of their course towards the coast
of Africa. They were in imminent danger of being wrecked, and were
separated, so that Æneas thought that all were lost except his own.

At this crisis, Neptune, hearing the storm raging, and knowing that he
had given no orders for one, raised his head above the waves, and saw
the fleet of Æneas driving before the gale. Knowing the hostility of
Juno, he was at no loss to account for it, but his anger was not the
less at this interference in his province. He called the winds and
dismissed them with a severe reprimand. He then soothed the waves, and
brushed away the clouds from before the face of the sun. Some of the
ships which had got on the rocks he pried off with his own trident,
while Triton and a sea-nymph, putting their shoulders under others, set
them afloat again. The Trojans, when the sea became calm, sought the
nearest shore, which was the coast of Carthage, where Æneas was so happy
as to find that one by one the ships all arrived safe, though badly
shaken.



Waller, in his “Panegyric to the Lord Protector” (Cromwell), alludes to
this stilling of the storm by Neptune:

    “Above the waves, as Neptune showed his face,
    To chide the winds and save the Trojan race,
    So has your Highness, raised above the rest,
    Storms of ambition tossing us repressed.”

                                  DIDO

Carthage, where the exiles had now arrived, was a spot on the coast of
Africa opposite Sicily, where at that time a Tyrian colony under Dido,
their queen, were laying the foundations of a state destined in later
ages to be the rival of Rome itself. Dido was the daughter of Belus,
king of Tyre, and sister of Pygmalion, who succeeded his father on the
throne. Her husband was Sichæus, a man of immense wealth, but Pygmalion,
who coveted his treasures, caused him to be put to death. Dido, with a
numerous body of friends and followers, both men and women, succeeded in
effecting their escape from Tyre, in several vessels, carrying with them
the treasures of Sichæus. On arriving at the spot which they selected as
the seat of their future home, they asked of the natives only so much
land as they could enclose with a bull’s hide. When this was readily
granted, she caused the hide to be cut into strips, and with them
enclosed a spot on which she built a citadel, and called it Byrsa (a
hide). Around this fort the city of Carthage rose, and soon became a
powerful and flourishing place.

Such was the state of affairs when Æneas with his Trojans arrived there.
Dido received the illustrious exiles with friendliness and hospitality.
“Not unacquainted with distress,” she said, “I have learned to succor
the unfortunate.”[28] The queen’s hospitality displayed itself in
festivities at which games of strength and skill were exhibited. The
strangers contended for the palm with her own subjects, on equal terms,
the queen declaring that whether the victor were “Trojan or Tyrian
should make no difference to her.”[29] At the feast which followed the
games, Æneas gave at her request a recital of the closing events of the
Trojan history and his own adventures after the fall of the city. Dido
was charmed with his discourse and filled with admiration of his
exploits. She conceived an ardent passion for him, and he for his part
seemed well content to accept the fortunate chance which appeared to
offer him at once a happy termination of his wanderings, a home, a
kingdom, and a bride. Months rolled away in the enjoyment of pleasant
intercourse, and it seemed as if Italy and the empire destined to be
founded on its shores were alike forgotten. Seeing which, Jupiter
despatched Mercury with a message to Æneas recalling him to a sense of
his high destiny, and commanding him to resume his voyage.

Æneas parted from Dido, though she tried every allurement and persuasion
to detain him. The blow to her affection and her pride was too much for
her to endure, and when she found that he was gone, she mounted a
funeral pile which she had caused to be erected, and having stabbed
herself was consumed with the pile. The flames rising over the city were
seen by the departing Trojans, and, though the cause was unknown, gave
to Æneas some intimation of the fatal event.



The following epigram we find in “Elegant Extracts”:

              FROM THE LATIN

    “Unhappy, Dido, was thy fate
    In first and second married state!
    One husband caused thy flight by dying,
    Thy death the other caused by flying.”

                               PALINURUS

After touching at the island of Sicily, where Acestes, a prince of
Trojan lineage, bore sway, who gave them a hospitable reception, the
Trojans reëmbarked, and held on their course for Italy. Venus now
interceded with Neptune to allow her son at last to attain the
wished-for goal and find an end of his perils on the deep. Neptune
consented, stipulating only for one life as a ransom for the rest. The
victim was Palinurus, the pilot. As he sat watching the stars, with his
hand on the helm, Somnus sent by Neptune approached in the guise of
Phorbas and said: “Palinurus, the breeze is fair, the water smooth, and
the ship sails steadily on her course. Lie down awhile and take needful
rest. I will stand at the helm in your place.” Palinurus replied, “Tell
me not of smooth seas or favoring winds,—me who have seen so much of
their treachery. Shall I trust Æneas to the chances of the weather and
the winds?” And he continued to grasp the helm and to keep his eyes
fixed on the stars. But Somnus waved over him a branch moistened with
Lethæan dew, and his eyes closed in spite of all his efforts. Then
Somnus pushed him overboard and he fell; but keeping his hold upon the
helm, it came away with him. Neptune was mindful of his promise and kept
the ship on her track without helm or pilot, till Æneas discovered his
loss, and, sorrowing deeply for his faithful steersman, took charge of
the ship himself.



There is a beautiful allusion to the story of Palinurus in Scott’s
“Marmion,” Introduction to Canto I., where the poet, speaking of the
recent death of William Pitt, says:

    “O, think how, to his latest day,
    When death just hovering claimed his prey,
    With Palinure’s unaltered mood,
    Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
    Each call for needful rest repelled,
    With dying hand the rudder held,
    Till in his fall, with fateful sway,
    The steerage of the realm gave way.”

The ships at last reached the shores of Italy, and joyfully did the
adventurers leap to land. While his people were employed in making their
encampment Æneas sought the abode of the Sibyl. It was a cave connected
with a temple and grove, sacred to Apollo and Diana. While Æneas
contemplated the scene, the Sibyl accosted him. She seemed to know his
errand, and under the influence of the deity of the place, burst forth
in a prophetic strain, giving dark intimations of labors and perils
through which he was destined to make his way to final success. She
closed with the encouraging words which have become proverbial: “Yield
not to disasters, but press onward the more bravely.”[30] Æneas replied
that he had prepared himself for whatever might await him. He had but
one request to make. Having been directed in a dream to seek the abode
of the dead in order to confer with his father, Anchises, to receive
from him a revelation of his future fortunes and those of his race, he
asked her assistance to enable him to accomplish the task. The Sibyl
replied, “The descent to Avernus is easy: the gate of Pluto stands open
night and day; but to retrace one’s steps and return to the upper air,
that is the toil, that the difficulty.”[31] She instructed him to seek
in the forest a tree on which grew a golden branch. This branch was to
be plucked off and borne as a gift to Proserpine, and if fate was
propitious it would yield to the hand and quit its parent trunk, but
otherwise no force could rend it away. If torn away, another would
succeed.[32]

Æneas followed the directions of the Sibyl. His mother, Venus, sent two
of her doves to fly before him and show him the way, and by their
assistance he found the tree, plucked the branch, and hastened back with
it to the Sibyl.

                                  ————


                             CHAPTER XXXII

                     THE INFERNAL REGIONS—THE SIBYL

                          THE INFERNAL REGIONS

AS at the commencement of our series we have given the pagan account of
the creation of the world, so as we approach its conclusion we present a
view of the regions of the dead, depicted by one of their most
enlightened poets, who drew his doctrines from their most esteemed
philosophers. The region where Virgil locates the entrance to this abode
is perhaps the most strikingly adapted to excite ideas of the terrific
and preternatural of any on the face of the earth. It is the volcanic
region near Vesuvius, where the whole country is cleft with chasms, from
which sulphurous flames arise, while the ground is shaken with pent-up
vapors, and mysterious sounds issue from the bowels of the earth. The
lake Avernus is supposed to fill the crater of an extinct volcano. It is
circular, half a mile wide, and very deep, surrounded by high banks,
which in Virgil’s time were covered with a gloomy forest. Mephitic
vapors rise from its waters, so that no life is found on its banks, and
no birds fly over it. Here, according to the poet, was the cave which
afforded access to the infernal regions, and here Æneas offered
sacrifices to the infernal deities, Proserpine, Hecate, and the Furies.
Then a roaring was heard in the earth, the woods on the hill-tops were
shaken, and the howling of dogs announced the approach of the deities.
“Now,” said the Sibyl, “summon up your courage, for you will need it.”
She descended into the cave, and Æneas followed. Before the threshold of
hell they passed through a group of beings who are enumerated as Griefs
and avenging Cares, pale Diseases and melancholy Age, Fear and Hunger
that tempt to crime, Toil, Poverty, and Death,—forms horrible to view.
The Furies spread their couches there, and Discord, whose hair was of
vipers tied up with a bloody fillet. Here also were the monsters,
Briareus, with his hundred arms, Hydras hissing, and Chimæras breathing
fire. Æneas shuddered at the sight, drew his sword and would have
struck, but the Sibyl restrained him. They then came to the black river
Cocytus, where they found the ferryman, Charon, old and squalid, but
strong and vigorous, who was receiving passengers of all kinds into his
boat, magnanimous heroes, boys and unmarried girls, as numerous as the
leaves that fall at autumn, or the flocks that fly southward at the
approach of winter. They stood pressing for a passage and longing to
touch the opposite shore. But the stern ferryman took in only such as he
chose, driving the rest back. Æneas, wondering at the sight, asked the
Sibyl, “Why this discrimination?” She answered, “Those who are taken on
board the bark are the souls of those who have received due burial
rites; the host of others who have remained unburied are not permitted
to pass the flood, but wander a hundred years, and flit to and fro about
the shore, till at last they are taken over.” Æneas grieved at
recollecting some of his own companions who had perished in the storm.
At that moment he beheld Palinurus, his pilot, who fell overboard and
was drowned. He addressed him and asked him the cause of his misfortune.
Palinurus replied that the rudder was carried away, and he, clinging to
it, was swept away with it. He besought Æneas most urgently to extend to
him his hand and take him in company to the opposite shore. But the
Sibyl rebuked him for the wish thus to transgress the laws of Pluto; but
consoled him by informing him that the people of the shore where his
body had been wafted by the waves should be stirred up by prodigies to
give it due burial, and that the promontory should bear the name of Cape
Palinurus, which it does to this day. Leaving Palinurus consoled by
these words, they approached the boat. Charon, fixing his eyes sternly
upon the advancing warrior, demanded by what right he, living and armed,
approached that shore. To which the Sibyl replied that they would commit
no violence, that Æneas’s only object was to see his father, and finally
exhibited the golden branch, at sight of which Charon’s wrath relaxed,
and he made haste to turn his bark to the shore, and receive them on
board. The boat, adapted only to the light freight of bodiless spirits,
groaned under the weight of the hero. They were soon conveyed to the
opposite shore. There they were encountered by the three-headed dog,
Cerberus, with his necks bristling with snakes. He barked with all his
three throats till the Sibyl threw him a medicated cake which he eagerly
devoured, and then stretched himself out in his den and fell asleep.
Æneas and the Sibyl sprang to land. The first sound that struck their
ears was the wailing of young children, who had died on the threshold of
life, and near to these were they who had perished under false charges.
Minos presides over them as judge, and examines the deeds of each. The
next class was of those who had died by their own hand, hating life and
seeking refuge in death. O how willingly would they now endure poverty,
labor, and any other infliction, if they might but return to life! Next
were situated the regions of sadness, divided off into retired paths,
leading through groves of myrtle. Here roamed those who had fallen
victims to unrequited love, not freed from pain even by death itself.
Among these, Æneas thought he descried the form of Dido, with a wound
still recent. In the dim light he was for a moment uncertain, but
approaching, perceived it was indeed herself. Tears fell from his eyes,
and he addressed her in the accents of love. “Unhappy Dido! was then the
rumor true that you had perished? and was I, alas! the cause? I call the
gods to witness that my departure from you was reluctant, and in
obedience to the commands of Jove; nor could I believe that my absence
would cost you so dear. Stop, I beseech you, and refuse me not a last
farewell.” She stood for a moment with averted countenance, and eyes
fixed on the ground, and then silently passed on, as insensible to his
pleadings as a rock. Æneas followed for some distance; then, with a
heavy heart, rejoined his companion and resumed his route.

They next entered the fields where roam the heroes who have fallen in
battle. Here they saw many shades of Grecian and Trojan warriors. The
Trojans thronged around him, and could not be satisfied with the sight.
They asked the cause of his coming, and plied him with innumerable
questions. But the Greeks, at the sight of his armor glittering through
the murky atmosphere, recognized the hero, and filled with terror turned
their backs and fled, as they used to do on the plains of Troy.

Æneas would have lingered long with his Trojan friends, but the Sibyl
hurried him away. They next came to a place where the road divided, the
one leading to Elysium, the other to the regions of the condemned. Æneas
beheld on one side the walls of a mighty city, around which Phlegethon
rolled its fiery waters. Before him was the gate of adamant that neither
gods nor men can break through. An iron tower stood by the gate, on
which Tisiphone, the avenging Fury, kept guard. From the city were heard
groans, and the sound of the scourge, the creaking of iron, and the
clanking of chains. Æneas, horror-struck, inquired of his guide what
crimes were those whose punishments produced the sounds he heard? The
Sibyl answered, “Here is the judgment hall of Rhadamanthus, who brings
to light crimes done in life, which the perpetrator vainly thought
impenetrably hid. Tisiphone applies her whip of scorpions, and delivers
the offender over to her sister Furies.” At this moment with horrid
clang the brazen gates unfolded, and Æneas saw within a Hydra with fifty
heads guarding the entrance. The Sibyl told him that the gulf of
Tartarus descended deep, so that its recesses were as far beneath their
feet as heaven was high above their heads. In the bottom of this pit,
the Titan race, who warred against the gods, lie prostrate; Salmoneus,
also, who presumed to vie with Jupiter, and built a bridge of brass over
which he drove his chariot that the sound might resemble thunder,
launching flaming brands at his people in imitation of lightning, till
Jupiter struck him with a real thunderbolt, and taught him the
difference between mortal weapons and divine. Here, also, is Tityus, the
giant, whose form is so immense that as he lies he stretches over nine
acres, while a vulture preys upon his liver, which as fast as it is
devoured grows again, so that his punishment will have no end.

Æneas saw groups seated at tables loaded with dainties, while near by
stood a Fury who snatched away the viands from their lips as fast as
they prepared to taste them. Others beheld suspended over their heads
huge rocks, threatening to fall, keeping them in a state of constant
alarm. These were they who had hated their brothers, or struck their
parents, or defrauded the friends who trusted them, or who, having grown
rich, kept their money to themselves, and gave no share to others; the
last being the most numerous class. Here also were those who had
violated the marriage vow, or fought in a bad cause, or failed in
fidelity to their employers. Here was one who had sold his country for
gold, another who perverted the laws, making them say one thing to-day
and another to-morrow.

Ixion was there, fastened to the circumference of a wheel ceaselessly
revolving; and Sisyphus, whose task was to roll a huge stone up to a
hill-top, but when the steep was well-nigh gained, the rock, repulsed by
some sudden force, rushed again headlong down to the plain. Again he
toiled at it, while the sweat bathed all his weary limbs, but all to no
effect. There was Tantalus, who stood in a pool, his chin level with the
water, yet he was parched with thirst, and found nothing to assuage it;
for when he bowed his hoary head, eager to quaff, the water fled away,
leaving the ground at his feet all dry. Tall trees laden with fruit
stooped their heads to him, pears, pomegranates, apples, and luscious
figs; but when with a sudden grasp he tried to seize them winds whirled
them high above his reach.

The Sibyl now warned Æneas that it was time to turn from these
melancholy regions and seek the city of the blessed. They passed through
a middle tract of darkness, and came upon the Elysian fields, the groves
where the happy reside. They breathed a freer air, and saw all objects
clothed in a purple light. The region has a sun and stars of its own.
The inhabitants were enjoying themselves in various ways, some in sports
on the grassy turf, in games of strength or skill, others dancing or
singing. Orpheus struck the chords of his lyre, and called forth
ravishing sounds. Here Æneas saw the founders of the Trojan state,
magnanimous heroes who lived in happier times. He gazed with admiration
on the war chariots and glittering arms now reposing in disuse. Spears
stood fixed in the ground, and the horses, unharnessed, roamed over the
plain. The same pride in splendid armor and generous steeds which the
old heroes felt in life, accompanied them here. He saw another group
feasting and listening to the strains of music. They were in a laurel
grove, whence the great river Po has its origin, and flows out among
men. Here dwelt those who fell by wounds received in their country’s
cause, holy priests also, and poets who have uttered thoughts worthy of
Apollo, and others who have contributed to cheer and adorn life by their
discoveries in the useful arts, and have made their memory blessed by
rendering service to mankind. They wore snow-white fillets about their
brows. The Sibyl addressed a group of these, and inquired where Anchises
was to be found. They were directed where to seek him, and soon found
him in a verdant valley, where he was contemplating the ranks of his
posterity, their destinies and worthy deeds to be achieved in coming
times. When he recognized Æneas approaching, he stretched out both hands
to him, while tears flowed freely. “Have you come at last,” said he,
“long expected, and do I behold you after such perils past? O my son,
how have I trembled for you as I have watched your career!” To which
Æneas replied, “O father! your image was always before me to guide and
guard me.” Then he endeavored to enfold his father in his embrace, but
his arms enclosed only an unsubstantial image.

Æneas perceived before him a spacious valley, with trees gently waving
to the wind, a tranquil landscape, through which the river Lethe flowed.
Along the banks of the stream wandered a countless multitude, numerous
as insects in the summer air. Æneas, with surprise, inquired who were
these. Anchises answered, “They are souls to which bodies are to be
given in due time. Meanwhile they dwell on Lethe’s bank, and drink
oblivion of their former lives.” “O father!” said Æneas, “is it possible
that any can be so in love with life as to wish to leave these tranquil
seats for the upper world?” Anchises replied by explaining the plan of
creation. The Creator, he told him, originally made the material of
which souls are composed of the four elements, fire, air, earth, and
water, all which when united took the form of the most excellent part,
fire, and became _flame_. This material was scattered like seed among
the heavenly bodies, the sun, moon, and stars. Of this seed the inferior
gods created man and all other animals, mingling it with various
proportions of earth, by which its purity was alloyed and reduced. Thus,
the more earth predominates in the composition the less pure is the
individual; and we see men and women with their full-grown bodies have
not the purity of childhood. So in proportion to the time which the
union of body and soul has lasted is the impurity contracted by the
spiritual part. This impurity must be purged away after death, which is
done by ventilating the souls in the current of winds, or merging them
in water, or burning out their impurities by fire. Some few, of whom
Anchises intimates that he is one, are admitted at once to Elysium,
there to remain. But the rest, after the impurities of earth are purged
away, are sent back to life endowed with new bodies, having had the
remembrance of their former lives effectually washed away by the waters
of Lethe. Some, however, there still are, so thoroughly corrupted, that
they are not fit to be intrusted with human bodies, and these are made
into brute animals, lions, tigers, cats, dogs, monkeys, etc. This is
what the ancients called Metempsychosis, or the transmigration of souls;
a doctrine which is still held by the natives of India, who scruple to
destroy the life even of the most insignificant animal, not knowing but
it may be one of their relations in an altered form.

Anchises, having explained so much, proceeded to point out to Æneas
individuals of his race, who were hereafter to be born, and to relate to
him the exploits they should perform in the world. After this he
reverted to the present, and told his son of the events that remained to
him to be accomplished before the complete establishment of himself and
his followers in Italy. Wars were to be waged, battles fought, a bride
to be won, and in the result a Trojan state founded, from which should
rise the Roman power, to be in time the sovereign of the world.

Æneas and the Sibyl then took leave of Anchises, and returned by some
short cut, which the poet does not explain, to the upper world.

                                ELYSIUM

Virgil, we have seen, places his Elysium under the earth, and assigns it
for a residence to the spirits of the blessed. But in Homer Elysium
forms no part of the realms of the dead. He places it on the west of the
earth, near Ocean, and describes it as a happy land, where there is
neither snow, nor cold, nor rain, and always fanned by the delightful
breezes of Zephyrus. Hither favored heroes pass without dying and live
happy under the rule of Rhadamanthus. The Elysium of Hesiod and Pindar
is in the Isles of the Blessed, or Fortunate Islands, in the Western
Ocean. From these sprang the legend of the happy island Atlantis. This
blissful region may have been wholly imaginary, but possibly may have
sprung from the reports of some storm-driven mariners who had caught a
glimpse of the coast of America.



J. R. Lowell, in one of his shorter poems, claims for the present age
some of the privileges of that happy realm. Addressing the Past, he
says:

    “Whatever of true life there was in thee,
    Leaps in our age’s veins.
      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
    Here, ’mid the bleak waves of our strife and care,
      Float the green ‘Fortunate Isles,’
    Where all thy hero-spirits dwell and share
      Our martyrdoms and toils.
        The present moves attended
    With all of brave and excellent and fair
        That made the old time splendid.”

Milton also alludes to the same fable in “Paradise Lost,” Book III., 1.
568:

    “Like those Hesperian gardens famed of old,
    Fortunate fields and groves and flowery vales,
    Thrice happy isles.”

And in Book II. he characterizes the rivers of Erebus according to the
meaning of their names in the Greek language:

    “Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate,
    Sad Acheron of sorrow black and deep;
    Cocytus named of lamentation loud
    Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon
    Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.
    Far off from these a slow and silent stream,
    Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls
    Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks
    Forthwith his former state and being forgets,
    Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.”

                               THE SIBYL

As Æneas and the Sibyl pursued their way back to earth, he said to her,
“Whether thou be a goddess or a mortal beloved of the gods, by me thou
shalt always be held in reverence. When I reach the upper air I will
cause a temple to be built to thy honor, and will myself bring
offerings.” “I am no goddess,” said the Sibyl; “I have no claim to
sacrifice or offering. I am mortal; yet if I could have accepted the
love of Apollo I might have been immortal. He promised me the fulfilment
of my wish, if I would consent to be his. I took a handful of sand, and
holding it forth, said, ‘Grant me to see as many birthdays as there are
sand grains in my hand.’ Unluckily I forgot to ask for enduring youth.
This also he would have granted, could I have accepted his love, but
offended at my refusal, he allowed me to grow old. My youth and youthful
strength fled long ago. I have lived seven hundred years, and to equal
the number of the sand grains I have still to see three hundred springs
and three hundred harvests. My body shrinks up as years increase, and in
time, I shall be lost to sight, but my voice will remain, and future
ages will respect my sayings.”

These concluding words of the Sibyl alluded to her prophetic power. In
her cave she was accustomed to inscribe on leaves gathered from the
trees the names and fates of individuals. The leaves thus inscribed were
arranged in order within the cave, and might be consulted by her
votaries. But if perchance at the opening of the door the wind rushed in
and dispersed the leaves the Sibyl gave no aid to restoring them again,
and the oracle was irreparably lost.

The following legend of the Sibyl is fixed at a later date. In the reign
of one of the Tarquins there appeared before the king a woman who
offered him nine books for sale. The king refused to purchase them,
whereupon the woman went away and burned three of the books, and
returning offered the remaining books for the same price she had asked
for the nine. The king again rejected them; but when the woman, after
burning three books more, returned and asked for the three remaining the
same price which she had before asked for the nine, his curiosity was
excited, and he purchased the books. They were found to contain the
destinies of the Roman state. They were kept in the temple of Jupiter
Capitolinus, preserved in a stone chest, and allowed to be inspected
only by especial officers appointed for that duty, who, on great
occasions, consulted them and interpreted their oracles to the people.

There were various Sibyls; but the Cumæan Sibyl, of whom Ovid and Virgil
write, is the most celebrated of them. Ovid’s story of her life
protracted to one thousand years may be intended to represent the
various Sibyls as being only reappearances of one and the same
individual.



Young, in the “Night Thoughts,” alludes to the Sibyl. Speaking of
Worldly Wisdom, he says:

    “If future fate she plans ’tis all in leaves,
    Like Sibyl, unsubstantial, fleeting bliss;
    At the first blast it vanishes in air.
      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
    As worldly schemes resemble Sibyl’s leaves,
    The good man’s days to Sibyl’s books compare,
    The price still rising as in number less.”

[Illustration: THETIS BEARING THE ARMOR OF ACHILLES.
 From painting by François Gerard.]

[Illustration: CIRCE AND THE FRIENDS OF ULYSSES.
 From painting by Briton Rivière.]




                             CHAPTER XXXIII

          CAMILLA—EVANDER—NISUS AND EURYALUS—MEZENTIUS—TURNUS

ÆNEAS, having parted from the Sibyl and rejoined his fleet, coasted
along the shores of Italy and cast anchor in the mouth of the Tiber. The
poet, having brought his hero to this spot, the destined termination of
his wanderings, invokes his Muse to tell him the situation of things at
that eventful moment. Latinus, third in descent from Saturn, ruled the
country. He was now old and had no male descendant, but had one charming
daughter, Lavinia, who was sought in marriage by many neighboring
chiefs, one of whom, Turnus, king of the Rutulians, was favored by the
wishes of her parents. But Latinus had been warned in a dream by his
father Faunus, that the destined husband of Lavinia should come from a
foreign land. From that union should spring a race destined to subdue
the world.

Our readers will remember that in the conflict with the Harpies one of
those half-human birds had threatened the Trojans with dire sufferings.
In particular she predicted that before their wanderings ceased they
should be pressed by hunger to devour their tables. This portent now
came true; for as they took their scanty meal, seated on the grass, the
men placed their hard biscuit on their laps, and put thereon whatever
their gleanings in the woods supplied. Having despatched the latter they
finished by eating the crusts. Seeing which, the boy Iulus said
playfully, “See, we are eating our tables.” Æneas caught the words and
accepted the omen. “All hail, promised land!” he exclaimed, “this is our
home, this our country.” He then took measures to find out who were the
present inhabitants of the land, and who their rulers. A hundred chosen
men were sent to the village of Latinus, bearing presents and a request
for friendship and alliance. They went and were favorably received.
Latinus immediately concluded that the Trojan hero was no other than the
promised son-in-law announced by the oracle. He cheerfully granted his
alliance and sent back the messengers mounted on steeds from his
stables, and loaded with gifts and friendly messages.

Juno, seeing things go thus prosperously for the Trojans, felt her old
animosity revive, summoned Alecto from Erebus, and sent her to stir up
discord. The Fury first took possession of the queen, Amata, and roused
her to oppose in every way the new alliance. Alecto then speeded to the
city of Turnus, and assuming the form of an old priestess, informed him
of the arrival of the foreigners and of the attempts of their prince to
rob him of his bride. Next she turned her attention to the camp of the
Trojans. There she saw the boy Iulus and his companions amusing
themselves with hunting. She sharpened the scent of the dogs, and led
them to rouse up from the thicket a tame stag, the favorite of Silvia,
the daughter of Tyrrheus, the king’s herdsman. A javelin from the hand
of Iulus wounded the animal, and he had only strength left to run
homewards, and died at his mistress’s feet. Her cries and tears roused
her brothers and the herdsmen, and they, seizing whatever weapons came
to hand, furiously assaulted the hunting party. These were protected by
their friends, and the herdsmen were finally driven back with the loss
of two of their number.

These things were enough to rouse the storm of war, and the queen,
Turnus, and the peasants all urged the old king to drive the strangers
from the country. He resisted as long as he could, but, finding his
opposition unavailing, finally gave way and retreated to his retirement.

                       OPENING THE GATES OF JANUS

It was the custom of the country, when war was to be undertaken, for the
chief magistrate, clad in his robes of office, with solemn pomp to open
the gates of the temple of Janus, which were kept shut as long as peace
endured. His people now urged the old king to perform that solemn
office, but he refused to do so. While they contested, Juno herself,
descending from the skies, smote the doors with irresistible force, and
burst them open. Immediately the whole country was in a flame. The
people rushed from every side breathing nothing but war.

Turnus was recognized by all as leader; others joined as allies, chief
of whom was Mezentius, a brave and able soldier, but of detestable
cruelty. He had been the chief of one of the neighboring cities, but his
people drove him out. With him was joined his son Lausus, a generous
youth, worthy of a better sire.

                                CAMILLA

Camilla, the favorite of Diana, a huntress and warrior, after the
fashion of the Amazons, came with her band of mounted followers,
including a select number of her own sex, and ranged herself on the side
of Turnus. This maiden had never accustomed her fingers to the distaff
or the loom, but had learned to endure the toils of war, and in speed to
outstrip the wind. It seemed as if she might run over the standing corn
without crushing it, or over the surface of the water without dipping
her feet. Camilla’s history had been singular from the beginning. Her
father, Metabus, driven from his city by civil discord, carried with him
in his flight his infant daughter. As he fled through the woods, his
enemies in hot pursuit, he reached the bank of the river Amazenus,
which, swelled by rains, seemed to debar a passage. He paused for a
moment, then decided what to do. He tied the infant to his lance with
wrappers of bark, and poising the weapon in his upraised hand thus
addressed Diana: “Goddess of the woods! I consecrate this maid to you;”
then hurled the weapon with its burden to the opposite bank. The spear
flew across the roaring water. His pursuers were already upon him, but
he plunged into the river and swam across, and found the spear, with the
infant safe on the other side. Thenceforth he lived among the shepherds
and brought up his daughter in woodland arts. While a child she was
taught to use the bow and throw the javelin. With her sling she could
bring down the crane or the wild swan. Her dress was a tiger’s skin.
Many mothers sought her for a daughter-in-law, but she continued
faithful to Diana and repelled the thought of marriage.

                                EVANDER

Such were the formidable allies that ranged themselves against Æneas. It
was night and he lay stretched in sleep on the bank of the river under
the open heavens. The god of the stream, Father Tiber, seemed to raise
his head above the willows and to say, “O goddess-born, destined
possessor of the Latin realms, this is the promised land, here is to be
your home, here shall terminate the hostility of the heavenly powers, if
only you faithfully persevere. There are friends not far distant.
Prepare your boats and row up my stream; I will lead you to Evander, the
Arcadian chief, he has long been at strife with Turnus and the
Rutulians, and is prepared to become an ally of yours. Rise! offer your
vows to Juno, and deprecate her anger. When you have achieved your
victory then think of me.” Æneas woke and paid immediate obedience to
the friendly vision. He sacrificed to Juno, and invoked the god of the
river and all his tributary fountains to lend their aid. Then for the
first time a vessel filled with armed warriors floated on the stream of
the Tiber. The river smoothed its waves, and bade its current flow
gently, while, impelled by the vigorous strokes of the rowers, the
vessels shot rapidly up the stream.

About the middle of the day they came in sight of the scattered
buildings of the infant town, where in after times the proud city of
Rome grew, whose glory reached the skies. By chance the old king,
Evander, was that day celebrating annual solemnities in honor of
Hercules and all the gods. Pallas, his son, and all the chiefs of the
little commonwealth stood by. When they saw the tall ship gliding onward
near the wood, they were alarmed at the sight, and rose from the tables.
But Pallas forbade the solemnities to be interrupted, and seizing a
weapon, stepped forward to the river’s bank. He called aloud, demanding
who they were, and what their object. Æneas, holding forth an
olive-branch, replied, “We are Trojans, friends to you, and enemies to
the Rutulians. We seek Evander, and offer to join our arms with yours.”
Pallas, in amaze at the sound of so great a name, invited them to land,
and when Æneas touched the shore he seized his hand, and held it long in
friendly grasp. Proceeding through the wood, they joined the king and
his party and were most favorably received. Seats were provided for them
at the tables, and the repast proceeded.

                              INFANT ROME

When the solemnities were ended all moved towards the city. The king,
bending with age, walked between his son and Æneas, taking the arm of
one or the other of them, and with much variety of pleasing talk
shortening the way. Æneas with delight looked and listened, observing
all the beauties of the scene, and learning much of heroes renowned in
ancient times. Evander said, “These extensive groves were once inhabited
by fauns and nymphs, and a rude race of men who sprang from the trees
themselves, and had neither laws nor social culture. They knew not how
to yoke the cattle nor raise a harvest, nor provide from present
abundance for future want; but browsed like beasts upon the leafy
boughs, or fed voraciously on their hunted prey. Such were they when
Saturn, expelled from Olympus by his sons, came among them and drew
together the fierce savages, formed them into society, and gave them
laws. Such peace and plenty ensued that men ever since have called his
reign the golden age; but by degrees far other times succeeded, and the
thirst of gold and the thirst of blood prevailed. The land was a prey to
successive tyrants, till fortune and resistless destiny brought me
hither, an exile from my native land, Arcadia.”

Having thus said, he showed him the Tarpeian rock, and the rude spot
then overgrown with bushes where in after times the Capitol rose in all
its magnificence. He next pointed to some dismantled walls, and said,
“Here stood Janiculum, built by Janus, and there Saturnia, the town of
Saturn.” Such discourse brought them to the cottage of poor Evander,
whence they saw the lowing herds roaming over the plain where now the
proud and stately Forum stands. They entered, and a couch was spread for
Æneas, well stuffed with leaves, and covered with the skin of a Libyan
bear.

Next morning, awakened by the dawn and the shrill song of birds beneath
the eaves of his low mansion, old Evander rose. Clad in a tunic, and a
panther’s skin thrown over his shoulders, with sandals on his feet and
his good sword girded to his side, he went forth to seek his guest. Two
mastiffs followed him, his whole retinue and body guard. He found the
hero attended by his faithful Achates, and, Pallas soon joining them,
the old king spoke thus:

“Illustrious Trojan, it is but little we can do in so great a cause. Our
state is feeble, hemmed in on one side by the river, on the other by the
Rutulians. But I propose to ally you with a people numerous and rich, to
whom fate has brought you at the propitious moment. The Etruscans hold
the country beyond the river. Mezentius was their king, a monster of
cruelty, who invented unheard-of torments to gratify his vengeance. He
would fasten the dead to the living, hand to hand and face to face, and
leave the wretched victims to die in that dreadful embrace. At length
the people cast him out, him and his house. They burned his palace and
slew his friends. He escaped and took refuge with Turnus, who protects
him with arms. The Etruscans demand that he shall be given up to
deserved punishment, and would ere now have attempted to enforce their
demand; but their priests restrain them, telling them that it is the
will of heaven that no native of the land shall guide them to victory,
and that their destined leader must come from across the sea. They have
offered the crown to me, but I am too old to undertake such great
affairs, and my son is native-born, which precludes him from the choice.
You, equally by birth and time of life, and fame in arms, pointed out by
the gods, have but to appear to be hailed at once as their leader. With
you I will join Pallas, my son, my only hope and comfort. Under you he
shall learn the art of war, and strive to emulate your great exploits.”

Then the king ordered horses to be furnished for the Trojan chiefs, and
Æneas, with a chosen band of followers and Pallas accompanying, mounted
and took the way to the Etruscan city,[33] having sent back the rest of
his party in the ships. Æneas and his band safely arrived at the
Etruscan camp and were received with open arms by Tarchon and his
countrymen.

                           NISUS AND EURYALUS

In the meanwhile Turnus had collected his bands and made all necessary
preparations for the war. Juno sent Iris to him with a message inciting
him to take advantage of the absence of Æneas and surprise the Trojan
camp. Accordingly the attempt was made, but the Trojans were found on
their guard, and having received strict orders from Æneas not to fight
in his absence, they lay still in their intrenchments, and resisted all
the efforts of the Rutulians to draw them into the field. Night coming
on, the army of Turnus, in high spirits at their fancied superiority,
feasted and enjoyed themselves, and finally stretched themselves on the
field and slept secure.

In the camp of the Trojans things were far otherwise. There all was
watchfulness and anxiety and impatience for Æneas’s return. Nisus stood
guard at the entrance of the camp, and Euryalus, a youth distinguished
above all in the army for graces of person and fine qualities, was with
him. These two were friends and brothers in arms. Nisus said to his
friend, “Do you perceive what confidence and carelessness the enemy
display? Their lights are few and dim, and the men seem all oppressed
with wine or sleep. You know how anxiously our chiefs wish to send to
Æneas, and to get intelligence from him. Now, I am strongly moved to
make my way through the enemy’s camp and to go in search of our chief.
If I succeed, the glory of the deed will be reward enough for me, and if
they judge the service deserves anything more, let them pay it to you.”

Euryalus, all on fire with the love of adventure, replied, “Would you,
then, Nisus, refuse to share your enterprise with me? And shall I let
you go into such danger alone? Not so my brave father brought me up, nor
so have I planned for myself when I joined the standard of Æneas, and
resolved to hold my life cheap in comparison with honor.” Nisus replied,
“I doubt it not, my friend; but you know the uncertain event of such an
undertaking, and whatever may happen to me, I wish you to be safe. You
are younger than I and have more of life in prospect. Nor can I be the
cause of such grief to your mother, who has chosen to be here in the
camp with you rather than stay and live in peace with the other matrons
in Acestes’ city.” Euryalus replied, “Say no more. In vain you seek
arguments to dissuade me. I am fixed in the resolution to go with you.
Let us lose no time.” They called the guard, and committing the watch to
them, sought the general’s tent. They found the chief officers in
consultation, deliberating how they should send notice to Æneas of their
situation. The offer of the two friends was gladly accepted, themselves
loaded with praises and promised the most liberal rewards in case of
success. Iulus especially addressed Euryalus, assuring him of his
lasting friendship. Euryalus replied, “I have but one boon to ask. My
aged mother is with me in the camp. For me she left the Trojan soil, and
would not stay behind with the other matrons at the city of Acestes. I
go now without taking leave of her. I could not bear her tears nor set
at nought her entreaties. But do thou, I beseech you, comfort her in her
distress. Promise me that and I shall go more boldly into whatever
dangers may present themselves.” Iulus and the other chiefs were moved
to tears, and promised to do all his request. “Your mother shall be
mine,” said Iulus, “and all that I have promised to you shall be made
good to her, if you do not return to receive it.”

The two friends left the camp and plunged at once into the midst of the
enemy. They found no watch, no sentinels posted, but, all about, the
sleeping soldiers strewn on the grass and among the wagons. The laws of
war at that early day did not forbid a brave man to slay a sleeping foe,
and the two Trojans slew, as they passed, such of the enemy as they
could without exciting alarm. In one tent Euryalus made prize of a
helmet brilliant with gold and plumes. They had passed through the
enemy’s ranks without being discovered, but now suddenly appeared a
troop directly in front of them, which, under Volscens, their leader,
were approaching the camp. The glittering helmet of Euryalus caught
their attention, and Volscens hailed the two, and demanded who and
whence they were. They made no answer, but plunged into the wood. The
horsemen scattered in all directions to intercept their flight. Nisus
had eluded pursuit and was out of danger, but Euryalus being missing he
turned back to seek him. He again entered the wood and soon came within
sound of voices. Looking through the thicket he saw the whole band
surrounding Euryalus with noisy questions. What should he do? how
extricate the youth, or would it be better to die with him.

Raising his eyes to the moon, which now shone clear, he said, “Goddess!
favor my effort!” and aiming his javelin at one of the leaders of the
troop, struck him in the back and stretched him on the plain with a
deathblow. In the midst of their amazement another weapon flew and
another of the party fell dead. Volscens, the leader, ignorant whence
the darts came, rushed sword in hand upon Euryalus. “You shall pay the
penalty of both,” he said, and would have plunged the sword into his
bosom, when Nisus, who from his concealment saw the peril of his friend,
rushed forward exclaiming, “’Twas I, ’twas I; turn your swords against
me, Rutulians, I did it; he only followed me as a friend.” While he
spoke the sword fell, and pierced the comely bosom of Euryalus. His head
fell over on his shoulder, like a flower cut down by the plough. Nisus
rushed upon Volscens and plunged his sword into his body, and was
himself slain on the instant by numberless blows.

                               MEZENTIUS

Æneas, with his Etrurian allies, arrived on the scene of action in time
to rescue his beleaguered camp; and now the two armies being nearly
equal in strength, the war began in good earnest. We cannot find space
for all the details, but must simply record the fate of the principal
characters whom we have introduced to our readers. The tyrant Mezentius,
finding himself engaged against his revolting subjects, raged like a
wild beast. He slew all who dared to withstand him, and put the
multitude to flight wherever he appeared. At last he encountered Æneas,
and the armies stood still to see the issue. Mezentius threw his spear,
which striking Æneas’s shield glanced off and hit Anthor. He was a
Grecian by birth, who had left Argos, his native city, and followed
Evander into Italy. The poet says of him with simple pathos which has
made the words proverbial, “He fell, unhappy, by a wound intended for
another, looked up at the skies, and dying remembered sweet Argos.”[34]
Æneas now in turn hurled his lance. It pierced the shield of Mezentius,
and wounded him in the thigh. Lausus, his son, could not bear the sight,
but rushed forward and interposed himself, while the followers pressed
round Mezentius and bore him away. Æneas held his sword suspended over
Lausus and delayed to strike, but the furious youth pressed on and he
was compelled to deal the fatal blow. Lausus fell, and Æneas bent over
him in pity. “Hapless youth,” he said, “what can I do for you worthy of
your praise? Keep those arms in which you glory, and fear not but that
your body shall be restored to your friends, and have due funeral
honors.” So saying, he called the timid followers and delivered the body
into their hands.

Mezentius meanwhile had been borne to the riverside, and washed his
wound. Soon the news reached him of Lausus’s death, and rage and despair
supplied the place of strength. He mounted his horse and dashed into the
thickest of the fight, seeking Æneas. Having found him he rode round him
in a circle, throwing one javelin after another, while Æneas stood
fenced with his shield, turning every way to meet them. At last, after
Mezentius had three times made the circuit, Æneas threw his lance
directly at the horse’s head. It pierced his temples and he fell, while
a shout from both armies rent the skies. Mezentius asked no mercy, but
only that his body might be spared the insults of his revolted subjects,
and be buried in the same grave with his son. He received the fatal
stroke not unprepared, and poured out his life and his blood together.

                        PALLAS, CAMILLA, TURNUS

While these things were doing in one part of the field, in another
Turnus encountered the youthful Pallas. The contest between champions so
unequally matched could not be doubtful. Pallas bore himself bravely,
but fell by the lance of Turnus. The victor almost relented when he saw
the brave youth lying dead at his feet, and spared to use the privilege
of a conqueror in despoiling him of his arms. The belt only, adorned
with studs and carvings of gold, he took and clasped round his own body.
The rest he remitted to the friends of the slain.

After the battle there was a cessation of arms for some days to allow
both armies to bury their dead. In this interval Æneas challenged Turnus
to decide the contest by single combat, but Turnus evaded the challenge.
Another battle ensued, in which Camilla, the virgin warrior, was chiefly
conspicuous. Her deeds of valor surpassed those of the bravest warriors,
and many Trojans and Etruscans fell pierced with her darts or struck
down by her battle-axe. At last an Etruscan named Aruns, who had watched
her long, seeking for some advantage, observed her pursuing a flying
enemy whose splendid armor offered a tempting prize. Intent on the chase
she observed not her danger, and the javelin of Aruns struck her and
inflicted a fatal wound. She fell and breathed her last in the arms of
her attendant maidens. But Diana, who beheld her fate, suffered not her
slaughter to be unavenged. Aruns, as he stole away, glad, but
frightened, was struck by a secret arrow, launched by one of the nymphs
of Diana’s train, and died ignobly and unknown.

At length the final conflict took place between Æneas and Turnus. Turnus
had avoided the contest as long as he could, but at last, impelled by
the ill success of his arms and by the murmurs of his followers, he
braced himself to the conflict. It could not be doubtful. On the side of
Æneas were the expressed decree of destiny, the aid of his
goddess-mother at every emergency, and impenetrable armor fabricated by
Vulcan, at her request, for her son. Turnus, on the other hand, was
deserted by his celestial allies, Juno having been expressly forbidden
by Jupiter to assist him any longer. Turnus threw his lance, but it
recoiled harmless from the shield of Æneas. The Trojan hero then threw
his, which penetrated the shield of Turnus, and pierced his thigh. Then
Turnus’s fortitude forsook him and he begged for mercy; and Æneas would
have given him his life, but at the instant his eye fell on the belt of
Pallas, which Turnus had taken from the slaughtered youth. Instantly his
rage revived, and exclaiming, “Pallas immolates thee with this blow,” he
thrust him through with his sword.

Here the poem of the “Æneid” closes, and we are left to infer that
Æneas, having triumphed over his foes, obtained Lavinia for his bride.
Tradition adds that he founded his city, and called it after her name,
Lavinium. His son Iulus founded Alba Longa, which was the birthplace of
Romulus and Remus and the cradle of Rome itself.



There is an allusion to Camilla in those well-known lines of Pope, in
which, illustrating the rule that “the sound should be an echo to the
sense,” he says:

    “When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw,
    The line too labors and the words move slow.
    Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
    Flies o’er th’ unbending corn or skims along the main.”
                                  —_Essay on Criticism._

                                  ————


                             CHAPTER XXXIV

                  PYTHAGORAS—EGYPTIAN DEITIES—ORACLES

                               PYTHAGORAS

THE teachings of Anchises to Æneas, respecting the nature of the human
soul, were in conformity with the doctrines of the Pythagoreans.
Pythagoras (born five hundred and forty years B.C.) was a native of the
island of Samos, but passed the chief portion of his life at Crotona in
Italy. He is therefore sometimes called “the Samian,” and sometimes “the
philosopher of Crotona.” When young he travelled extensively, and it is
said visited Egypt, where he was instructed by the priests in all their
learning, and afterwards journeyed to the East, and visited the Persian
and Chaldean Magi, and the Brahmins of India.

At Crotona, where he finally established himself, his extraordinary
qualities collected round him a great number of disciples. The
inhabitants were notorious for luxury and licentiousness, but the good
effects of his influence were soon visible. Sobriety and temperance
succeeded. Six hundred of the inhabitants became his disciples and
enrolled themselves in a society to aid each other in the pursuit of
wisdom, uniting their property in one common stock for the benefit of
the whole. They were required to practise the greatest purity and
simplicity of manners. The first lesson they learned was _silence_; for
a time they were required to be only hearers. “He [Pythagoras] said so”
(_Ipse dixit_), was to be held by them as sufficient, without any proof.
It was only the advanced pupils, after years of patient submission, who
were allowed to ask questions and to state objections.

Pythagoras considered _numbers_ as the essence and principle of all
things, and attributed to them a real and distinct existence; so that,
in his view, they were the elements out of which the universe was
constructed. How he conceived this process has never been satisfactorily
explained. He traced the various forms and phenomena of the world to
numbers as their basis and essence. The “Monad” or _unit_ he regarded as
the source of all numbers. The number _Two_ was imperfect, and the cause
of increase and division. _Three_ was called the number of the whole
because it had a beginning, middle, and end. _Four_, representing the
square, is in the highest degree perfect; and _Ten_, as it contains the
sum of the four prime numbers, comprehends all musical and arithmetical
proportions, and denotes the system of the world.

As the numbers proceed from the monad, so he regarded the pure and
simple essence of the Deity as the source of all the forms of nature.
Gods, demons, and heroes are emanations of the Supreme, and there is a
fourth emanation, the human soul. This is immortal, and when freed from
the fetters of the body passes to the habitation of the dead, where it
remains till it returns to the world, to dwell in some other human or
animal body, and at last, when sufficiently purified, it returns to the
source from which it proceeded. This doctrine of the transmigration of
souls (metempsychosis), which was originally Egyptian and connected with
the doctrine of reward and punishment of human actions, was the chief
cause why the Pythagoreans killed no animals. Ovid represents Pythagoras
addressing his disciples in these words: “Souls never die, but always on
quitting one abode pass to another. I myself can remember that in the
time of the Trojan war I was Euphorbus, the son of Panthus, and fell by
the spear of Menelaus. Lately being in the temple of Juno, at Argos, I
recognized my shield hung up there among the trophies. All things
change, nothing perishes. The soul passes hither and thither, occupying
now this body, now that, passing from the body of a beast into that of a
man, and thence to a beast’s again. As wax is stamped with certain
figures, then melted, then stamped anew with others, yet is always the
same wax, so the soul, being always the same, yet wears, at different
times, different forms. Therefore, if the love of kindred is not extinct
in your bosoms, forbear, I entreat you, to violate the life of those who
may haply be your own relatives.”



Shakspeare, in the “Merchant of Venice,” makes Gratiano allude to the
metempsychosis, where he says to Shylock:

    “Thou almost mak’st me waver in my faith,
    To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
    That souls of animals infuse themselves
    Into the trunks of men; thy currish spirit
    Governed a wolf; who hanged for human slaughter
    Infused his soul in thee; for thy desires
    Are wolfish, bloody, starved and ravenous.”

The relation of the notes of the musical scale to numbers, whereby
harmony results from vibrations in equal times, and discord from the
reverse, led Pythagoras to apply the word “harmony” to the visible
creation, meaning by it the just adaptation of parts to each other. This
is the idea which Dryden expresses in the beginning of his “Song for St.
Cecilia’s Day”:

    “From harmony, from heavenly harmony
    This everlasting frame began;
    From harmony to harmony
    Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
    The Diapason closing full in Man.”

In the centre of the universe (he taught) there was a central fire, the
principle of life. The central fire was surrounded by the earth, the
moon, the sun, and the five planets. The distances of the various
heavenly bodies from one another were conceived to correspond to the
proportions of the musical scale. The heavenly bodies, with the gods who
inhabited them, were supposed to perform a choral dance round the
central fire, “not without song.” It is this doctrine which Shakspeare
alludes to when he makes Lorenzo teach astronomy to Jessica in this
fashion:

    “Look, Jessica, see how the floor of heaven
    Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold!
    There’s not the smallest orb that thou behold’st
    But in his motion like an angel sings,
    Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim;
    Such harmony is in immortal souls!
    But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
    Doth grossly close it in we cannot hear it.”
                         —_Merchant of Venice._

The spheres were conceived to be crystalline or glassy fabrics arranged
over one another like a nest of bowls reversed. In the substance of each
sphere one or more of the heavenly bodies was supposed to be fixed, so
as to move with it. As the spheres are transparent we look through them
and see the heavenly bodies which they contain and carry round with
them. But as these spheres cannot move on one another without friction,
a sound is thereby produced which is of exquisite harmony, too fine for
mortal ears to recognize. Milton, in his “Hymn on the Nativity,” thus
alludes to the music of the spheres:

    “Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
    Once bless our human ears
      (If ye have power to charm our senses so);
    And let your silver chime
    Move in melodious time,
      And let the base of Heaven’s deep organ blow;
    And with your ninefold harmony
    Make up full concert with the angelic symphony.”

Pythagoras is said to have invented the lyre. Our own poet Longfellow,
in “Verses to a Child,” thus relates the story:

    “As great Pythagoras of yore,
    Standing beside the blacksmith’s door,
    And hearing the hammers as they smote
    The anvils with a different note,
    Stole from the varying tones that hung
    Vibrant on every iron tongue,
    The secret of the sounding wire,
    And formed the seven-chorded lyre.”

See also the same poet’s “Occultation of Orion”—

    “The Samian’s great Æolian lyre.”

                          SYBARIS AND CROTONA

Sybaris, a neighboring city to Crotona, was as celebrated for luxury and
effeminacy as Crotona for the reverse. The name has become proverbial.
J. R. Lowell uses it in this sense in his charming little poem “To the
Dandelion”:

    “Not in mid June the golden cuirassed bee
    Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment
        In the white lily’s breezy tent
    (His conquered Sybaris) than I when first
    From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.”

A war arose between the two cities, and Sybaris was conquered and
destroyed. Milo, the celebrated athlete, led the army of Crotona. Many
stories are told of Milo’s vast strength, such as his carrying a heifer
of four years old upon his shoulders and afterwards eating the whole of
it in a single day. The mode of his death is thus related: As he was
passing through a forest he saw the trunk of a tree which had been
partially split open by wood-cutters, and attempted to rend it further;
but the wood closed upon his hands and held him fast, in which state he
was attacked and devoured by wolves.



Byron, in his “Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte,” alludes to the story of Milo:

    “He who of old would rend the oak
      Deemed not of the rebound;
    Chained by the trunk he vainly broke,
      Alone, how looked he round!”

                            EGYPTIAN DEITIES

The Egyptians acknowledged as the highest deity Amun, afterwards called
Zeus, or Jupiter Ammon. Amun manifested himself in his word or will,
which created Kneph and Athor, of different sexes. From Kneph and Athor
proceeded Osiris and Isis. Osiris was worshipped as the god of the sun,
the source of warmth, life, and fruitfulness, in addition to which he
was also regarded as the god of the Nile, who annually visited his wife,
Isis (the Earth), by means of an inundation. Serapis or Hermes is
sometimes represented as identical with Osiris, and sometimes as a
distinct divinity, the ruler of Tartarus and god of medicine. Anubis is
the guardian god, represented with a dog’s head, emblematic of his
character of fidelity and watchfulness. Horus or Harpocrates was the son
of Osiris. He is represented seated on a Lotus flower, with his finger
on his lips, as the god of Silence.



In one of Moore’s “Irish Melodies” is an allusion to Harpocrates:

    “Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,
      Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip;
    Like him, the boy, who born among
      The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,
    Sits ever thus,—his only song
      To Earth and Heaven, ‘Hush all, hush!’”

                        MYTH OF OSIRIS AND ISIS

Osiris and Isis were at one time induced to descend to the earth to
bestow gifts and blessings on its inhabitants. Isis showed them first
the use of wheat and barley, and Osiris made the instruments of
agriculture and taught men the use of them, as well as how to harness
the ox to the plough. He then gave men laws, the institution of
marriage, a civil organization, and taught them how to worship the gods.
After he had thus made the valley of the Nile a happy country, he
assembled a host with which he went to bestow his blessings upon the
rest of the world. He conquered the nations everywhere, but not with
weapons, only with music and eloquence. His brother Typhon saw this, and
filled with envy and malice sought during his absence to usurp his
throne. But Isis, who held the reins of government, frustrated his
plans. Still more embittered, he now resolved to kill his brother. This
he did in the following manner: Having organized a conspiracy of
seventy-two members, he went with them to the feast which was celebrated
in honor of the king’s return. He then caused a box or chest to be
brought in, which had been made to fit exactly the size of Osiris, and
declared that he would give that chest of precious wood to whosoever
could get into it. The rest tried in vain, but no sooner was Osiris in
it than Typhon and his companions closed the lid and flung the chest
into the Nile. When Isis heard of the cruel murder she wept and mourned,
and then with her hair shorn, clothed in black and beating her breast,
she sought diligently for the body of her husband. In this search she
was materially assisted by Anubis, the son of Osiris and Nephthys. They
sought in vain for some time; for when the chest, carried by the waves
to the shores of Byblos, had become entangled in the reeds that grew at
the edge of the water, the divine power that dwelt in the body of Osiris
imparted such strength to the shrub that it grew into a mighty tree,
enclosing in its trunk the coffin of the god. This tree with its sacred
deposit was shortly after felled, and erected as a column in the palace
of the king of Phœnicia. But at length by the aid of Anubis and the
sacred birds, Isis ascertained these facts, and then went to the royal
city. There she offered herself at the palace as a servant, and being
admitted, threw off her disguise and appeared as a goddess, surrounded
with thunder and lightning. Striking the column with her wand she caused
it to split open and give up the sacred coffin. This she seized and
returned with it, and concealed it in the depth of a forest, but Typhon
discovered it, and cutting the body into fourteen pieces scattered them
hither and thither. After a tedious search, Isis found thirteen pieces,
the fishes of the Nile having eaten the other. This she replaced by an
imitation of sycamore wood, and buried the body at Philæ, which became
ever after the great burying place of the nation, and the spot to which
pilgrimages were made from all parts of the country. A temple of
surpassing magnificence was also erected there in honor of the god, and
at every place where one of his limbs had been found minor temples and
tombs were built to commemorate the event. Osiris became after that the
tutelar deity of the Egyptians. His soul was supposed always to inhabit
the body of the bull Apis, and at his death to transfer itself to his
successor.

Apis, the Bull of Memphis, was worshipped with the greatest reverence by
the Egyptians. The individual animal who was held to be Apis was
recognized by certain signs. It was requisite that he should be quite
black, have a white square mark on the forehead, another, in the form of
an eagle, on his back, and under his tongue a lump somewhat in the shape
of a scarabæus or beetle. As soon as a bull thus marked was found by
those sent in search of him, he was placed in a building facing the
east, and was fed with milk for four months. At the expiration of this
term the priests repaired at new moon, with great pomp, to his
habitation and saluted him Apis. He was placed in a vessel magnificently
decorated and conveyed down the Nile to Memphis, where a temple, with
two chapels and a court for exercise, was assigned to him. Sacrifices
were made to him, and once every year, about the time when the Nile
began to rise, a golden cup was thrown into the river, and a grand
festival was held to celebrate his birthday. The people believed that
during this festival the crocodiles forgot their natural ferocity and
became harmless. There was, however, one drawback to his happy lot: he
was not permitted to live beyond a certain period, and if, when he had
attained the age of twenty-five years, he still survived, the priests
drowned him in the sacred cistern and then buried him in the temple of
Serapis. On the death of this bull, whether it occurred in the course of
nature or by violence, the whole land was filled with sorrow and
lamentations, which lasted until his successor was found.

We find the following item in one of the newspapers of the day:

“_The Tomb of Apis._—The excavations going on at Memphis bid fair to
make that buried city as interesting as Pompeii. The monster tomb of
Apis is now open, after having lain unknown for centuries.”



Milton, in his “Hymn on the Nativity,” alludes to the Egyptian deities,
not as imaginary beings, but as real demons, put to flight by the coming
of Christ.

    “The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
    Isis and Horus and the dog Anubis haste.
        Nor is Osiris seen
        In Memphian grove or green
    Trampling the unshowered[35] grass with lowings loud;
        Nor can he be at rest
        Within his sacred chest;
    Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud.
        In vain with timbrel’d anthems dark
    The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.”

Isis was represented in statuary with the head veiled, a symbol of
mystery. It is this which Tennyson alludes to in “Maud,” IV., 8:

    “For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil,” etc.

                                ORACLES

Oracle was the name used to denote the place where answers were supposed
to be given by any of the divinities to those who consulted them
respecting the future. The word was also used to signify the response
which was given.

The most ancient Grecian oracle was that of Jupiter at Dodona. According
to one account, it was established in the following manner: Two black
doves took their flight from Thebes in Egypt. One flew to Dodona in
Epirus, and alighting in a grove of oaks, it proclaimed in human
language to the inhabitants of the district that they must establish
there an oracle of Jupiter. The other dove flew to the temple of Jupiter
Ammon in the Libyan Oasis, and delivered a similar command there.
Another account is, that they were not doves, but priestesses, who were
carried off from Thebes in Egypt by the Phœnicians, and set up oracles
at the Oasis and Dodona. The responses of the oracle were given from the
trees, by the branches rustling in the wind, the sounds being
interpreted by the priests.

But the most celebrated of the Grecian oracles was that of Apollo at
Delphi, a city built on the <DW72>s of Parnassus in Phocis.

It had been observed at a very early period that the goats feeding on
Parnassus were thrown into convulsions when they approached a certain
long deep cleft in the side of the mountain. This was owing to a
peculiar vapor arising out of the cavern, and one of the goatherds was
induced to try its effects upon himself. Inhaling the intoxicating air,
he was affected in the same manner as the cattle had been, and the
inhabitants of the surrounding country, unable to explain the
circumstance, imputed the convulsive ravings to which he gave utterance
while under the power of the exhalations to a divine inspiration. The
fact was speedily circulated widely, and a temple was erected on the
spot. The prophetic influence was at first variously attributed to the
goddess Earth, to Neptune, Themis, and others, but it was at length
assigned to Apollo, and to him alone. A priestess was appointed whose
office it was to inhale the hallowed air, and who was named the Pythia.
She was prepared for this duty by previous ablution at the fountain of
Castalia, and being crowned with laurel was seated upon a tripod
similarly adorned, which was placed over the chasm whence the divine
afflatus proceeded. Her inspired words while thus situated were
interpreted by the priests.

                          ORACLE OF TROPHONIUS

Besides the oracles of Jupiter and Apollo, at Dodona and Delphi, that of
Trophonius in Bœotia was held in high estimation. Trophonius and
Agamedes were brothers. They were distinguished architects, and built
the temple of Apollo at Delphi, and a treasury for King Hyrieus. In the
wall of the treasury they placed a stone, in such a manner that it could
be taken out; and by this means, from time to time, purloined the
treasure. This amazed Hyrieus, for his locks and seals were untouched,
and yet his wealth continually diminished. At length he set a trap for
the thief and Agamedes was caught. Trophonius, unable to extricate him,
and fearing that when found he would be compelled by torture to discover
his accomplice, cut off his head. Trophonius himself is said to have
been shortly afterwards swallowed up by the earth.

The oracle of Trophonius was at Lebadea in Bœotia. During a great
drought the Bœotians, it is said, were directed by the god at Delphi to
seek aid of Trophonius at Lebadea. They came thither, but could find no
oracle. One of them, however, happening to see a swarm of bees, followed
them to a chasm in the earth, which proved to be the place sought.

Peculiar ceremonies were to be performed by the person who came to
consult the oracle. After these preliminaries, he descended into the
cave by a narrow passage. This place could be entered only in the night.
The person returned from the cave by the same narrow passage, but
walking backwards. He appeared melancholy and dejected; and hence the
proverb which was applied to a person low-spirited and gloomy, “He has
been consulting the oracle of Trophonius.”

                          ORACLE OF ÆSCULAPIUS

There were numerous oracles of Æsculapius, but the most celebrated one
was at Epidaurus. Here the sick sought responses and the recovery of
their health by sleeping in the temple. It has been inferred from the
accounts that have come down to us that the treatment of the sick
resembled what is now called Animal Magnetism or Mesmerism.

Serpents were sacred to Æsculapius, probably because of a superstition
that those animals have a faculty of renewing their youth by a change of
skin. The worship of Æsculapius was introduced into Rome in a time of
great sickness, and an embassy sent to the temple of Epidaurus to
entreat the aid of the god. Æsculapius was propitious, and on the return
of the ship accompanied it in the form of a serpent. Arriving in the
river Tiber, the serpent glided from the vessel and took possession of
an island in the river, and a temple was there erected to his honor.

                             ORACLE OF APIS

At Memphis the sacred bull Apis gave answer to those who consulted him
by the manner in which he received or rejected what was presented to
him. If the bull refused food from the hand of the inquirer it was
considered an unfavorable sign, and the contrary when he received it.

It has been a question whether oracular responses ought to be ascribed
to mere human contrivance or to the agency of evil spirits. The latter
opinion has been most general in past ages. A third theory has been
advanced since the phenomena of Mesmerism have attracted attention, that
something like the mesmeric trance was induced in the Pythoness, and the
faculty of clairvoyance really called into action.

Another question is as to the time when the Pagan oracles ceased to give
responses. Ancient Christian writers assert that they became silent at
the birth of Christ, and were heard no more after that date. Milton
adopts this view in his “Hymn on the Nativity,” and in lines of solemn
and elevated beauty pictures the consternation of the heathen idols at
the advent of the Saviour:

    “The oracles are dumb;
    No voice or hideous hum
      Rings through the arched roof in words deceiving.
    Apollo from his shrine
    Can no more divine,
      With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
    No nightly trance or breathed spell
    Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.”

In Cowper’s poem of “Yardley Oak” there are some beautiful mythological
allusions. The former of the two following is to the fable of Castor and
Pollux; the latter is more appropriate to our present subject.
Addressing the acorn he says:

    “Thou fell’st mature; and in the loamy clod,
    Swelling with vegetative force instinct,
    Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins
    Now stars; two lobes protruding, paired exact;
    A leaf succeeded and another leaf,
    And, all the elements thy puny growth
    Fostering propitious, thou becam’st a twig.
    Who lived when thou wast such? O, couldst thou speak,
    As in Dodona once thy kindred trees
    Oracular, I would not curious ask
    The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth
    Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past.”

Tennyson, in his “Talking Oak,” alludes to the oaks of Dodona in these
lines:

    “And I will work in prose and rhyme,
      And praise thee more in both
    Than bard has honored beech or lime,
      Or that Thessalian growth
    In which the swarthy ring-dove sat
      And mystic sentence spoke;” etc.

Byron alludes to the oracle of Delphi where, speaking of Rousseau, whose
writings he conceives did much to bring on the French revolution, he
says:

    “For then he was inspired, and from him came,
      As from the Pythian’s mystic cave of yore,
    Those oracles which set the world in flame,
      Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more.”

[Illustration: ÆNEAS AT THE COURT OF QUEEN DIDO.
 From painting by P. Guerin. Salon of 1817.]

[Illustration: A VALKYR.
 From painting by P. N. Arbo.]




                              CHAPTER XXXV

  ORIGIN OF MYTHOLOGY—STATUES OF GODS AND GODDESSES—POETS OF MYTHOLOGY

                          ORIGIN OF MYTHOLOGY

HAVING reached the close of our series of stories of Pagan mythology, an
inquiry suggests itself. “Whence came these stories? Have they a
foundation in truth, or are they simply dreams of the imagination?”
Philosophers have suggested various theories on the subject; and 1. The
Scriptural theory; according to which all mythological legends are
derived from the narratives of Scripture, though the real facts have
been disguised and altered. Thus Deucalion is only another name for
Noah, Hercules for Samson, Arion for Jonah, etc. Sir Walter Raleigh, in
his “History of the World,” says, “Jubal, Tubal, and Tubal-Cain were
Mercury, Vulcan, and Apollo, inventors of Pasturage, Smithing, and
Music. The Dragon which kept the golden apples was the serpent that
beguiled Eve. Nimrod’s tower was the attempt of the Giants against
Heaven.” There are doubtless many curious coincidences like these, but
the theory cannot without extravagance be pushed so far as to account
for any great proportion of the stories.

2. The Historical theory; according to which all the persons mentioned
in mythology were once real human beings, and the legends and fabulous
traditions relating to them are merely the additions and embellishments
of later times. Thus the story of Æolus, the king and god of the winds,
is supposed to have risen from the fact that Æolus was the ruler of some
islands in the Tyrrhenian Sea, where he reigned as a just and pious
king, and taught the natives the use of sails for ships, and how to tell
from the signs of the atmosphere the changes of the weather and the
winds. Cadmus, who, the legend says, sowed the earth with dragon’s
teeth, from which sprang a crop of armed men, was in fact an emigrant
from Phœnicia, and brought with him into Greece the knowledge of the
letters of the alphabet, which he taught to the natives. From these
rudiments of learning sprung civilization, which the poets have always
been prone to describe as a deterioration of man’s first estate, the
Golden Age of innocence and simplicity.

3. The Allegorical theory supposes that all the myths of the ancients
were allegorical and symbolical, and contained some moral, religious, or
philosophical truth or historical fact, under the form of an allegory,
but came in process of time to be understood literally. Thus Saturn, who
devours his own children, is the same power whom the Greeks called
Cronos (Time), which may truly be said to destroy whatever it has
brought into existence. The story of Io is interpreted in a similar
manner. Io is the moon, and Argus the starry sky, which, as it were,
keeps sleepless watch over her. The fabulous wanderings of Io represent
the continual revolutions of the moon, which also suggested to Milton
the same idea.

    “To behold the wandering moon
    Riding near her highest noon,
    Like one that had been led astray
    In the heaven’s wide, pathless way.”
                 —_Il Penseroso._

4. The Physical theory; according to which the elements of air, fire,
and water were originally the objects of religious adoration, and the
principal deities were personifications of the powers of nature. The
transition was easy from a personification of the elements to the notion
of supernatural beings presiding over and governing the different
objects of nature. The Greeks, whose imagination was lively, peopled all
nature with invisible beings, and supposed that every object, from the
sun and sea to the smallest fountain and rivulet, was under the care of
some particular divinity. Wordsworth, in his “Excursion,” has
beautifully developed this view of Grecian mythology:

    “In that fair clime the lonely herdsman, stretched
    On the soft grass through half a summer’s day,
    With music lulled his indolent repose;
    And, in some fit of weariness, if he,
    When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear
    A distant strain far sweeter than the sounds
    Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched
    Even from the blazing chariot of the Sun
    A beardless youth who touched a golden lute,
    And filled the illumined groves with ravishment.
    The mighty hunter, lifting up his eyes
    Toward the crescent Moon, with grateful heart
    Called on the lovely Wanderer who bestowed
    That timely light to share his joyous sport;
    And hence a beaming goddess with her nymphs
    Across the lawn and through the darksome grove
    (Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes
    By echo multiplied from rock or cave)
    Swept in the storm of chase, as moon and stars
    Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven
    When winds are blowing strong. The Traveller slaked
    His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked
    The Naiad. Sunbeams upon distant hills
    Gliding apace with shadows in their train,
    Might with small help from fancy, be transformed
    Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly.
    The Zephyrs, fanning, as they passed, their wings,
    Lacked not for love fair objects whom they wooed
    With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque,
    Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age,
    From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth
    In the low vale, or on steep mountain side;
    And sometimes intermixed with stirring horns
    Of the live deer, or goat’s depending beard;
    These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood
    Of gamesome deities; or Pan himself,
    That simple shepherd’s awe-inspiring god.”

All the theories which have been mentioned are true to a certain extent.
It would therefore be more correct to say that the mythology of a nation
has sprung from all these sources combined than from any one in
particular. We may add also that there are many myths which have arisen
from the desire of man to account for those natural phenomena which he
cannot understand; and not a few have had their rise from a similar
desire of giving a reason for the names of places and persons.

                          STATUES OF THE GODS

To adequately represent to the eye the ideas intended to be conveyed to
the mind under the several names of deities was a task which called into
exercise the highest powers of genius and art. Of the many attempts
_four_ have been most celebrated, the first two known to us only by the
descriptions of the ancients, the others still extant and the
acknowledged masterpieces of the sculptor’s art.

                          THE OLYMPIAN JUPITER

The statue of the Olympian Jupiter by Phidias was considered the highest
achievement of this department of Grecian art. It was of colossal
dimensions, and was what the ancients called “chryselephantine;” that
is, composed of ivory and gold; the parts representing flesh being of
ivory laid on a core of wood or stone, while the drapery and other
ornaments were of gold. The height of the figure was forty feet, on a
pedestal twelve feet high. The god was represented seated on his throne.
His brows were crowned with a wreath of olive, and he held in his right
hand a sceptre, and in his left a statue of Victory. The throne was of
cedar, adorned with gold and precious stones.

The idea which the artist essayed to embody was that of the supreme
deity of the Hellenic (Grecian) nation, enthroned as a conqueror, in
perfect majesty and repose, and ruling with a nod the subject world.
Phidias avowed that he took his idea from the representation which Homer
gives in the first book of the “Iliad,” in the passage thus translated
by Pope:

    “He spoke and awful bends his sable brows,
    Shakes his ambrosial curls and gives the nod,
    The stamp of fate and sanction of the god.
    High heaven with reverence the dread signal took,
    And all Olympus to the centre shook.”[36]

                      THE MINERVA OF THE PARTHENON

This was also the work of Phidias. It stood in the Parthenon, or temple
of Minerva at Athens. The goddess was represented standing. In one hand
she held a spear, in the other a statue of Victory. Her helmet, highly
decorated, was surmounted by a Sphinx. The statue was forty feet in
height, and, like the Jupiter, composed of ivory and gold. The eyes were
of marble, and probably painted to represent the iris and pupil. The
Parthenon, in which this statue stood, was also constructed under the
direction and superintendence of Phidias. Its exterior was enriched with
sculptures, many of them from the hand of Phidias. The Elgin marbles,
now in the British Museum, are a part of them.

Both the Jupiter and Minerva of Phidias are lost, but there is good
ground to believe that we have, in several extant statues and busts, the
artist’s conceptions of the countenances of both. They are characterized
by grave and dignified beauty, and freedom from any transient
expression, which in the language of art is called _repose_.

                          THE VENUS DE’ MEDICI

The Venus of the Medici is so called from its having been in the
possession of the princes of that name in Rome when it first attracted
attention, about two hundred years ago. An inscription on the base
records it to be the work of Cleomenes, an Athenian sculptor of 200
B.C., but the authenticity of the inscription is doubtful. There is a
story that the artist was employed by public authority to make a statue
exhibiting the perfection of female beauty, and to aid him in his task
the most perfect forms the city could supply were furnished him for
models. It is this which Thomson alludes to in his “Summer”:

    “So stands the statue that enchants the world;
    So bending tries to veil the matchless boast,
    The mingled beauties of exulting Greece.”

Byron also alludes to this statue. Speaking of the Florence Museum, he
says:

    “There, too, the goddess loves in stone, and fills
    The air around with beauty;” etc.

And in the next stanza,

    “Blood, pulse, and breast confirm the Dardan shepherd’s prize.”

See this last allusion explained in Chapter XXVII.

                          THE APOLLO BELVEDERE

The most highly esteemed of all the remains of ancient sculpture is the
statue of Apollo, called the Belvedere, from the name of the apartment
of the Pope’s palace at Rome in which it was placed. The artist is
unknown. It is supposed to be a work of Roman art, of about the first
century of our era. It is a standing figure, in marble, more than seven
feet high, naked except for the cloak which is fastened around the neck
and hangs over the extended left arm. It is supposed to represent the
god in the moment when he has shot the arrow to destroy the monster
Python. (See Chapter III.) The victorious divinity is in the act of
stepping forward. The left arm, which seems to have held the bow, is
outstretched, and the head is turned in the same direction. In attitude
and proportion the graceful majesty of the figure is unsurpassed. The
effect is completed by the countenance, where on the perfection of
youthful godlike beauty there dwells the consciousness of triumphant
power.

                          THE DIANA A LA BICHE

The Diana of the Hind, in the palace of the Louvre, may be considered
the counterpart to the Apollo Belvedere. The attitude much resembles
that of the Apollo, the sizes correspond and also the style of
execution. It is a work of the highest order, though by no means equal
to the Apollo. The attitude is that of hurried and eager motion, the
face that of a huntress in the excitement of the chase. The left hand is
extended over the forehead of the Hind, which runs by her side, the
right arm reaches backward over the shoulder to draw an arrow from the
quiver.

                         THE POETS OF MYTHOLOGY

Homer, from whose poems of the “Iliad” and “Odyssey” we have taken the
chief part of our chapters of the Trojan war and the return of the
Grecians, is almost as mythical a personage as the heroes he celebrates.
The traditionary story is that he was a wandering minstrel, blind and
old, who travelled from place to place singing his lays to the music of
his harp, in the courts of princes or the cottages of peasants, and
dependent upon the voluntary offerings of his hearers for support. Byron
calls him “The blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle,” and a well-known
epigram, alluding to the uncertainty of the fact of his birthplace,
says:

    “Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead,
    Through which the living Homer begged his bread.”

These seven were Smyrna, Scio, Rhodes, Colophon, Salamis, Argos, and
Athens.

Modern scholars have doubted whether the Homeric poems are the work of
any single mind. This arises from the difficulty of believing that poems
of such length could have been committed to writing at so early an age
as that usually assigned to these, an age earlier than the date of any
remaining inscriptions or coins, and when no materials capable of
containing such long productions were yet introduced into use. On the
other hand it is asked how poems of such length could have been handed
down from age to age by means of the memory alone. This is answered by
the statement that there was a professional body of men, called
Rhapsodists, who recited the poems of others, and whose business it was
to commit to memory and rehearse for pay the national and patriotic
legends.

The prevailing opinion of the learned, at this time, seems to be that
the framework and much of the structure of the poems belong to Homer,
but that there are numerous interpolations and additions by other hands.

The date assigned to Homer, on the authority of Herodotus, is 850 B.C.

                                 VIRGIL

Virgil, called also by his surname, Maro, from whose poem of the “Æneid”
we have taken the story of Æneas, was one of the great poets who made
the reign of the Roman emperor Augustus so celebrated, under the name of
the Augustan age. Virgil was born in Mantua in the year 70 B.C. His
great poem is ranked next to those of Homer, in the highest class of
poetical composition, the Epic. Virgil is far inferior to Homer in
originality and invention, but superior to him in correctness and
elegance. To critics of English lineage Milton alone of modern poets
seems worthy to be classed with these illustrious ancients. His poem of
“Paradise Lost,” from which we have borrowed so many illustrations, is
in many respects equal, in some superior, to either of the great works
of antiquity. The following epigram of Dryden characterizes the three
poets with as much truth as it is usual to find in such pointed
criticism:

                  “ON MILTON

    “Three poets in three different ages born,
    Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
    The first in loftiness of soul surpassed,
    The next in majesty, in both the last.
    The force of nature could no further go;
    To make a third she joined the other two.”

From Cowper’s “Table Talk”:

    “Ages elapsed ere Homer’s lamp appeared,
    And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard.
    To carry nature lengths unknown before,
    To give a Milton birth, asked ages more.
    Thus genius rose and set at ordered times,
    And shot a dayspring into distant climes,
    Ennobling every region that he chose;
    He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose,
    And, tedious years of Gothic darkness past,
    Emerged all splendor in our isle at last.
    Thus lovely Halcyons dive into the main,
    Then show far off their shining plumes again.”

                                 OVID,

often alluded to in poetry by his other name of Naso, was born in the
year 43 B.C. He was educated for public life and held some offices of
considerable dignity, but poetry was his delight, and he early resolved
to devote himself to it. He accordingly sought the society of the
contemporary poets, and was acquainted with Horace and saw Virgil,
though the latter died when Ovid was yet too young and undistinguished
to have formed his acquaintance. Ovid spent an easy life at Rome in the
enjoyment of a competent income. He was intimate with the family of
Augustus, the emperor, and it is supposed that some serious offence
given to some member of that family was the cause of an event which
reversed the poet’s happy circumstances and clouded all the latter
portion of his life. At the age of fifty he was banished from Rome, and
ordered to betake himself to Tomi, on the borders of the Black Sea.
Here, among the barbarous people and in a severe climate, the poet, who
had been accustomed to all the pleasures of a luxurious capital and the
society of his most distinguished contemporaries, spent the last ten
years of his life, worn out with grief and anxiety. His only consolation
in exile was to address his wife and absent friends, and his letters
were all poetical. Though these poems (the “Trista” and “Letters from
Pontus”) have no other topic than the poet’s sorrows, his exquisite
taste and fruitful invention have redeemed them from the charge of being
tedious, and they are read with pleasure and even with sympathy.

The two great works of Ovid are his “Metamorphoses” and his “Fasti.”
They are both mythological poems, and from the former we have taken most
of our stories of Grecian and Roman mythology. A late writer thus
characterizes these poems:

“The rich mythology of Greece furnished Ovid, as it may still furnish
the poet, the painter, and the sculptor, with materials for his art.
With exquisite taste, simplicity, and pathos he has narrated the
fabulous traditions of early ages, and given to them that appearance of
reality which only a master hand could impart. His pictures of nature
are striking and true; he selects with care that which is appropriate;
he rejects the superfluous; and when he has completed his work, it is
neither defective nor redundant. The ‘Metamorphoses’ are read with
pleasure by youth, and are re-read in more advanced age with still
greater delight. The poet ventured to predict that his poem would
survive him, and be read wherever the Roman name was known.”

The prediction above alluded to is contained in the closing lines of the
“Metamorphoses,” of which we give a literal translation below:

    “And now I close my work, which not the ire
    Of Jove, nor tooth of time, nor sword, nor fire
    Shall bring to nought. Come when it will that day
    Which o’er the body, not the mind, has sway,
    And snatch the remnant of my life away,
    My better part above the stars shall soar,
    And my renown endure forevermore.
    Where’er the Roman arms and arts shall spread,
    There by the people shall my book be read;
    And, if aught true in poet’s visions be,
    My name and fame have immortality.”

                                  ————


                             CHAPTER XXXVI

         MODERN MONSTERS—THE PHŒNIX—BASILISK—UNICORN—SALAMANDER

                            MODERN MONSTERS

THERE is a set of imaginary beings which seem to have been the
successors of the “Gorgons, Hydras, and Chimeras dire” of the old
superstitions, and, having no connection with the false gods of
Paganism, to have continued to enjoy an existence in the popular belief
after Paganism was superseded by Christianity. They are mentioned
perhaps by the classical writers, but their chief popularity and
currency seem to have been in more modern times. We seek our accounts of
them not so much in the poetry of the ancients as in the old natural
history books and narrations of travellers. The accounts which we are
about to give are taken chiefly from the Penny Cyclopedia.

                               THE PHŒNIX

Ovid tells the story of the Phœnix as follows: “Most beings spring from
other individuals; but there is a certain kind which reproduces itself.
The Assyrians call it the Phœnix. It does not live on fruit or flowers,
but on frankincense and odoriferous gums. When it has lived five hundred
years, it builds itself a nest in the branches of an oak, or on the top
of a palm tree. In this it collects cinnamon, and spikenard, and myrrh,
and of these materials builds a pile on which it deposits itself, and
dying, breathes out its last breath amidst odors. From the body of the
parent bird, a young Phœnix issues forth, destined to live as long a
life as its predecessor. When this has grown up and gained sufficient
strength, it lifts its nest from the tree (its own cradle and its
parent’s sepulchre), and carries it to the city of Heliopolis in Egypt,
and deposits it in the temple of the Sun.”

Such is the account given by a poet. Now let us see that of a
philosophic historian. Tacitus says, “In the consulship of Paulus Fabius
(A.D. 34) the miraculous bird known to the world by the name of the
Phœnix, after disappearing for a series of ages, revisited Egypt. It was
attended in its flight by a group of various birds, all attracted by the
novelty, and gazing with wonder at so beautiful an appearance.” He then
gives an account of the bird, not varying materially from the preceding,
but adding some details. “The first care of the young bird as soon as
fledged, and able to trust to his wings, is to perform the obsequies of
his father. But this duty is not undertaken rashly. He collects a
quantity of myrrh, and to try his strength makes frequent excursions
with a load on his back. When he has gained sufficient confidence in his
own vigor, he takes up the body of his father and flies with it to the
altar of the Sun, where he leaves it to be consumed in flames of
fragrance.” Other writers add a few particulars. The myrrh is compacted
in the form of an egg, in which the dead Phœnix is enclosed. From the
mouldering flesh of the dead bird a worm springs, and this worm, when
grown large, is transformed into a bird. Herodotus _describes_ the bird,
though he says, “I have not seen it myself, except in a picture. Part of
his plumage is gold-, and part crimson; and he is for the most
part very much like an eagle in outline and bulk.”

The first writer who disclaimed a belief in the existence of the Phœnix
was Sir Thomas Browne, in his “Vulgar Errors,” published in 1646. He was
replied to a few years later by Alexander Ross, who says, in answer to
the objection of the Phœnix so seldom making his appearance, “His
instinct teaches him to keep out of the way of the tyrant of the
creation, _man_, for if he were to be got at, some wealthy glutton would
surely devour him, though there were no more in the world.”



Dryden in one of his early poems has this allusion to the Phœnix:

    “So when the new-born Phœnix first is seen,
    Her feathered subjects all adore their queen,
    And while she makes her progress through the East,
    From every grove her numerous train’s increased;
    Each poet of the air her glory sings,
    And round him the pleased audience clap their wings.”

Milton, in “Paradise Lost,” Book V., compares the angel Raphael
descending to earth to a Phœnix:

    “. . . Down thither, prone in flight
    He speeds, and through the vast ethereal sky
    Sails between worlds and worlds, with steady wing,
    Now on the polar winds, then with quick fan
    Winnows the buxom air; till within soar
    Of towering eagles, to all the fowls he seems
    A Phœnix, gazed by all; as that sole bird
    When, to enshrine his relics in the sun’s
    Bright temple, to Egyptian Thebes he flies.”

                      THE COCKATRICE, OR BASILISK

This animal was called the king of the serpents. In confirmation of his
royalty, he was said to be endowed with a crest, or comb upon the head,
constituting a crown. He was supposed to be produced from the egg of a
cock hatched under toads or serpents. There were several species of this
animal. One species burned up whatever they approached; a second were a
kind of wandering Medusa’s heads, and their look caused an instant
horror which was immediately followed by death. In Shakspeare’s play of
“Richard the Third,” Lady Anne, in answer to Richard’s compliment on her
eyes, says, “Would they were basilisk’s, to strike thee dead!”

The basilisks were called kings of serpents because all other serpents
and snakes, behaving like good subjects, and wisely not wishing to be
burned up or struck dead, fled the moment they heard the distant hiss of
their king, although they might be in full feed upon the most delicious
prey, leaving the sole enjoyment of the banquet to the royal monster.

The Roman naturalist Pliny thus describes him: “He does not impel his
body, like other serpents, by a multiplied flexion, but advances lofty
and upright. He kills the shrubs, not only by contact, but by breathing
on them, and splits the rocks, such power of evil is there in him.” It
was formerly believed that if killed by a spear from on horseback the
power of the poison conducted through the weapon killed not only the
rider, but the horse also. To this Lucan alludes in these lines:

    “What though the Moor the basilisk hath slain,
    And pinned him lifeless to the sandy plain,
    Up through the spear the subtle venom flies,
    The hand imbibes it, and the victor dies.”

Such a prodigy was not likely to be passed over in the legends of the
saints. Accordingly we find it recorded that a certain holy man, going
to a fountain in the desert, suddenly beheld a basilisk. He immediately
raised his eyes to heaven, and with a pious appeal to the Deity laid the
monster dead at his feet.

These wonderful powers of the basilisk are attested by a host of learned
persons, such as Galen, Avicenna, Scaliger, and others. Occasionally one
would demur to some part of the tale while he admitted the rest.
Jonston, a learned physician, sagely remarks, “I would scarcely believe
that it kills with its look, for who could have seen it and lived to
tell the story?” The worthy sage was not aware that those who went to
hunt the basilisk of this sort took with them a mirror, which reflected
back the deadly glare upon its author, and by a kind of poetical justice
slew the basilisk with his own weapon.

But what was to attack this terrible and unapproachable monster? There
is an old saying that “everything has its enemy”—and the cockatrice
quailed before the weasel. The basilisk might look daggers, the weasel
cared not, but advanced boldly to the conflict. When bitten, the weasel
retired for a moment to eat some rue, which was the only plant the
basilisks could not wither, returned with renewed strength and soundness
to the charge, and never left the enemy till he was stretched dead on
the plain. The monster, too, as if conscious of the irregular way in
which he came into the world, was supposed to have a great antipathy to
a cock; and well he might, for as soon as he heard the cock crow he
expired.

The basilisk was of some use after death. Thus we read that its carcass
was suspended in the temple of Apollo, and in private houses, as a
sovereign remedy against spiders, and that it was also hung up in the
temple of Diana, for which reason no swallow ever dared enter the sacred
place.

The reader will, we apprehend, by this time have had enough of
absurdities, but still we can imagine his anxiety to know what a
cockatrice was like. The following is from Aldrovandus, a celebrated
naturalist of the sixteenth century, whose work on natural history, in
thirteen folio volumes, contains with much that is valuable a large
proportion of fables and inutilities. In particular he is so ample on
the subject of the cock and the bull that from his practice, all
rambling, gossiping tales of doubtful credibility are called _cock and
bull stories_. Aldrovandus, however, deserves our respect and esteem as
the founder of a botanic garden, and as a pioneer in the now prevalent
custom of making scientific collections for purposes of investigation
and research.

Shelley, in his “Ode to Naples,” full of the enthusiasm excited by the
intelligence of the proclamation of a Constitutional Government at
Naples, in 1820, thus uses an allusion to the basilisk:

    “What though Cimmerian anarchs dare blaspheme
    Freedom and thee? a new Actæon’s error
    Shall theirs have been,—devoured by their own hounds!
        Be thou like the imperial basilisk,
    Killing thy foe with unapparent wounds!
        Gaze on oppression, till at that dread risk,
        Aghast she pass from the earth’s disk.
    Fear not, but gaze,—for freemen mightier grow,
    And slaves more feeble, gazing on their foe.”

                              THE UNICORN

Pliny, the Roman naturalist, out of whose account of the unicorn most of
the modern unicorns have been described and figured, records it as “a
very ferocious beast, similar in the rest of its body to a horse, with
the head of a deer, the feet of an elephant, the tail of a boar, a deep,
bellowing voice, and a single black horn, two cubits in length, standing
out in the middle of its forehead.” He adds that “it cannot be taken
alive;” and some such excuse may have been necessary in those days for
not producing the living animal upon the arena of the amphitheatre.

The unicorn seems to have been a sad puzzle to the hunters, who hardly
knew how to come at so valuable a piece of game. Some described the horn
as movable at the will of the animal, a kind of small sword, in short,
with which no hunter who was not exceedingly cunning in fence could have
a chance. Others maintained that all the animal’s strength lay in its
horn, and that when hard pressed in pursuit, it would throw itself from
the pinnacle of the highest rocks horn foremost, so as to pitch upon it,
and then quietly march off not a whit the worse for its fall.

But it seems they found out how to circumvent the poor unicorn at last.
They discovered that it was a great lover of purity and innocence, so
they took the field with a young _virgin_, who was placed in the
unsuspecting admirer’s way. When the unicorn spied her, he approached
with all reverence, couched beside her, and laying his head in her lap,
fell asleep. The treacherous virgin then gave a signal, and the hunters
made in and captured the simple beast.

Modern zoölogists, disgusted as they well may be with such fables as
these, disbelieve generally the existence of the unicorn. Yet there are
animals bearing on their heads a bony protuberance more or less like a
horn, which may have given rise to the story. The rhinoceros horn, as it
is called, is such a protuberance, though it does not exceed a few
inches in height, and is far from agreeing with the descriptions of the
horn of the unicorn. The nearest approach to a horn in the middle of the
forehead is exhibited in the bony protuberance on the forehead of the
giraffe; but this also is short and blunt, and is not the only horn of
the animal, but a third horn, standing in front of the two others. In
fine, though it would be presumptuous to deny the existence of a
one-horned quadruped other than the rhinoceros, it may be safely stated
that the insertion of a long and solid horn in the living forehead of a
horse-like or deer-like animal is as near an impossibility as anything
can be.

                             THE SALAMANDER

The following is from the “Life of Benvenuto Cellini,” an Italian artist
of the sixteenth century, written by himself: “When I was about five
years of age, my father, happening to be in a little room in which they
had been washing, and where there was a good fire of oak burning, looked
into the flames and saw a little animal resembling a lizard, which could
live in the hottest part of that element. Instantly perceiving what it
was, he called for my sister and me, and after he had shown us the
creature, he gave me a box on the ear. I fell a-crying, while he,
soothing me with caresses, spoke these words: ‘My dear child, I do not
give you that blow for any fault you have committed, but that you may
recollect that the little creature you see in the fire is a salamander;
such a one as never was beheld before to my knowledge.’ So saying he
embraced me, and gave me some money.”

It seems unreasonable to doubt a story of which Signor Cellini was both
an eye and ear witness. Add to which the authority of numerous sage
philosophers, at the head of whom are Aristotle and Pliny, affirms this
power of the salamander. According to them, the animal not only resists
fire, but extinguishes it, and when he sees the flame charges it as an
enemy which he well knows how to vanquish.

That the skin of an animal which could resist the action of fire should
be considered proof against that element is not to be wondered at. We
accordingly find that a cloth made of the skin of salamanders (for there
really is such an animal, a kind of lizard) was incombustible, and very
valuable for wrapping up such articles as were too precious to be
intrusted to any other envelopes. These fire-proof cloths were actually
produced, said to be made of salamander’s wool, though the knowing ones
detected that the substance of which they were composed was asbestos, a
mineral, which is in fine filaments capable of being woven into a
flexible cloth.

The foundation of the above fables is supposed to be the fact that the
salamander really does secrete from the pores of his body a milky juice,
which when he is irritated is produced in considerable quantity, and
would doubtless, for a few moments, defend the body from fire. Then it
is a hibernating animal, and in winter retires to some hollow tree or
other cavity, where it coils itself up and remains in a torpid state
till the spring again calls it forth. It may therefore sometimes be
carried with the fuel to the fire, and wake up only time enough to put
forth all its faculties for its defence. Its viscous juice would do good
service, and all who profess to have seen it, acknowledge that it got
out of the fire as fast as its legs could carry it; indeed, too fast for
them ever to make prize of one, except in one instance, and in that one
the animal’s feet and some parts of its body were badly burned.



Dr. Young, in the “Night Thoughts,” with more quaintness than good
taste, compares the sceptic who can remain unmoved in the contemplation
of the starry heavens to a salamander unwarmed in the fire:

    “An undevout astronomer is mad!
      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
    “O, what a genius must inform the skies!
    And is Lorenzo’s salamander-heart
    Cold and untouched amid these sacred fires?”

                                  ————


                             CHAPTER XXXVII

  EASTERN MYTHOLOGY—ZOROASTER—HINDU MYTHOLOGY—CASTES—BUDDHA—GRAND LAMA

                               ZOROASTER

OUR knowledge of the religion of the ancient Persians is principally
derived from the Zendavesta, or sacred books of that people. Zoroaster
was the founder of their religion, or rather the reformer of the
religion which preceded him. The time when he lived is doubtful, but it
is certain that his system became the dominant religion of Western Asia
from the time of Cyrus (550 B.C.) to the conquest of Persia by Alexander
the Great. Under the Macedonian monarchy the doctrines of Zoroaster
appear to have been considerably corrupted by the introduction of
foreign opinions, but they afterwards recovered their ascendency.

Zoroaster taught the existence of a supreme being, who created two other
mighty beings and imparted to them as much of his own nature as seemed
good to him. Of these, Ormuzd (called by the Greeks Oromasdes) remained
faithful to his creator, and was regarded as the source of all good,
while Ahriman (Arimanes) rebelled, and became the author of all evil
upon the earth. Ormuzd created man and supplied him with all the
materials of happiness; but Ahriman marred this happiness by introducing
evil into the world, and creating savage beasts and poisonous reptiles
and plants. In consequence of this, evil and good are now mingled
together in every part of the world, and the followers of good and
evil—the adherents of Ormuzd and Ahriman—carry on incessant war. But
this state of things will not last forever. The time will come when the
adherents of Ormuzd shall everywhere be victorious, and Ahriman and his
followers be consigned to darkness forever.

The religious rites of the ancient Persians were exceedingly simple.
They used neither temples, altars, nor statues, and performed their
sacrifices on the tops of mountains. They adored fire, light, and the
sun as emblems of Ormuzd, the source of all light and purity, but did
not regard them as independent deities. The religious rites and
ceremonies were regulated by the priests, who were called Magi. The
learning of the Magi was connected with astrology and enchantment, in
which they were so celebrated that their name was applied to all orders
of magicians and enchanters.

Wordsworth thus alludes to the worship of the Persians:

    “. . . the Persian,—zealous to reject
    Altar and Image, and the inclusive walls
    And roofs of temples built by human hands,—
    The loftiest heights ascending, from their tops,
    With myrtle-wreathed Tiara on his brows,
    Presented sacrifice to Moon and Stars,
    And to the Winds and mother Elements,
    And the whole circle of the Heavens, for him
    A sensitive existence and a God.”
                              —_Excursion_, Book IV.

In “Childe Harold” Byron speaks thus of the Persian worship:

      “Not vainly did the early Persian make
      His altar the high places and the peak
      Of earth-o’er-gazing mountains, and thus take
      A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek
      The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak,
      Upreared of human hands. Come and compare
      Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
      With Nature’s realms of worship, earth and air,
    Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer.”
                                            III., 91.

The religion of Zoroaster continued to flourish even after the
introduction of Christianity, and in the third century was the dominant
faith of the East, till the rise of the Mahometan power and the conquest
of Persia by the Arabs in the seventh century, who compelled the greater
number of the Persians to renounce their ancient faith. Those who
refused to abandon the religion of their ancestors fled to the deserts
of Kerman and to Hindustan, where they still exist under the name of
Parsees, a name derived from Pars, the ancient name of Persia. The Arabs
call them Guebers, from an Arabic word signifying unbelievers. At Bombay
the Parsees are at this day a very active, intelligent, and wealthy
class. For purity of life, honesty, and conciliatory manners, they are
favorably distinguished. They have numerous temples to Fire, which they
adore as the symbol of the divinity.

The Persian religion makes the subject of the finest tale in Moore’s
“Lalla Rookh,” the “Fire Worshippers.” The Gueber chief says,

    “Yes! I am of that impious race,
      Those slaves of Fire, that morn and even
    Hail their creator’s dwelling-place
      Among the living lights of heaven;
    Yes! I am of that outcast crew
    To Iran and to vengeance true,
    Who curse the hour your Arabs came
    To desecrate our shrines of flame,
    And swear before God’s burning eye,
    To break our country’s chains or die.”

                            HINDU MYTHOLOGY

The religion of the Hindus is professedly founded on the Vedas. To these
books of their scripture they attach the greatest sanctity, and state
that Brahma himself composed them at the creation. But the present
arrangement of the Vedas is attributed to the sage Vyasa, about five
thousand years ago.

The Vedas undoubtedly teach the belief of one supreme God. The name of
this deity is Brahma. His attributes are represented by the three
personified powers of _creation_, _preservation_, and _destruction_,
which under the respective names of Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva form the
_Trimurti_ or triad of principal Hindu gods. Of the inferior gods the
most important are: 1. Indra, the god of heaven, of thunder, lightning,
storm, and rain; 2. Agni, the god of fire; 3. Yama, the god of the
infernal regions; 4. Surya, the god of the sun.

Brahma is the creator of the universe, and the source from which all the
individual deities have sprung, and into which all will ultimately be
absorbed. “As milk changes to curd, and water to ice, so is Brahma
variously transformed and diversified, without aid of exterior means of
any sort.” The human soul, according to the Vedas, is a portion of the
supreme ruler, as a spark is of the fire.

                                 VISHNU

Vishnu occupies the second place in the triad of the Hindus, and is the
personification of the preserving principle. To protect the world in
various epochs of danger, Vishnu descended to the earth in different
incarnations, or bodily forms, which descents are called Avatars. They
are very numerous, but ten are more particularly specified. The first
Avatar was as Matsya, the Fish, under which form Vishnu preserved Manu,
the ancestor of the human race, during a universal deluge. The second
Avatar was in the form of a Tortoise, which form he assumed to support
the earth when the gods were churning the sea for the beverage of
immortality, Amrita.

We may omit the other Avatars, which were of the same general character,
that is, interpositions to protect the right or to punish wrong-doers,
and come to the ninth, which is the most celebrated of the Avatars of
Vishnu, in which he appeared in the human form of Krishna, an invincible
warrior, who by his exploits relieved the earth from the tyrants who
oppressed it.

Buddha is by the followers of the Brahmanical religion regarded as a
delusive incarnation of Vishnu, assumed by him in order to induce the
Asuras, opponents of the gods, to abandon the sacred ordinances of the
Vedas, by which means they lost their strength and supremacy.

Kalki is the name of the _tenth_ Avatar, in which Vishnu will appear at
the end of the present age of the world to destroy all vice and
wickedness, and to restore mankind to virtue and purity.

                                  SIVA

Siva is the third person of the Hindu triad. He is the personification
of the destroying principle. Though the third name, he is, in respect to
the number of his worshippers and the extension of his worship, before
either of the others. In the Puranas (the scriptures of the modern Hindu
religion) no allusion is made to the original power of this god as a
destroyer; that power not being to be called into exercise till after
the expiration of twelve millions of years, or when the universe will
come to an end; and Mahadeva (another name for Siva) is rather the
representative of regeneration than of destruction.



The worshippers of Vishnu and Siva form two sects, each of which
proclaims the superiority of its favorite deity, denying the claims of
the other, and Brahma, the creator, having finished his work, seems to
be regarded as no longer active, and has now only one temple in India,
while Mahadeva and Vishnu have many. The worshippers of Vishnu are
generally distinguished by a greater tenderness for life, and consequent
abstinence from animal food, and a worship less cruel than that of the
followers of Siva.

                               JUGGERNAUT

Whether the worshippers of Juggernaut are to be reckoned among the
followers of Vishnu or Siva, our authorities differ. The temple stands
near the shore, about three hundred miles south-west of Calcutta. The
idol is a carved block of wood, with a hideous face, painted black, and
a distended blood-red mouth. On festival days the throne of the image is
placed on a tower sixty feet high, moving on wheels. Six long ropes are
attached to the tower, by which the people draw it along. The priests
and their attendants stand round the throne on the tower, and
occasionally turn to the worshippers with songs and gestures. While the
tower moves along numbers of the devout worshippers throw themselves on
the ground, in order to be crushed by the wheels, and the multitude
shout in approbation of the act, as a pleasing sacrifice to the idol.
Every year, particularly at two great festivals in March and July,
pilgrims flock in crowds to the temple. Not less than seventy or eighty
thousand people are said to visit the place on these occasions, when all
castes eat together.

                                 CASTES

The division of the Hindus into classes or castes, with fixed
occupations, existed from the earliest times. It is supposed by some to
have been founded upon conquest, the first three castes being composed
of a foreign race, who subdued the natives of the country and reduced
them to an inferior caste. Others trace it to the fondness of
perpetuating, by descent from father to son, certain offices or
occupations.

The Hindu tradition gives the following account of the origin of the
various castes: At the creation Brahma resolved to give the earth
inhabitants who should be direct emanations from his own body.
Accordingly from his mouth came forth the eldest born, Brahma (the
priest), to whom he confided the four Vedas; from his right arm issued
Shatriya (the warrior), and from his left, the warrior’s wife. His
thighs produced Vaissyas, male and female (agriculturists and traders),
and lastly from his feet sprang Sudras (mechanics and laborers).

The four sons of Brahma, so significantly brought into the world, became
the fathers of the human race, and heads of their respective castes.
They were commanded to regard the four Vedas as containing all the rules
of their faith, and all that was necessary to guide them in their
religious ceremonies. They were also commanded to take rank in the order
of their birth, the Brahmans uppermost, as having sprung from the head
of Brahma.

A strong line of demarcation is drawn between the first three castes and
the Sudras. The former are allowed to receive instruction from the
Vedas, which is not permitted to the Sudras. The Brahmans possess the
privilege of teaching the Vedas, and were in former times in exclusive
possession of all knowledge. Though the sovereign of the country was
chosen from the Shatriya class, also called Rajputs, the Brahmans
possessed the real power, and were the royal counsellors, the judges and
magistrates of the country; their persons and property were inviolable;
and though they committed the greatest crimes, they could only be
banished from the kingdom. They were to be treated by sovereigns with
the greatest respect, for “a Brahman, whether learned or ignorant, is a
powerful divinity.”

When the Brahman arrives at years of maturity it becomes his duty to
marry. He ought to be supported by the contributions of the rich, and
not to be obliged to gain his subsistence by any laborious or productive
occupation. But as all the Brahmans could not be maintained by the
working classes of the community, it was found necessary to allow them
to engage in productive employments.

We need say little of the two intermediate classes, whose rank and
privileges may be readily inferred from their occupations. The Sudras or
fourth class are bound to servile attendance on the higher classes,
especially the Brahmans, but they may follow mechanical occupations and
practical arts, as painting and writing, or become traders or
husbandmen. Consequently they sometimes grow rich, and it will also
sometimes happen that Brahmans become poor. That fact works its usual
consequence, and rich Sudras sometimes employ poor Brahmans in menial
occupations.

There is another class lower even than the Sudras, for it is not one of
the original pure classes, but springs from an unauthorized union of
individuals of different castes. These are the Pariahs, who are employed
in the lowest services and treated with the utmost severity. They are
compelled to do what no one else can do without pollution. They are not
only considered unclean themselves, but they render unclean everything
they touch. They are deprived of all civil rights, and stigmatized by
particular laws regulating their mode of life, their houses, and their
furniture. They are not allowed to visit the pagodas or temples of the
other castes, but have their own pagodas and religious exercises. They
are not suffered to enter the houses of the other castes; if it is done
incautiously or from necessity, the place must be purified by religious
ceremonies. They must not appear at public markets, and are confined to
the use of particular wells, which they are obliged to surround with
bones of animals, to warn others against using them. They dwell in
miserable hovels, distant from cities and villages, and are under no
restrictions in regard to food, which last is not a privilege, but a
mark of ignominy, as if they were so degraded that nothing could pollute
them. The three higher castes are prohibited entirely the use of flesh.
The fourth is allowed to use all kinds except beef, but only the lowest
caste is allowed every kind of food without restriction.

                                 BUDDHA

Buddha, whom the Vedas represent as a delusive incarnation of Vishnu, is
said by his followers to have been a mortal sage, whose name was
Gautama, called also by the complimentary epithets of Sakyasinha, the
Lion, and Buddha, the Sage.

By a comparison of the various epochs assigned to his birth, it is
inferred that he lived about one thousand years before Christ.

He was the son of a king; and when in conformity to the usage of the
country he was, a few days after his birth, presented before the altar
of a deity, the image is said to have inclined its head as a presage of
the future greatness of the new-born prophet. The child soon developed
faculties of the first order, and became equally distinguished by the
uncommon beauty of his person. No sooner had he grown to years of
maturity than he began to reflect deeply on the depravity and misery of
mankind, and he conceived the idea of retiring from society and devoting
himself to meditation. His father in vain opposed this design. Buddha
escaped the vigilance of his guards, and having found a secure retreat,
lived for six years undisturbed in his devout contemplations. At the
expiration of that period he came forward at Benares as a religious
teacher. At first some who heard him doubted of the soundness of his
mind; but his doctrines soon gained credit, and were propagated so
rapidly that Buddha himself lived to see them spread all over India. He
died at the age of eighty years.

The Buddhists reject entirely the authority of the Vedas, and the
religious observances prescribed in them and kept by the Hindus. They
also reject the distinction of castes, and prohibit all bloody
sacrifices, and allow animal food. Their priests are chosen from all
classes; they are expected to procure their maintenance by perambulation
and begging, and among other things it is their duty to endeavor to turn
to some use things thrown aside as useless by others, and to discover
the medicinal power of plants. But in Ceylon three orders of priests are
recognized; those of the highest order are usually men of high birth and
learning, and are supported at the principal temples, most of which have
been richly endowed by the former monarchs of the country.

For several centuries after the appearance of Buddha, his sect seems to
have been tolerated by the Brahmans, and Buddhism appears to have
penetrated the peninsula of Hindustan in every direction, and to have
been carried to Ceylon, and to the eastern peninsula. But afterwards it
had to endure in India a long-continued persecution, which ultimately
had the effect of entirely abolishing it in the country where it had
originated, but to scatter it widely over adjacent countries. Buddhism
appears to have been introduced into China about the year 65 of our era.
From China it was subsequently extended to Corea, Japan, and Java.

                             THE GRAND LAMA

It is a doctrine alike of the Brahminical Hindus and of the Buddhist
sect that the confinement of the human soul, an emanation of the divine
spirit, in a human body, is a state of misery, and the consequence of
frailties and sins committed during former existences. But they hold
that some few individuals have appeared on this earth from time to time,
not under the necessity of terrestrial existence, but who voluntarily
descended to the earth to promote the welfare of mankind. These
individuals have gradually assumed the character of reappearances of
Buddha himself, in which capacity the line is continued till the present
day, in the several Lamas of Thibet, China, and other countries where
Buddhism prevails. In consequence of the victories of Gengis Khan and
his successors, the Lama residing in Thibet was raised to the dignity of
chief pontiff of the sect. A separate province was assigned to him as
his own territory, and besides his spiritual dignity he became to a
limited extent a temporal monarch. He is styled the Dalai Lama.

The first Christian missionaries who proceeded to Thibet were surprised
to find there in the heart of Asia a pontifical court and several other
ecclesiastical institutions resembling those of the Roman Catholic
church. They found convents for priests and nuns; also processions and
forms of religious worship, attended with much pomp and splendor; and
many were induced by these similarities to consider Lamaism as a sort of
degenerated Christianity. It is not improbable that the Lamas derived
some of these practices from the Nestorian Christians, who were settled
in Tartary when Buddhism was introduced into Thibet.

                              PRESTER JOHN

An early account, communicated probably by travelling merchants, of a
Lama or spiritual chief among the Tartars, seems to have occasioned in
Europe the report of a Presbyter or Prester John, a Christian pontiff
resident in Upper Asia. The Pope sent a mission in search of him, as did
also Louis IX. of France, some years later, but both missions were
unsuccessful, though the small communities of Nestorian Christians,
which they did find, served to keep up the belief in Europe that such a
personage did exist somewhere in the East. At last in the fifteenth
century, a Portuguese traveller, Pedro Covilham, happening to hear that
there was a Christian prince in the country of the Abessines
(Abyssinia), not far from the Red Sea, concluded that this must be the
true Prester John. He accordingly went thither, and penetrated to the
court of the king, whom he calls Negus. Milton alludes to him in
“Paradise Lost,” Book XI., where, describing Adam’s vision of his
descendants in their various nations and cities, scattered over the face
of the earth, he says,—

    “. . . Nor did his eyes not ken
    Th’ empire of Negus, to his utmost port,
    Ercoco, and the less maritime kings,
    Mombaza and Quiloa and Melind.”

                                  ————


                            CHAPTER XXXVIII

               NORTHERN MYTHOLOGY—VALHALLA—THE VALKYRIOR

                           NORTHERN MYTHOLOGY

THE stories which have engaged our attention thus far relate to the
mythology of southern regions. But there is another branch of ancient
superstitions which ought not to be entirely overlooked, especially as
it belongs to the nations from which we, through our English ancestors,
derive our origin. It is that of the northern nations, called
Scandinavians, who inhabited the countries now known as Sweden, Denmark,
Norway, and Iceland. These mythological records are contained in two
collections called the Eddas, of which the oldest is in poetry and dates
back to the year 1056, the more modern or prose Edda being of the date
of 1640.

According to the Eddas there was once no heaven above nor earth beneath,
but only a bottomless deep, and a world of mist in which flowed a
fountain. Twelve rivers issued from this fountain, and when they had
flowed far from their source, they froze into ice, and one layer
accumulating over another, the great deep was filled up.

Southward from the world of mist was the world of light. From this
flowed a warm wind upon the ice and melted it. The vapors rose in the
air and formed clouds, from which sprang Ymir, the Frost giant and his
progeny, and the cow Audhumbla, whose milk afforded nourishment and food
to the giant. The cow got nourishment by licking the hoar frost and salt
from the ice. While she was one day licking the salt stones there
appeared at first the hair of a man, on the second day the whole head,
and on the third the entire form endowed with beauty, agility, and
power. This new being was a god, from whom and his wife, a daughter of
the giant race, sprang the three brothers Odin, Vili, and Ve. They slew
the giant Ymir, and out of his body formed the earth, of his blood the
seas, of his bones the mountains, of his hair the trees, of his skull
the heavens, and of his brain clouds, charged with hail and snow. Of
Ymir’s eyebrows the gods formed Midgard (mid earth), destined to become
the abode of man.

Odin then regulated the periods of day and night and the seasons by
placing in the heavens the sun and moon and appointing to them their
respective courses. As soon as the sun began to shed its rays upon the
earth, it caused the vegetable world to bud and sprout. Shortly after
the gods had created the world they walked by the side of the sea,
pleased with their new work, but found that it was still incomplete, for
it was without human beings. They therefore took an ash tree and made a
man out of it, and they made a woman out of an elder, and called the man
Aske and the woman Embla. Odin then gave them life and soul, Vili reason
and motion, and Ve bestowed upon them the senses, expressive features,
and speech. Midgard was then given them as their residence, and they
became the progenitors of the human race.

The mighty ash tree Ygdrasill was supposed to support the whole
universe. It sprang from the body of Ymir, and had three immense roots,
extending one into Asgard (the dwelling of the gods), the other into
Jotunheim (the abode of the giants), and the third to Niffleheim (the
regions of darkness and cold). By the side of each of these roots is a
spring, from which it is watered. The root that extends into Asgard is
carefully tended by the three Norns, goddesses, who are regarded as the
dispensers of fate. They are Urdur (the past), Verdandi (the present),
Skuld (the future). The spring at the Jotunheim side is Ymir’s well, in
which wisdom and wit lie hidden, but that of Niffleheim feeds the adder
Nidhogge (darkness), which perpetually gnaws at the root. Four harts run
across the branches of the tree and bite the buds; they represent the
four winds. Under the tree lies Ymir, and when he tries to shake off its
weight the earth quakes.

Asgard is the name of the abode of the gods, access to which is only
gained by crossing the bridge Bifrost (the rainbow). Asgard consists of
golden and silver palaces, the dwellings of the gods, but the most
beautiful of these is Valhalla, the residence of Odin. When seated on
his throne he overlooks all heaven and earth. Upon his shoulders are the
ravens Hugin and Munin, who fly every day over the whole world, and on
their return report to him all they have seen and heard. At his feet lie
his two wolves, Geri and Freki, to whom Odin gives all the meat that is
set before him, for he himself stands in no need of food. Mead is for
him both food and drink. He invented the Runic characters, and it is the
business of the Norns to engrave the runes of fate upon a metal shield.
From Odin’s name, spelt Woden, as it sometimes is, came Wednesday, the
name of the fourth day of the week.

Odin is frequently called Alfadur (All-father), but this name is
sometimes used in a way that shows that the Scandinavians had an idea of
a deity superior to Odin, uncreated and eternal.

                        OF THE JOYS OF VALHALLA

Valhalla is the great hall of Odin, wherein he feasts with his chosen
heroes, all those who have fallen bravely in battle, for all who die a
peaceful death are excluded. The flesh of the boar Schrimnir is served
up to them, and is abundant for all. For although this boar is cooked
every morning, he becomes whole again every night. For drink the heroes
are supplied abundantly with mead from the she-goat Heidrum. When the
heroes are not feasting they amuse themselves with fighting. Every day
they ride out into the court or field and fight until they cut each
other in pieces. This is their pastime; but when meal time comes they
recover from their wounds and return to feast in Valhalla.

                              THE VALKYRIE

The Valkyrie are warlike virgins, mounted upon horses and armed with
helmets and spears. Odin, who is desirous to collect a great many heroes
in Valhalla to be able to meet the giants in a day when the final
contest must come, sends them down to every battlefield to make choice
of those who shall be slain. The Valkyrie are his messengers, and their
name means “Choosers of the slain.” When they ride forth on their
errand, their armor sheds a strange flickering light, which flashes up
over the northern skies, making what men call the “Aurora Borealis,” or
“Northern Lights.”[37]

                       OF THOR AND THE OTHER GODS

Thor, the thunderer, Odin’s eldest son, is the strongest of gods and
men, and possesses three very precious things. The first is a hammer,
which both the Frost and the Mountain giants know to their cost, when
they see it hurled against them in the air, for it has split many a
skull of their fathers and kindred. When thrown, it returns to his hand
of its own accord. The second rare thing he possesses is called the belt
of strength. When he girds it about him his divine might is doubled. The
third, also very precious, is his iron gloves, which he puts on whenever
he would use his mallet efficiently. From Thor’s name is derived our
word Thursday.

Frey is one of the most celebrated of the gods. He presides over rain
and sunshine and all the fruits of the earth. His sister Freya is the
most propitious of the goddesses. She loves music, spring, and flowers,
and is particularly fond of the Elves (fairies). She is very fond of
love ditties, and all lovers would do well to invoke her.

Bragi is the god of poetry, and his song records the deeds of warriors.
His wife, Iduna, keeps in a box the apples which the gods, when they
feel old age approaching, have only to taste of to become young again.

Heimdall is the watchman of the gods, and is therefore placed on the
borders of heaven to prevent the giants from forcing their way over the
bridge Bifrost (the rainbow). He requires less sleep than a bird, and
sees by night as well as by day a hundred miles around him. So acute is
his ear that no sound escapes him, for he can even hear the grass grow
and the wool on a sheep’s back.

                        OF LOKI AND HIS PROGENY

There is another deity who is described as the calumniator of the gods
and the contriver of all fraud and mischief. His name is Loki. He is
handsome and well made, but of a very fickle mood and most evil
disposition. He is of the giant race, but forced himself into the
company of the gods, and seems to take pleasure in bringing them into
difficulties, and in extricating them out of the danger by his cunning,
wit, and skill. Loki has three children. The first is the wolf Fenris,
the second the Midgard serpent, the third Hela (Death). The gods were
not ignorant that these monsters were growing up, and that they would
one day bring much evil upon gods and men. So Odin deemed it advisable
to send one to bring them to him. When they came he threw the serpent
into that deep ocean by which the earth is surrounded. But the monster
had grown to such an enormous size that holding his tail in his mouth he
encircles the whole earth. Hela he cast into Niffleheim, and gave her
power over nine worlds or regions, into which she distributes those who
are sent to her; that is, all who die of sickness or old age. Her hall
is called Elvidner. Hunger is her table, Starvation her knife, Delay her
man, Slowness her maid, Precipice her threshold, Care her bed, and
Burning Anguish forms the hangings of the apartments. She may easily be
recognized, for her body is half flesh color and half blue, and she has
a dreadfully stern and forbidding countenance.

The wolf Fenris gave the gods a great deal of trouble before they
succeeded in chaining him. He broke the strongest fetters as if they
were made of cobwebs. Finally the gods sent a messenger to the mountain
spirits, who made for them the chain called Gleipnir. It is fashioned of
six things, viz., the noise made by the footfall of a cat, the beards of
women, the roots of stones, the breath of fishes, the nerves
(sensibilities) of bears, and the spittle of birds. When finished it was
as smooth and soft as a silken string. But when the gods asked the wolf
to suffer himself to be bound with this apparently slight ribbon, he
suspected their design, fearing that it was made by enchantment. He
therefore only consented to be bound with it upon condition that one of
the gods put his hand in his (Fenris’s) mouth as a pledge that the band
was to be removed again. Tyr (the god of battles) alone had courage
enough to do this. But when the wolf found that he could not break his
fetters, and that the gods would not release him, he bit off Tyr’s hand,
and he has ever since remained one-handed.

               HOW THOR PAID THE MOUNTAIN GIANT HIS WAGES

Once on a time, when the gods were constructing their abodes and had
already finished Midgard and Valhalla, a certain artificer came and
offered to build them a residence so well fortified that they should be
perfectly safe from the incursions of the Frost giants and the giants of
the mountains. But he demanded for his reward the goddess Freya,
together with the sun and moon. The gods yielded to his terms, provided
he would finish the whole work himself without any one’s assistance, and
all within the space of one winter. But if anything remained unfinished
on the first day of summer he should forfeit the recompense agreed on.
On being told these terms the artificer stipulated that he should be
allowed the use of his horse Svadilfari, and this by the advice of Loki
was granted to him. He accordingly set to work on the first day of
winter, and during the night let his horse draw stone for the building.
The enormous size of the stones struck the gods with astonishment, and
they saw clearly that the horse did one-half more of the toilsome work
than his master. Their bargain, however, had been concluded, and
confirmed by solemn oaths, for without these precautions a giant would
not have thought himself safe among the gods, especially when Thor
should return from an expedition he had then undertaken against the evil
demons.

As the winter drew to a close, the building was far advanced, and the
bulwarks were sufficiently high and massive to render the place
impregnable. In short, when it wanted but three days to summer, the only
part that remained to be finished was the gateway. Then sat the gods on
their seats of justice and entered into consultation, inquiring of one
another who among them could have advised to give Freya away, or to
plunge the heavens in darkness by permitting the giant to carry away the
sun and the moon.

They all agreed that no one but Loki, the author of so many evil deeds,
could have given such bad counsel, and that he should be put to a cruel
death if he did not contrive some way to prevent the artificer from
completing his task and obtaining the stipulated recompense. They
proceeded to lay hands on Loki, who in his fright promised upon oath
that, let it cost him what it would, he would so manage matters that the
man should lose his reward. That very night when the man went with
Svadilfari for building stone, a mare suddenly ran out of a forest and
began to neigh. The horse thereat broke loose and ran after the mare
into the forest, which obliged the man also to run after his horse, and
thus between one and another the whole night was lost, so that at dawn
the work had not made the usual progress. The man, seeing that he must
fail of completing his task, resumed his own gigantic stature, and the
gods now clearly perceived that it was in reality a mountain giant who
had come amongst them. Feeling no longer bound by their oaths, they
called on Thor, who immediately ran to their assistance, and lifting up
his mallet, paid the workman his wages, not with the sun and moon, and
not even by sending him back to Jotunheim, for with the first blow he
shattered the giant’s skull to pieces and hurled him headlong into
Niffleheim.

                       THE RECOVERY OF THE HAMMER

Once upon a time it happened that Thor’s hammer fell into the possession
of the giant Thrym, who buried it eight fathoms deep under the rocks of
Jotunheim. Thor sent Loki to negotiate with Thrym, but he could only
prevail so far as to get the giant’s promise to restore the weapon if
Freya would consent to be his bride. Loki returned and reported the
result of his mission, but the goddess of love was quite horrified at
the idea of bestowing her charms on the king of the Frost giants. In
this emergency Loki persuaded Thor to dress himself in Freya’s clothes
and accompany him to Jotunheim. Thrym received his veiled bride with due
courtesy, but was greatly surprised at seeing her eat for her supper
eight salmons and a full grown ox, besides other delicacies, washing the
whole down with three tuns of mead. Loki, however, assured him that she
had not tasted anything for eight long nights, so great was her desire
to see her lover, the renowned ruler of Jotunheim. Thrym had at length
the curiosity to peep under his bride’s veil, but started back in
affright and demanded why Freya’s eyeballs glistened with fire. Loki
repeated the same excuse and the giant was satisfied. He ordered the
hammer to be brought in and laid on the maiden’s lap. Thereupon Thor
threw off his disguise, grasped his redoubted weapon, and slaughtered
Thrym and all his followers.

Frey also possessed a wonderful weapon, a sword which would of itself
spread a field with carnage whenever the owner desired it. Frey parted
with this sword, but was less fortunate than Thor and never recovered
it. It happened in this way: Frey once mounted Odin’s throne, from
whence one can see over the whole universe, and looking round saw far
off in the giant’s kingdom a beautiful maid, at the sight of whom he was
struck with sudden sadness, insomuch that from that moment he could
neither sleep, nor drink, nor speak. At last Skirnir, his messenger,
drew his secret from him, and undertook to get him the maiden for his
bride, if he would give him his sword as a reward. Frey consented and
gave him the sword, and Skirnir set off on his journey and obtained the
maiden’s promise that within nine nights she would come to a certain
place and there wed Frey. Skirnir having reported the success of his
errand, Frey exclaimed:

    “Long is one night,
    Long are two nights,
    But how shall I hold out three?
    Shorter hath seemed
    A month to me oft
    Than of this longing time the half.”

So Frey obtained Gerda, the most beautiful of all women, for his wife,
but he lost his sword.



This story, entitled “Skirnir For,” and the one immediately preceding
it, “Thrym’s Quida,” will be found poetically told in Longfellow’s
“Poets and Poetry of Europe.”

                                  ————


                             CHAPTER XXXIX

                       THOR’S VISIT TO JOTUNHEIM

             THOR’S VISIT TO JOTUNHEIM, THE GIANT’S COUNTRY

ONE day the god Thor, with his servant Thialfi, and accompanied by Loki,
set out on a journey to the giant’s country. Thialfi was of all men the
swiftest of foot. He bore Thor’s wallet, containing their provisions.
When night came on they found themselves in an immense forest, and
searched on all sides for a place where they might pass the night, and
at last came to a very large hall, with an entrance that took the whole
breadth of one end of the building. Here they lay down to sleep, but
towards midnight were alarmed by an earthquake which shook the whole
edifice. Thor, rising up, called on his companions to seek with him a
place of safety. On the right they found an adjoining chamber, into
which the others entered, but Thor remained at the doorway with his
mallet in his hand, prepared to defend himself, whatever might happen. A
terrible groaning was heard during the night, and at dawn of day Thor
went out and found lying near him a huge giant, who slept and snored in
the way that had alarmed them so. It is said that for once Thor was
afraid to use his mallet, and as the giant soon waked up, Thor contented
himself with simply asking his name.

“My name is Skrymir,” said the giant, “but I need not ask thy name, for
I know that thou art the god Thor. But what has become of my glove?”
Thor then perceived that what they had taken overnight for a hall was
the giant’s glove, and the chamber where his two companions had sought
refuge was the thumb. Skrymir then proposed that they should travel in
company, and Thor consenting, they sat down to eat their breakfast, and
when they had done, Skrymir packed all the provisions into one wallet,
threw it over his shoulder, and strode on before them, taking such
tremendous strides that they were hard put to it to keep up with him. So
they travelled the whole day, and at dusk Skrymir chose a place for them
to pass the night in under a large oak tree. Skrymir then told them he
would lie down to sleep. “But take ye the wallet,” he added, “and
prepare your supper.”

Skrymir soon fell asleep and began to snore strongly; but when Thor
tried to open the wallet, he found the giant had tied it up so tight he
could not untie a single knot. At last Thor became wroth, and grasping
his mallet with both hands he struck a furious blow on the giant’s head.
Skrymir, awakening, merely asked whether a leaf had not fallen on his
head, and whether they had supped and were ready to go to sleep. Thor
answered that they were just going to sleep, and so saying went and laid
himself down under another tree. But sleep came not that night to Thor,
and when Skrymir snored again so loud that the forest reëchoed with the
noise, he arose, and grasping his mallet launched it with such force at
the giant’s skull that it made a deep dint in it. Skrymir, awakening,
cried out, “What’s the matter? Are there any birds perched on this tree?
I felt some moss from the branches fall on my head. How fares it with
thee, Thor?” But Thor went away hastily, saying that he had just then
awoke, and that as it was only midnight, there was still time for sleep.
He, however, resolved that if he had an opportunity of striking a third
blow, it should settle all matters between them. A little before
daybreak he perceived that Skrymir was again fast asleep, and again
grasping his mallet, he dashed it with such violence that it forced its
way into the giant’s skull up to the handle. But Skrymir sat up, and
stroking his cheek said, “An acorn fell on my head. What! Art thou
awake, Thor? Methinks it is time for us to get up and dress ourselves;
but you have not now a long way before you to the city called Utgard. I
have heard you whispering to one another that I am not a man of small
dimensions; but if you come to Utgard you will see there many men much
taller than I. Wherefore, I advise you, when you come there, not to make
too much of yourselves, for the followers of Utgard-Loki will not brook
the boasting of such little fellows as you are. You must take the road
that leads eastward, mine lies northward, so we must part here.”

Hereupon he threw his wallet over his shoulders and turned away from
them into the forest, and Thor had no wish to stop him or to ask for any
more of his company.

Thor and his companions proceeded on their way, and towards noon
descried a city standing in the middle of a plain. It was so lofty that
they were obliged to bend their necks quite back on their shoulders in
order to see to the top of it. On arriving they entered the city, and
seeing a large palace before them with the door wide open, they went in,
and found a number of men of prodigious stature, sitting on benches in
the hall. Going further, they came before the king, Utgard-Loki, whom
they saluted with great respect. The king, regarding them with a
scornful smile, said, “If I do not mistake me, that stripling yonder
must be the god Thor.” Then addressing himself to Thor, he said,
“Perhaps thou mayst be more than thou appearest to be. What are the
feats that thou and thy fellows deem yourselves skilled in, for no one
is permitted to remain here who does not, in some feat or other, excel
all other men?”

“The feat that I know,” said Loki, “is to eat quicker than any one else,
and in this I am ready to give a proof against any one here who may
choose to compete with me.”

“That will indeed be a feat,” said Utgard-Loki, “if thou performest what
thou promisest, and it shall be tried forthwith.”

He then ordered one of his men who was sitting at the farther end of the
bench, and whose name was Logi, to come forward and try his skill with
Loki. A trough filled with meat having been set on the hall floor, Loki
placed himself at one end, and Logi at the other, and each of them began
to eat as fast as he could, until they met in the middle of the trough.
But it was found that Loki had only eaten the flesh, while his adversary
had devoured both flesh and bone, and the trough to boot. All the
company therefore adjudged that Loki was vanquished.

Utgard-Loki then asked what feat the young man who accompanied Thor
could perform. Thialfi answered that he would run a race with any one
who might be matched against him. The king observed that skill in
running was something to boast of, but if the youth would win the match
he must display great agility. He then arose and went with all who were
present to a plain where there was good ground for running on, and
calling a young man named Hugi, bade him run a match with Thialfi. In
the first course Hugi so much outstripped his competitor that he turned
back and met him not far from the starting place. Then they ran a second
and a third time, but Thialfi met with no better success.

Utgard-Loki then asked Thor in what feats he would choose to give proofs
of that prowess for which he was so famous. Thor answered that he would
try a drinking-match with any one. Utgard-Loki bade his cup-bearer bring
the large horn which his followers were obliged to empty when they had
trespassed in any way against the law of the feast. The cupbearer having
presented it to Thor, Utgard-Loki said, “Whoever is a good drinker will
empty that horn at a single draught, though most men make two of it, but
the most puny drinker can do it in three.”

Thor looked at the horn, which seemed of no extraordinary size though
somewhat long; however, as he was very thirsty, he set it to his lips,
and without drawing breath, pulled as long and as deeply as he could,
that he might not be obliged to make a second draught of it; but when he
set the horn down and looked in, he could scarcely perceive that the
liquor was diminished.

After taking breath, Thor went to it again with all his might, but when
he took the horn from his mouth, it seemed to him that he had drunk
rather less than before, although the horn could now be carried without
spilling.

“How now, Thor?” said Utgard-Loki; “thou must not spare thyself; if thou
meanest to drain the horn at the third draught thou must pull deeply;
and I must needs say that thou wilt not be called so mighty a man here
as thou art at home if thou showest no greater prowess in other feats
than methinks will be shown in this.”

Thor, full of wrath, again set the horn to his lips, and did his best to
empty it; but on looking in found the liquor was only a little lower, so
he resolved to make no further attempt, but gave back the horn to the
cupbearer.

“I now see plainly,” said Utgard-Loki, “that thou art not quite so stout
as we thought thee: but wilt thou try any other feat, though methinks
thou art not likely to bear any prize away with thee hence.”

“What new trial hast thou to propose?” said Thor.

“We have a very trifling game here,” answered Utgard-Loki, “in which we
exercise none but children. It consists in merely lifting my cat from
the ground; nor should I have dared to mention such a feat to the great
Thor if I had not already observed that thou art by no means what we
took thee for.”

As he finished speaking, a large gray cat sprang on the hall floor. Thor
put his hand under the cat’s belly and did his utmost to raise him from
the floor, but the cat, bending his back, had, notwithstanding all
Thor’s efforts, only one of his feet lifted up, seeing which Thor made
no further attempt.

“This trial has turned out,” said Utgard-Loki, “just as I imagined it
would. The cat is large, but Thor is little in comparison to our men.”

“Little as ye call me,” answered Thor, “let me see who among you will
come hither now I am in wrath and wrestle with me.”

“I see no one here,” said Utgard-Loki, looking at the men sitting on the
benches, “who would not think it beneath him to wrestle with thee; let
somebody, however, call hither that old crone, my nurse Elli, and let
Thor wrestle with her if he will. She has thrown to the ground many a
man not less strong than this Thor is.”

A toothless old woman then entered the hall, and was told by Utgard-Loki
to take hold of Thor. The tale is shortly told. The more Thor tightened
his hold on the crone the firmer she stood. At length after a very
violent struggle Thor began to lose his footing, and was finally brought
down upon one knee. Utgard-Loki then told them to desist, adding that
Thor had now no occasion to ask any one else in the hall to wrestle with
him, and it was also getting late; so he showed Thor and his companions
to their seats, and they passed the night there in good cheer.

The next morning, at break of day, Thor and his companions dressed
themselves and prepared for their departure. Utgard-Loki ordered a table
to be set for them, on which there was no lack of victuals or drink.
After the repast Utgard-Loki led them to the gate of the city, and on
parting asked Thor how he thought his journey had turned out, and
whether he had met with any men stronger than himself. Thor told him
that he could not deny but that he had brought great shame on himself.
“And what grieves me most,” he added, “is that ye will call me a person
of little worth.”

“Nay,” said Utgard-Loki, “it behooves me to tell thee the truth, now
thou art out of the city, which so long as I live and have my way thou
shalt never enter again. And, by my troth, had I known beforehand that
thou hadst so much strength in thee, and wouldst have brought me so near
to a great mishap, I would not have suffered thee to enter this time.
Know then that I have all along deceived thee by my illusions; first in
the forest, where I tied up the wallet with iron wire so that thou
couldst not untie it. After this thou gavest me three blows with thy
mallet; the first, though the least, would have ended my days had it
fallen on me, but I slipped aside and thy blows fell on the mountain,
where thou wilt find three glens, one of them remarkably deep. These are
the dints made by thy mallet. I have made use of similar illusions in
the contests you have had with my followers. In the first, Loki, like
hunger itself, devoured all that was set before him, but Loki was in
reality nothing else than Fire, and therefore consumed not only the
meat, but the trough which held it. Hugi, with whom Thialfi contended in
running, was Thought, and it was impossible for Thialfi to keep pace
with that. When thou in thy turn didst attempt to empty the horn, thou
didst perform, by my troth, a deed so marvellous that had I not seen it
myself I should never have believed it. For one end of that horn reached
the sea, which thou wast not aware of, but when thou comest to the shore
thou wilt perceive how much the sea has sunk by thy draughts. Thou didst
perform a feat no less wonderful by lifting up the cat, and to tell thee
the truth, when we saw that one of his paws was off the floor, we were
all of us terror-stricken, for what thou tookest for a cat was in
reality the Midgard serpent that encompasseth the earth, and he was so
stretched by thee that he was barely long enough to enclose it between
his head and tail. Thy wrestling with Elli was also a most astonishing
feat, for there was never yet a man, nor ever will be, whom Old Age, for
such in fact was Elli, will not sooner or later lay low. But now, as we
are going to part, let me tell thee that it will be better for both of
us if thou never come near me again, for shouldst thou do so, I shall
again defend myself by other illusions, so that thou wilt only lose thy
labor and get no fame from the contest with me.”

On hearing these words Thor in a rage laid hold of his mallet and would
have launched it at him, but Utgard-Loki had disappeared, and when Thor
would have returned to the city to destroy it, he found nothing around
him but a verdant plain.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER XL

      THE DEATH OF BALDUR—THE ELVES—RUNIC LETTERS—ICELAND—TEUTONIC
                       MYTHOLOGY—NIBELUNGEN LIED

                          THE DEATH OF BALDUR

BALDUR the Good, having been tormented with terrible dreams indicating
that his life was in peril, told them to the assembled gods, who
resolved to conjure all things to avert from him the threatened danger.
Then Frigga, the wife of Odin, exacted an oath from fire and water, from
iron and all other metals, from stones, trees, diseases, beasts, birds,
poisons, and creeping things, that none of them would do any harm to
Baldur. Odin, not satisfied with all this, and feeling alarmed for the
fate of his son, determined to consult the prophetess Angerbode, a
giantess, mother of Fenris, Hela, and the Midgard serpent. She was dead,
and Odin was forced to seek her in Hela’s dominions. This Descent of
Odin forms the subject of Gray’s fine ode beginning,—

    “Uprose the king of men with speed
    And saddled straight his coal-black steed.”

But the other gods, feeling that what Frigga had done was quite
sufficient, amused themselves with using Baldur as a mark, some hurling
darts at him, some stones, while others hewed at him with their swords
and battle-axes; for do what they would, none of them could harm him.
And this became a favorite pastime with them and was regarded as an
honor shown to Baldur. But when Loki beheld the scene he was sorely
vexed that Baldur was not hurt. Assuming, therefore, the shape of a
woman, he went to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga. That goddess, when
she saw the pretended woman, inquired of her if she knew what the gods
were doing at their meetings. She replied that they were throwing darts
and stones at Baldur, without being able to hurt him. “Ay,” said Frigga,
“neither stones, nor sticks, nor anything else can hurt Baldur, for I
have exacted an oath from all of them.” “What,” exclaimed the woman,
“have all things sworn to spare Baldur?” “All things,” replied Frigga,
“except one little shrub that grows on the eastern side of Valhalla, and
is called Mistletoe, and which I thought too young and feeble to crave
an oath from.”

As soon as Loki heard this he went away, and resuming his natural shape,
cut off the mistletoe, and repaired to the place where the gods were
assembled. There he found Hodur standing apart, without partaking of the
sports, on account of his blindness, and going up to him, said, “Why
dost thou not also throw something at Baldur?”

“Because I am blind,” answered Hodur, “and see not where Baldur is, and
have, moreover, nothing to throw.”

“Come, then,” said Loki, “do like the rest, and show honor to Baldur by
throwing this twig at him, and I will direct thy arm towards the place
where he stands.”

Hodur then took the mistletoe, and under the guidance of Loki, darted it
at Baldur, who, pierced through and through, fell down lifeless. Surely
never was there witnessed, either among gods or men, a more atrocious
deed than this. When Baldur fell, the gods were struck speechless with
horror, and then they looked at each other, and all were of one mind to
lay hands on him who had done the deed, but they were obliged to delay
their vengeance out of respect for the sacred place where they were
assembled. They gave vent to their grief by loud lamentations. When the
gods came to themselves, Frigga asked who among them wished to gain all
her love and good will. “For this,” said she, “shall he have who will
ride to Hel and offer Hela a ransom if she will let Baldur return to
Asgard.” Whereupon Hermod, surnamed the Nimble, the son of Odin, offered
to undertake the journey. Odin’s horse, Sleipnir, which has eight legs
and can outrun the wind, was then led forth, on which Hermod mounted and
galloped away on his mission. For the space of nine days and as many
nights he rode through deep glens so dark that he could not discern
anything, until he arrived at the river Gyoll, which he passed over on a
bridge covered with glittering gold. The maiden who kept the bridge
asked him his name and lineage, telling him that the day before five
bands of dead persons had ridden over the bridge, and did not shake it
as much as he alone. “But,” she added, “thou hast not death’s hue on
thee; why then ridest thou here on the way to Hel?”

“I ride to Hel,” answered Hermod, “to seek Baldur. Hast thou perchance
seen him pass this way?”

She replied, “Baldur hath ridden over Gyoll’s bridge, and yonder lieth
the way he took to the abodes of death.”

Hermod pursued his journey until he came to the barred gates of Hel.
Here he alighted, girthed his saddle tighter, and remounting clapped
both spurs to his horse, who cleared the gate by a tremendous leap
without touching it. Hermod then rode on to the palace, where he found
his brother Baldur occupying the most distinguished seat in the hall,
and passed the night in his company. The next morning he besought Hela
to let Baldur ride home with him, assuring her that nothing but
lamentations were to be heard among the gods. Hela answered that it
should now be tried whether Baldur was so beloved as he was said to be.
“If, therefore,” she added, “all things in the world, both living and
lifeless, weep for him, then shall he return to life; but if any one
thing speak against him or refuse to weep, he shall be kept in Hel.”

Hermod then rode back to Asgard and gave an account of all he had heard
and witnessed.

The gods upon this despatched messengers throughout the world to beg
everything to weep in order that Baldur might be delivered from Hel. All
things very willingly complied with this request, both men and every
other living being, as well as earths, and stones, and trees, and
metals, just as we have all seen these things weep when they are brought
from a cold place into a hot one. As the messengers were returning, they
found an old hag named Thaukt sitting in a cavern, and begged her to
weep Baldur out of Hel. But she answered,

    “Thaukt will wail
    With dry tears
    Baldur’s bale-fire.
    Let Hela keep her own.”

It was strongly suspected that this hag was no other than Loki himself,
who never ceased to work evil among gods and men. So Baldur was
prevented from coming back to Asgard.[38]

                         THE FUNERAL OF BALDUR

The gods took up the dead body and bore it to the seashore where stood
Baldur’s ship “Hringham,” which passed for the largest in the world.
Baldur’s dead body was put on the funeral pile, on board the ship, and
his wife Nanna was so struck with grief at the sight that she broke her
heart, and her body was burned on the same pile as her husband’s. There
was a vast concourse of various kinds of people at Baldur’s obsequies.
First came Odin accompanied by Frigga, the Valkyrie, and his ravens;
then Frey in his car drawn by Gullinbursti, the boar; Heimdall rode his
horse Gulltopp, and Freya drove in her chariot drawn by cats. There were
also a great many Frost giants and giants of the mountain present.
Baldur’s horse was led to the pile fully caparisoned and consumed in the
same flames with his master.

But Loki did not escape his deserved punishment. When he saw how angry
the gods were, he fled to the mountain, and there built himself a hut
with four doors, so that he could see every approaching danger. He
invented a net to catch the fishes, such as fishermen have used since
his time. But Odin found out his hidingplace and the gods assembled to
take him. He, seeing this, changed himself into a salmon, and lay hid
among the stones of the brook. But the gods took his net and dragged the
brook, and Loki, finding he must be caught, tried to leap over the net;
but Thor caught him by the tail and compressed it, so that salmons ever
since have had that part remarkably fine and thin. They bound him with
chains and suspended a serpent over his head, whose venom falls upon his
face drop by drop. His wife Siguna sits by his side and catches the
drops as they fall, in a cup; but when she carries it away to empty it,
the venom falls upon Loki, which makes him howl with horror, and twist
his body about so violently that the whole earth shakes, and this
produces what men call earthquakes.

                               THE ELVES

The Edda mentions another class of beings, inferior to the gods, but
still possessed of great power; these were called Elves. The white
spirits, or Elves of Light, were exceedingly fair, more brilliant than
the sun, and clad in garments of a delicate and transparent texture.
They loved the light, were kindly disposed to mankind, and generally
appeared as fair and lovely children. Their country was called Alfheim,
and was the domain of Freyr, the god of the sun, in whose light they
were always sporting.

The Black or Night Elves were a different kind of creatures. Ugly,
long-nosed dwarfs, of a dirty brown color, they appeared only at night,
for they avoided the sun as their most deadly enemy, because whenever
his beams fell upon any of them they changed them immediately into
stones. Their language was the echo of solitudes, and their
dwelling-places subterranean caves and clefts. They were supposed to
have come into existence as maggots produced by the decaying flesh of
Ymir’s body, and were afterwards endowed by the gods with a human form
and great understanding. They were particularly distinguished for a
knowledge of the mysterious powers of nature, and for the runes which
they carved and explained. They were the most skilful artificers of all
created beings, and worked in metals and in wood. Among their most noted
works were Thor’s hammer, and the ship “Skidbladnir,” which they gave to
Freyr, and which was so large that it could contain all the deities with
their war and household implements, but so skillfully was it wrought
that when folded together it could be put into a side pocket.

                   RAGNAROK, THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS

It was a firm belief of the northern nations that a time would come when
all the visible creation, the gods of Valhalla and Niffleheim, the
inhabitants of Jotunheim, Alfheim, and Midgard, together with their
habitations, would be destroyed. The fearful day of destruction will
not, however, be without its forerunners. First will come a triple
winter, during which snow will fall from the four corners of the
heavens, the frost be very severe, the wind piercing, the weather
tempestuous, and the sun impart no gladness. Three such winters will
pass away without being tempered by a single summer. Three other similar
winters will then follow, during which war and discord will spread over
the universe. The earth itself will be frightened and begin to tremble,
the sea leave its basin, the heavens tear asunder, and men perish in
great numbers, and the eagles of the air feast upon their still
quivering bodies. The wolf Fenris will now break his bands, the Midgard
serpent rise out of her bed in the sea, and Loki, released from his
bonds, will join the enemies of the gods. Amidst the general devastation
the sons of Muspelheim will rush forth under their leader Surtur, before
and behind whom are flames and burning fire. Onward they ride over
Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, which breaks under the horses’ hoofs. But
they, disregarding its fall, direct their course to the battlefield
called Vigrid. Thither also repair the wolf Fenris, the Midgard serpent,
Loki with all the followers of Hela, and the Frost giants.

Heimdall now stands up and sounds the Giallar horn to assemble the gods
and heroes for the contest. The gods advance, led on by Odin, who
engages the wolf Fenris, but falls a victim to the monster, who is,
however, slain by Vidar, Odin’s son. Thor gains great renown by killing
the Midgard serpent, but recoils and falls dead, suffocated with the
venom which the dying monster vomits over him. Loki and Heimdall meet
and fight till they are both slain. The gods and their enemies having
fallen in battle, Surtur, who has killed Freyr, darts fire and flames
over the world, and the whole universe is burned up. The sun becomes
dim, the earth sinks into the ocean, the stars fall from heaven, and
time is no more.

After this Alfadur (the Almighty) will cause a new heaven and a new
earth to arise out of the sea. The new earth filled with abundant
supplies will spontaneously produce its fruits without labor or care.
Wickedness and misery will no more be known, but the gods and men will
live happily together.

                             RUNIC LETTERS

One cannot travel far in Denmark, Norway, or Sweden without meeting with
great stones of different forms, engraven with characters called Runic,
which appear at first sight very different from all we know. The letters
consist almost invariably of straight lines, in the shape of little
sticks either singly or put together. Such sticks were in early times
used by the northern nations for the purpose of ascertaining future
events. The sticks were shaken up, and from the figures that they formed
a kind of divination was derived.

The Runic characters were of various kinds. They were chiefly used for
magical purposes. The noxious, or, as they called them, the _bitter_
runes, were employed to bring various evils on their enemies; the
favorable averted misfortune. Some were medicinal, others employed to
win love, etc. In later times they were frequently used for
inscriptions, of which more than a thousand have been found. The
language is a dialect of the Gothic, called Norse, still in use in
Iceland. The inscriptions may therefore be read with certainty, but
hitherto very few have been found which throw the least light on
history. They are mostly epitaphs on tombstones.



Gray’s ode on the “Descent of Odin” contains an allusion to the use of
Runic letters for incantation:

    “Facing to the northern clime,
    Thrice he traced the Runic rhyme;
    Thrice pronounced, in accents dread,
    The thrilling verse that wakes the dead,
    Till from out the hollow ground
    Slowly breathed a sullen sound.”

                               THE SKALDS

The Skalds were the bards and poets of the nation, a very important
class of men in all communities in an early stage of civilization. They
are the depositaries of whatever historic lore there is, and it is their
office to mingle something of intellectual gratification with the rude
feasts of the warriors, by rehearsing, with such accompaniments of
poetry and music as their skill can afford, the exploits of their heroes
living or dead. The compositions of the Skalds were called Sagas, many
of which have come down to us, and contain valuable materials of
history, and a faithful picture of the state of society at the time to
which they relate.

                                ICELAND

The Eddas and Sagas have come to us from Iceland. The following extract
from Carlyle’s lectures on “Heroes and Hero Worship” gives an animated
account of the region where the strange stories we have been reading had
their origin. Let the reader contrast it for a moment with Greece, the
parent of classical mythology:

“In that strange island, Iceland,—burst up, the geologists say, by fire
from the bottom of the sea, a wild land of barrenness and lava,
swallowed many months of every year in black tempests, yet with a wild,
gleaming beauty in summer time, towering up there stern and grim in the
North Ocean, with its snow yokuls [mountains], roaring geysers [boiling
springs], sulphur pools, and horrid volcanic chasms, like the waste,
chaotic battlefield of Frost and Fire,—where, of all places, we least
looked for literature or written memorials,—the record of these things
was written down. On the seaboard of this wild land is a rim of grassy
country, where cattle can subsist, and men by means of them and of what
the sea yields; and it seems they were poetic men these, men who had
deep thoughts in them and uttered musically their thoughts. Much would
be lost had Iceland not been burst up from the sea, not been discovered
by the Northmen!”

                           TEUTONIC MYTHOLOGY

In the mythology of Germany proper, the name of Odin appears as Wotan;
Freya and Frigga are regarded as one and the same divinity, and the gods
are in general represented as less warlike in character than those in
the Scandinavian myths. As a whole, however, Teutonic mythology runs
along almost identical lines with that of the northern nations. The most
notable divergence is due to modifications of the legends by reason of
the difference in climatic conditions. The more advanced social
condition of the Germans is also apparent in their mythology.

                          THE NIBELUNGEN LIED

One of the oldest myths of the Teutonic race is found in the great
national epic of the Nibelungen Lied, which dates back to the
prehistoric era when Wotan, Frigga, Thor, Loki, and the other gods and
goddesses were worshipped in the German forests. The epic is divided
into two parts, the first of which tells how Siegfried, the youngest of
the kings of the Netherlands, went to Worms, to ask in marriage the hand
of Kriemhild, sister of Günther, King of Burgundy. While he was staying
with Günther, Siegfried helped the Burgundian king to secure as his wife
Brunhild, queen of Issland. The latter had announced publicly that he
only should be her husband who could beat her in hurling a spear,
throwing a huge stone, and in leaping. Siegfried, who possessed a cloak
of invisibility, aided Günther in these three contests, and Brunhild
became his wife. In return for these services, Günther gave Siegfried
his sister Kriemhild in marriage.

After some time had elapsed, Siegfried and Kriemhild went to visit
Günther, when the two women fell into a dispute about the relative
merits of their husbands. Kriemhild, to exalt Siegfried, boasted that it
was to the latter that Günther owed his victories and his wife.
Brunhild, in great anger, employed Hagan, liegeman of Günther, to murder
Siegfried. In the epic Hagan is described as follows:

    “Well-grown and well-compacted was that redoubted guest;
    Long were his legs and sinewy, and deep and broad his chest;
    His hair, that once was sable, with gray was dashed of late;
    Most terrible his visage, and lordly was his gait.”
                            —_Nibelungen Lied_, stanza 1789.

This Achilles of German romance stabbed Siegfried between the shoulders,
as the unfortunate King of the Netherlands was stooping to drink from a
brook during a hunting expedition.

The second part of the epic relates how, thirteen years later, Kriemhild
married Etzel, King of the Huns. After a time, she invited the King of
Burgundy, with Hagan and many others, to the court of her husband. A
fearful quarrel was stirred up in the banquet hall, which ended in the
slaughter of all the Burgundians but Günther and Hagan. These two were
taken prisoners and given to Kriemhild, who with her own hand cut off
the heads of both. For this bloody act of vengeance Kriemhild was
herself slain by Hildebrand, a magician and champion, who in German
mythology holds a place to an extent corresponding to that of Nestor in
the Greek mythology.

                          THE NIBELUNGEN HOARD

This was a mythical mass of gold and precious stones which Siegfried
obtained from the Nibelungs, the people of the north whom he had
conquered and whose country he had made tributary to his own kingdom of
the Netherlands. Upon his marriage, Siegfried gave the treasure to
Kriemhild as her wedding portion. After the murder of Siegfried, Hagan
seized it and buried it secretly beneath the Rhine at Lochham, intending
to recover it at a future period. The hoard was lost forever when Hagan
was killed by Kriemhild. Its wonders are thus set forth in the poem:

    “’Twas as much as twelve huge wagons in four whole nights and days
    Could carry from the mountain down to the salt sea bay;
    Though to and fro each wagon thrice journeyed every day.

    “It was made up of nothing but precious stones and gold;
    Were all the world bought from it, and down the value told,
    Not a mark the less would there be left than erst there was, I ween.”
                                              —_Nibelungen Lied_, XIX.

Whoever possessed the Nibelungen hoard were termed Nibelungers. Thus at
one time certain people of Norway were so called. When Siegfried held
the treasure he received the title “King of the Nibelungers.”

                        WAGNER’S NIBELUNGEN RING

Though Richard Wagner’s music-drama of the Nibelungen Ring bears some
resemblance to the ancient German epic, it is a wholly independent
composition and was derived from various old songs and sagas, which the
dramatist wove into one great harmonious story. The principal source was
the Volsunga Saga, while lesser parts were taken from the Elder Edda and
the Younger Edda, and others from the Nibelungen Lied, the Ecklenlied,
and other Teutonic folklore.

In the drama there are at first only four distinct races,—the gods, the
giants, the dwarfs, and the nymphs. Later, by a special creation, there
come the valkyrie and the heroes. The gods are the noblest and highest
race, and dwell first in the mountain meadows, later in the palace of
Valhalla on the heights. The giants are a great and strong race, but
lack wisdom; they hate what is noble, and are enemies of the gods; they
dwell in caves near the earth’s surface. The dwarfs, or _nibelungs_, are
black uncouth pigmies, hating the good, hating the gods; they are crafty
and cunning, and dwell in the bowels of the earth. The nymphs are pure,
innocent creatures of the water. The valkyrie are daughters of the gods,
but mingled with a mortal strain; they gather dead heroes from the
battle-fields and carry them to Valhalla. The heroes are children of the
gods, but also mingled with a mortal strain; they are destined to become
at last the highest race of all, and to succeed the gods in the
government of the world.

The principal gods are Wotan, Loki, Donner, and Froh. The chief giants
are Fafner and Fasolt, brothers. The chief dwarfs are Alberich and Mime,
brothers, and later Hagan, son of Alberich. The chief nymphs are the
Rhine-daughters, Flosshilda, Woglinda, and Wellgunda. There are nine
Valkyrie, of whom Brunhild is the leading one.

Wagner’s story of the Ring may be summarized as follows:

A hoard of gold exists in the depths of the Rhine, guarded by the
innocent Rhine-maidens. Alberich, the dwarf, forswears love to gain this
gold. He makes it into a magic ring. It gives him all power, and he
gathers by it a vast amount of treasures.

Meanwhile Wotan, chief of the gods, has engaged the giants to build for
him a noble castle, Valhalla, from whence to rule the world, promising
in payment Freya, goddess of youth and love. But the gods find they
cannot spare Freya, as they are dependent on her for their immortal
youth. Loki, called upon to provide a substitute, tells of Alberich’s
magic ring and other treasure. Wotan goes with Loki, and they steal the
ring and the golden hoard from Alberich, who curses the ring and lays
the curse on all who shall henceforth possess it. The gods give the ring
and the treasure to the giants as a substitute for Freya. The curse at
once begins. One giant, Fafner, kills his brother to get all, and
transforms himself into a dragon to guard his wealth. The gods enter
Valhalla over the rainbow bridge. This ends the first part of the drama,
called the Rhine-Gold.

The second part, the Valkyrie, relates how Wotan still covets the ring.
He cannot take it himself, for he has given his word to the giants. He
stands or falls by his word. So he devises an artifice to get the ring.
He will get a hero-race to work for him and recover the ring and the
treasures. Siegmund and Sieglinda are twin children of this new race.
Sieglinda is carried off as a child and is forced into marriage with
Hunding. Siegmund comes, and unknowingly breaks the law of marriage, but
wins Nothung, the great sword, and a bride. Brunhild, chief of the
Valkyrie, is commissioned by Wotan at the instance of Fricka, goddess of
marriage, to slay him for his sin. She disobeys and tries to save him,
but Hunding, helped by Wotan, slays him. Sieglinda, however, about to
bear the free hero, to be called Siegfried, is saved by Brunhild, and
hid in the forest. Brunhild herself is punished by being made a mortal
woman. She is left sleeping on the mountains with a wall of fire around
her which only a hero can penetrate.

The drama continues with the story of Siegfried, which opens with a
scene in the smithy between Mime the dwarf and Siegfried. Mime is
welding a sword, and Siegfried scorns him. Mime tells him something of
his mother, Sieglinda, and shows him the broken pieces of his father’s
sword. Wotan comes and tells Mime that only one who has no fear can
remake the sword. Now Siegfried knows no fear and soon remakes the sword
Nothung. Wotan and Alberich come to where the dragon Fafner is guarding
the ring. They both long for it, but neither can take it. Soon Mime
comes bringing Siegfried with the mighty sword. Fafner comes out, but
Siegfried slays him. Happening to touch his lips with the dragon’s
blood, he understands the language of the birds. They tell him of the
ring. He goes and gets it. Siegfried now has possession of the ring, but
it is to bring him nothing of happiness, only evil. It is to curse love
and finally bring death. The birds also tell him of Mime’s treachery. He
slays Mime. He longs for some one to love. The birds tell him of the
slumbering Brunnhilda, whom he finds and marries.

The Dusk of the Gods portrays at the opening the three norns or fates
weaving and measuring the thread of destiny. It is the beginning of the
end. The perfect pair, Siegfried and Brunhild, appear in all the glory
of their life, splendid ideals of manhood and womanhood. But Siegfried
goes out into the world to achieve deeds of prowess. He gives her the
Nibelungen ring to keep as a pledge of his love till his return.
Meanwhile Alberich also has begotten a son, Hagan, to achieve for him
the possession of the ring. He is partly of the Gibichung race, and
works through Günther and Gutrune, half-brother and half-sister to him.
They beguile Siegfried to them, give him a magic draught which makes him
forget Brunhild and fall in love with Gutrune. Under this same spell, he
offers to bring Brunhild for wife to Günther. Now is Valhalla full of
sorrow and despair. The gods fear the end. Wotan murmurs, “O that she
would give back the ring to the Rhine.” But Brunhild will not give it
up,—it is now her pledge of love. Siegfried comes, takes the ring, and
Brunhild is now brought to the Rhine castle of the Gibichungs, but
Siegfried under the spell does not love her. She is to be wedded to
Günther. She rises in wrath and denounces Siegfried. But at a hunting
banquet Siegfried is given another magic draught, remembers all, and is
slain by Hagan by a blow in the back, as he calls on Brunhild’s name in
love. Then comes the end. The body of Siegfried is burned on a funeral
pyre, a grand funeral march is heard, and Brunhild rides into the flames
and sacrifices herself for love’s sake; the ring goes back to the
Rhine-daughters; and the old world—of the gods of Valhalla, of passion
and sin—is burnt up with flames, for the gods have broken moral law,
and coveted power rather than love, gold rather than truth, and
therefore must perish. They pass, and a new era, the reign of love and
truth, has begun.

Those who wish to study the differences in the legends of the Nibelungen
Lied and the Nibelungen Ring, and the way in which Wagner used this
ancient material, are referred to Professor W. C. Sawyer’s book on
“Teutonic Legends in the Nibelungen Lied and the Nibelungen Ring,” where
the matter is treated in full detail. For a very thorough and clear
analysis of the Ring as Wagner gives it, with a study of the musical
motifs, probably nothing is better for general readers than the volume
“The Epic of Sounds,” by Freda Winworth. The more scholarly work of
Professor Lavignac is indispensable for the student of Wagner’s dramas.
There is much illuminating comment on the sources and materials in
“Legends of the Wagner Drama” by J. L. Weston.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XLI

                            THE DRUIDS—IONA

                                 DRUIDS

THE Druids were the priests or ministers of religion among the ancient
Celtic nations in Gaul, Britain, and Germany. Our information respecting
them is borrowed from notices in the Greek and Roman writers, compared
with the remains of Welsh and Gaelic poetry still extant.

The Druids combined the functions of the priest, the magistrate, the
scholar, and the physician. They stood to the people of the Celtic
tribes in a relation closely analogous to that in which the Brahmans of
India, the Magi of Persia, and the priests of the Egyptians stood to the
people respectively by whom they were revered.

The Druids taught the existence of one god, to whom they gave a name
“Be’ al,” which Celtic antiquaries tell us means “the life of
everything,” or “the source of all beings,” and which seems to have
affinity with the Phœnician Baal. What renders this affinity more
striking is that the Druids as well as the Phœnicians identified this,
their supreme deity, with the _Sun_. Fire was regarded as a symbol of
the divinity. The Latin writers assert that the Druids also worshipped
numerous inferior gods.

They used no images to represent the object of their worship, nor did
they meet in temples or buildings of any kind for the performance of
their sacred rites. A circle of stones (each stone generally of vast
size), enclosing an area of from twenty feet to thirty yards in
diameter, constituted their sacred place. The most celebrated of these
now remaining is Stonehenge, on Salisbury Plain, England.

These sacred circles were generally situated near some stream, or under
the shadow of a grove or widespreading oak. In the centre of the circle
stood the Cromlech or altar, which was a large stone, placed in the
manner of a table upon other stones set up on end. The Druids had also
their high places, which were large stones or piles of stones on the
summits of hills. These were called Cairns, and were used in the worship
of the deity under the symbol of the sun.

That the Druids offered sacrifices to their deity there can be no doubt.
But there is some uncertainty as to what they offered, and of the
ceremonies connected with their religious services we know almost
nothing. The classical (Roman) writers affirm that they offered on great
occasions human sacrifices; as for success in war or for relief from
dangerous diseases. Cæsar has given a detailed account of the manner in
which this was done. “They have images of immense size, the limbs of
which are framed with twisted twigs and filled with living persons.
These being set on fire, those within are encompassed by the flames.”
Many attempts have been made by Celtic writers to shake the testimony of
the Roman historians to this fact, but without success.

The Druids observed two festivals in each year. The former took place in
the beginning of May, and was called Beltane or “fire of God.” On this
occasion a large fire was kindled on some elevated spot, in honor of the
sun, whose returning beneficence they thus welcomed after the gloom and
desolation of winter. Of this custom a trace remains in the name given
to Whitsunday in parts of Scotland to this day. Sir Walter Scott uses
the word in the “Boat Song” in the “Lady of the Lake”:

    “Ours is no sapling, chance sown by the fountain,
    Blooming at Beltane in winter to fade;” etc.

The other great festival of the Druids was called “Samh’in,” or “fire of
peace,” and was held on Hallow-eve (first of November), which still
retains this designation in the Highlands of Scotland. On this occasion
the Druids assembled in solemn conclave, in the most central part of the
district, to discharge the judicial functions of their order. All
questions, whether public or private, all crimes against person or
property, were at this time brought before them for adjudication. With
these judicial acts were combined certain superstitious usages,
especially the kindling of the sacred fire, from which all the fires in
the district, which had been beforehand scrupulously extinguished, might
be relighted. This usage of kindling fires on Hallow-eve lingered in the
British islands long after the establishment of Christianity.

Besides these two great annual festivals, the Druids were in the habit
of observing the full moon, and especially the sixth day of the moon. On
the latter they sought the Mistletoe, which grew on their favorite oaks,
and to which, as well as to the oak itself, they ascribed a peculiar
virtue and sacredness. The discovery of it was an occasion of rejoicing
and solemn worship. “They call it,” says Pliny, “by a word in their
language, which means ‘heal-all,’ and having made solemn preparation for
feasting and sacrifice under the tree, they drive thither two milk-white
bulls, whose horns are then for the first time bound. The priest then,
robed in white, ascends the tree, and cuts off the mistletoe with a
golden sickle. It is caught in a white mantle, after which they proceed
to slay the victims, at the same time praying that God would render his
gift prosperous to those to whom he had given it.” They drink the water
in which it has been infused, and think it a remedy for all diseases.
The mistletoe is a parasitic plant, and is not always nor often found on
the oak, so that when it is found it is the more precious.

The Druids were the teachers of morality as well as of religion. Of
their ethical teaching a valuable specimen is preserved in the Triads of
the Welsh Bards, and from this we may gather that their views of moral
rectitude were on the whole just, and that they held and inculcated many
very noble and valuable principles of conduct. They were also the men of
science and learning of their age and people. Whether they were
acquainted with letters or not has been disputed, though the probability
is strong that they were, to some extent. But it is certain that they
committed nothing of their doctrine, their history, or their poetry to
writing. Their teaching was oral, and their literature (if such a word
may be used in such a case) was preserved solely by tradition. But the
Roman writers admit that “they paid much attention to the order and laws
of nature, and investigated and taught to the youth under their charge
many things concerning the stars and their motions, the size of the
world and the lands, and concerning the might and power of the immortal
gods.”

Their history consisted in traditional tales, in which the heroic deeds
of their forefathers were celebrated. These were apparently in verse,
and thus constituted part of the poetry as well as the history of the
Druids. In the poems of Ossian we have, if not the actual productions of
Druidical times, what may be considered faithful representations of the
songs of the Bards.

The Bards were an essential part of the Druidical hierarchy. One author,
Pennant, says, “The Bards were supposed to be endowed with powers equal
to inspiration. They were the oral historians of all past transactions,
public and private. They were also accomplished genealogists,” etc.

Pennant gives a minute account of the Eisteddfods or sessions of the
Bards and minstrels, which were held in Wales for many centuries, long
after the Druidical priesthood in its other departments became extinct.
At these meetings none but Bards of merit were suffered to rehearse
their pieces, and minstrels of skill to perform. Judges were appointed
to decide on their respective abilities, and suitable degrees were
conferred. In the earlier period the judges were appointed by the Welsh
princes, and after the conquest of Wales, by commission from the kings
of England. Yet the tradition is that Edward I., in revenge for the
influence of the Bards in animating the resistance of the people to his
sway, persecuted them with great cruelty. This tradition has furnished
the poet Gray with the subject of his celebrated ode, the “Bard.”

There are still occasional meetings of the lovers of Welsh poetry and
music, held under the ancient name. Among Mrs. Hemans’ poems is one
written for an Eisteddfod, or meeting of Welsh Bards, held in London,
May 22, 1822. It begins with a description of the ancient meeting, of
which the following lines are a part:

    “. . . midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
    The crested Roman in his hour of pride;
    And where the Druid’s ancient cromlech frowned,
    And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round,
    There thronged the inspired of yore! on plain or height,
    In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light,
    And baring unto heaven each noble head,
    Stood in the circle, where none else might tread.”

The Druidical system was at its height at the time of the Roman invasion
under Julius Cæsar. Against the Druids, as their chief enemies, these
conquerors of the world directed their unsparing fury. The Druids,
harassed at all points on the mainland, retreated to Anglesey and Iona,
where for a season they found shelter and continued their now dishonored
rites.

The Druids retained their predominance in Iona and over the adjacent
islands and mainland until they were supplanted and their superstitions
overturned by the arrival of St. Columba, the apostle of the Highlands,
by whom the inhabitants of that district were first led to profess
Christianity.

                                  IONA

One of the smallest of the British Isles, situated near a rugged and
barren coast, surrounded by dangerous seas, and possessing no sources of
internal wealth, Iona has obtained an imperishable place in history as
the seat of civilization and religion at a time when the darkness of
heathenism hung over almost the whole of Northern Europe. Iona or
Icolmkill is situated at the extremity of the island of Mull, from which
it is separated by a strait of half a mile in breadth, its distance from
the mainland of Scotland being thirty-six miles.

Columba was a native of Ireland, and connected by birth with the princes
of the land. Ireland was at that time a land of gospel light, while the
western and northern parts of Scotland were still immersed in the
darkness of heathenism. Columba with twelve friends landed on the island
of Iona in the year of our Lord 563, having made the passage in a wicker
boat covered with hides. The Druids who occupied the island endeavored
to prevent his settling there, and the savage nations on the adjoining
shores incommoded him with their hostility, and on several occasions
endangered his life by their attacks. Yet by his perseverance and zeal
he surmounted all opposition, procured from the king a gift of the
island, and established there a monastery of which he was the abbot. He
was unwearied in his labors to disseminate a knowledge of the Scriptures
throughout the Highlands and islands of Scotland, and such was the
reverence paid him that though not a bishop, but merely a presbyter and
monk, the entire province with its bishops was subject to him and his
successors. The Pictish monarch was so impressed with a sense of his
wisdom and worth that he held him in the highest honor, and the
neighboring chiefs and princes sought his counsel and availed themselves
of his judgment in settling their disputes.

When Columba landed on Iona he was attended by twelve followers whom he
had formed into a religious body of which he was the head. To these, as
occasion required, others were from time to time added, so that the
original number was always kept up. Their institution was called a
monastery and the superior an abbot, but the system had little in common
with the monastic institutions of later times. The name by which those
who submitted to the rule were known was that of Culdees, probably from
the Latin “cultores Dei”—worshippers of God. They were a body of
religious persons associated together for the purpose of aiding each
other in the common work of preaching the gospel and teaching youth, as
well as maintaining in themselves the fervor of devotion by united
exercises of worship. On entering the order certain vows were taken by
the members, but they were not those which were usually imposed by
monastic orders, for of these, which are three,—celibacy, poverty, and
obedience.—the Culdees were bound to none except the third. To poverty
they did not bind themselves; on the contrary they seem to have labored
diligently to procure for themselves and those dependent on them the
comforts of life. Marriage also was allowed them, and most of them seem
to have entered into that state. True, their wives were not permitted to
reside with them at the institution, but they had a residence assigned
to them in an adjacent locality. Near Iona there is an island which
still bears the name of “Eilen nam ban,” women’s island, where their
husbands seem to have resided with them, except when duty required their
presence in the school or the sanctuary.



Campbell, in his poem of “Reullura,” alludes to the married monks of
Iona:

    “. . . The pure Culdees
      Were Albyn’s earliest priests of God,
    Ere yet an island of her seas
      By foot of Saxon monk was trod,
    Long ere her churchmen by bigotry
    Were barred from holy wedlock’s tie.
    ’Twas then that Aodh, famed afar,
      In Iona preached the word with power,
    And Reullura, beauty’s star,
      Was the partner of his bower.”

In one of his “Irish Melodies,” Moore gives the legend of St. Senanus
and the lady who sought shelter on the island, but was repulsed:

    “O, haste and leave this sacred isle,
    Unholy bark, ere morning smile;
    For on thy deck, though dark it be,
        A female form I see;
    And I have sworn this sainted sod
    Shall ne’er by woman’s foot be trod.”

In these respects and in others the Culdees departed from the
established rules of the Romish church, and consequently were deemed
heretical. The consequence was that as the power of the latter advanced
that of the Culdees was enfeebled. It was not, however, till the
thirteenth century that the communities of the Culdees were suppressed
and the members dispersed. They still continued to labor as individuals,
and resisted the inroads of Papal usurpation as they best might till the
light of the Reformation dawned on the world.

Iona, from its position in the western seas, was exposed to the assaults
of the Norwegian and Danish rovers by whom those seas were infested, and
by them it was repeatedly pillaged, its dwellings burned, and its
peaceful inhabitants put to the sword. These unfavorable circumstances
led to its gradual decline, which was expedited by the subversion of the
Culdees throughout Scotland. Under the reign of Popery the island became
the seat of a nunnery, the ruins of which are still seen. At the
Reformation, the nuns were allowed to remain, living in community, when
the abbey was dismantled.

Iona is now chiefly resorted to by travellers on account of the numerous
ecclesiastical and sepulchral remains which are found upon it. The
principal of these are the Cathedral or Abbey Church and the Chapel of
the Nunnery. Besides these remains of ecclesiastical antiquity, there
are some of an earlier date, and pointing to the existence on the island
of forms of worship and belief different from those of Christianity.
These are the circular Cairns which are found in various parts, and
which seem to have been of Druidical origin. It is in reference to all
these remains of ancient religion that Johnson exclaims, “That man is
little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the
plains of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer amid the ruins
of Iona.”



In the “Lord of the Isles” Scott beautifully contrasts the church on
Iona with the cave of Staffa, opposite:

    “Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
    A minister to her Maker’s praise!
    Not for a meaner use ascend
    Her columns, or her arches bend;
    Nor of a theme less solemn tells
    That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
    And still between each awful pause,
    From the high vault an answer draws,
    In varied tone, prolonged and high,
    That mocks the organ’s melody;
    Nor doth its entrance front in vain
    To old Iona’s holy fane,
    That Nature’s voice might seem to say,
    Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
    Thy humble powers that stately shrine
    Tasked high and hard—but witness mine!”




                      KING ARTHUR AND HIS KNIGHTS


                               CHAPTER I

                              INTRODUCTION

ON the decline of the Roman power, about five centuries after Christ,
the countries of Northern Europe were left almost destitute of a
national government. Numerous chiefs, more or less powerful, held local
sway, as far as each could enforce his dominion, and occasionally those
chiefs would unite for a common object; but, in ordinary times, they
were much more likely to be found in hostility to one another. In such a
state of things the rights of the humbler classes of society were at the
mercy of every assailant; and it is plain that, without some check upon
the lawless power of the chiefs, society must have relapsed into
barbarism. Such checks were found, first, in the rivalry of the chiefs
themselves, whose mutual jealousy made them restraints upon one another;
secondly, in the influence of the Church, which, by every motive, pure
or selfish, was pledged to interpose for the protection of the weak; and
lastly, in the generosity and sense of right which, however crushed
under the weight of passion and selfishness, dwell naturally in the
heart of man. From this last source sprang Chivalry, which framed an
ideal of the heroic character, combining invincible strength and valor,
justice, modesty, loyalty to superiors, courtesy to equals, compassion
to weakness, and devotedness to the Church; an ideal which, if never met
with in real life, was acknowledged by all as the highest model for
emulation.

The word “Chivalry” is derived from the French “_cheval_,” a horse. The
word “knight,” which originally meant boy or servant, was particularly
applied to a young man after he was admitted to the privilege of bearing
arms. This privilege was conferred on youths of family and fortune only,
for the mass of the people were not furnished with arms. The knight then
was a mounted warrior, a man of rank, or in the service and maintenance
of some man of rank, generally possessing some independent means of
support, but often relying mainly on the gratitude of those whom he
served for the supply of his wants, and often, no doubt, resorting to
the means which power confers on its possessor.

In time of war the knight was, with his followers, in the camp of his
sovereign, or commanding in the field, or holding some castle for him.
In time of peace he was often in attendance at his sovereign’s court,
gracing with his presence the banquets and tournaments with which
princes cheered their leisure. Or he was traversing the country in quest
of adventure, professedly bent on redressing wrongs and enforcing
rights, sometimes in fulfilment of some vow of religion or of love.
These wandering knights were called knights-errant; they were welcome
guests in the castles of the nobility, for their presence enlivened the
dulness of those secluded abodes, and they were received with honor at
the abbeys, which often owed the best part of their revenues to the
patronage of the knights; but if no castle or abbey or hermitage were at
hand their hardy habits made it not intolerable to them to lie down,
supperless, at the foot of some wayside cross, and pass the night.

It is evident that the justice administered by such an instrumentality
must have been of the rudest description. The force whose legitimate
purpose was to redress wrongs might easily be perverted to inflict them.
Accordingly, we find in the romances, which, however fabulous in facts,
are true as pictures of manners, that a knightly castle was often a
terror to the surrounding country; that is, dungeons were full of
oppressed knights and ladies, waiting for some champion to appear to set
them free, or to be ransomed with money; that hosts of idle retainers
were ever at hand to enforce their lord’s behests, regardless of law and
justice; and that the rights of the unarmed multitude were of no
account. This contrariety of fact and theory in regard to chivalry will
account for the opposite impressions which exist in men’s minds
respecting it. While it has been the theme of the most fervid eulogium
on the one part, it has been as eagerly denounced on the other. On a
cool estimate, we cannot but see reason to congratulate ourselves that
it has given way in modern times to the reign of law, and that the civil
magistrate, if less picturesque, has taken the place of the mailed
champion.

                        THE TRAINING OF A KNIGHT

The preparatory education of candidates for knighthood was long and
arduous. At seven years of age the noble children were usually removed
from their father’s house to the court or castle of their future patron,
and placed under the care of a governor, who taught them the first
articles of religion, and respect and reverence for their lords and
superiors, and initiated them in the ceremonies of a court. They were
called _pages_, _valets_, or _varlets_, and their office was to carve,
to wait at table, and to perform other menial services, which were not
then considered humiliating. In their leisure hours they learned to
dance and play on the harp, were instructed in the mysteries of _woods_
and _rivers_, that is, in hunting, falconry, and fishing, and in
wrestling, tilting with spears, and performing other military exercises
on horseback. At fourteen the page became an esquire, and began a course
of severer and more laborious exercises. To vault on a horse in heavy
armor; to run, to scale walls, and spring over ditches, under the same
encumbrance; to wrestle, to wield the battle-axe for a length of time,
without raising the visor or taking breath; to perform with grace all
the evolutions of horsemanship,—were necessary preliminaries to the
reception of knighthood, which was usually conferred at twenty-one years
of age, when the young man’s education was supposed to be completed. In
the meantime, the esquires were no less assiduously engaged in acquiring
all those refinements of civility which formed what was in that age
called _courtesy_. The same castle in which they received their
education was usually thronged with young persons of the other sex, and
the page was encouraged, at a very early age, to select some lady of the
court as the mistress of his heart, to whom he was taught to refer all
his sentiments, words, and actions. The service of his mistress was the
glory and occupation of a knight, and her smiles, bestowed at once by
affection and gratitude, were held out as the recompense of his
well-directed valor. Religion united its influence with those of loyalty
and love, and the order of knighthood, endowed with all the sanctity and
religious awe that attended the priesthood, became an object of ambition
to the greatest sovereigns.

The ceremonies of initiation were peculiarly solemn. After undergoing a
severe fast, and spending whole nights in prayer, the candidate
confessed, and received the sacrament. He then clothed himself in
snow-white garments, and repaired to the church, or the hall, where the
ceremony was to take place, bearing a knightly sword suspended from his
neck, which the officiating priest took and blessed, and then returned
to him. The candidate then, with folded arms, knelt before the presiding
knight, who, after some questions about his motives and purposes in
requesting admission, administered to him the oaths, and granted his
request. Some of the knights present, sometimes even ladies and damsels,
handed to him in succession the spurs, the coat of mail, the hauberk,
the armlet and gauntlet, and lastly he girded on the sword. He then
knelt again before the president, who, rising from his seat, gave him
the “accolade,” which consisted of three strokes, with the flat of a
sword, on the shoulder or neck of the candidate, accompanied by the
words: “In the name of God, of St. Michael, and St. George, I make thee
a knight; be valiant, courteous, and loyal!” Then he received his
helmet, his shield, and spear; and thus the investiture ended.

                  FREEMEN, VILLAINS, SERFS, AND CLERKS

The other classes of which society was composed were, first, _freemen_,
owners of small portions of land independent, though they sometimes
voluntarily became the vassals of their more opulent neighbors, whose
power was necessary for their protection. The other two classes, which
were much the most numerous, were either serfs or villains, both of
which were slaves.

The _serfs_ were in the lowest state of slavery. All the fruits of their
labor belonged to the master whose land they tilled, and by whom they
were fed and clothed.

The _villains_ were less degraded. Their situation seems to have
resembled that of the Russian peasants at this day. Like the serfs, they
were attached to the soil, and were transferred with it by purchase; but
they paid only a fixed rent to the landlord, and had a right to dispose
of any surplus that might arise from their industry.

The term “clerk” was of very extensive import. It comprehended,
originally, such persons only as belonged to the clergy, or clerical
order, among whom, however, might be found a multitude of married
persons, artisans or others. But in process of time a much wider rule
was established; every one that could read being accounted a _clerk_ or
_clericus_, and allowed the “benefit of clergy,” that is, exemption from
capital and some other forms of punishment, in case of crime.

                              TOURNAMENTS

The splendid pageant of a tournament between knights, its gaudy
accessories and trappings, and its chivalrous regulations, originated in
France. Tournaments were repeatedly condemned by the Church, probably on
account of the quarrels they led to, and the often fatal results. The
“joust,” or “just,” was different from the tournament. In these, knights
fought with their lances, and their object was to unhorse their
antagonists; while the tournaments were intended for a display of skill
and address in evolutions, and with various weapons, and greater
courtesy was observed in the regulations. By these it was forbidden to
wound the horse, or to use the point of the sword, or to strike a knight
after he had raised his vizor, or unlaced his helmet. The ladies
encouraged their knights in these exercises; they bestowed prizes, and
the conqueror’s feats were the theme of romance and song. The stands
overlooking the ground, of course, were varied in the shapes of towers,
terraces, galleries, and pensile gardens, magnificently decorated with
tapestry, pavilions, and banners. Every combatant proclaimed the name of
the lady whose _servant d’amour_ he was. He was wont to look up to the
stand, and strengthen his courage by the sight of the bright eyes that
were raining their influence on him from above. The knights also carried
_favors_, consisting of scarfs, veils, sleeves, bracelets, clasps,—in
short, some piece of female habiliment,—attached to their helmets,
shields, or armor. If, during the combat, any of these appendages were
dropped or lost the fair donor would at times send her knight new ones,
especially if pleased with his exertions.

                               MAIL ARMOR

Mail armor, of which the hauberk is a species, and which derived its
name from _maille_, a French word for _mesh_, was of two kinds, _plate_
or _scale_ mail, and _chain_ mail. It was originally used for the
protection of the body only, reaching no lower than the knees. It was
shaped like a carter’s frock, and bound round the waist by a girdle.
Gloves and hose of mail were afterwards added, and a hood, which, when
necessary, was drawn over the head, leaving the face alone uncovered. To
protect the skin from the impression of the iron network of the chain
mail, a quilted lining was employed, which, however, was insufficient,
and the bath was used to efface the marks of the armor.

The hauberk was a complete covering of double chain mail. Some hauberks
opened before, like a modern coat; others were closed like a shirt.

The chain mail of which they were composed was formed by a number of
iron links, each link having others inserted into it, the whole
exhibiting a kind of network, of which (in some instances at least) the
meshes were circular, with each link separately riveted.

The hauberk was proof against the most violent blow of a sword; but the
point of a lance might pass through the meshes, or drive the iron into
the flesh. To guard against this, a thick and well-stuffed doublet was
worn underneath, under which was commonly added an iron breastplate.
Hence the expression “to pierce both plate and mail,” so common in the
earlier poets.

Mail armor continued in general use till about the year 1300, when it
was gradually supplanted by plate armor, or suits consisting of pieces
or plates of solid iron, adapted to the different parts of the body.

Shields were generally made of wood, covered with leather, or some
similar substance. To secure them, in some sort, from being cut through
by the sword, they were surrounded with a hoop of metal.

                                HELMETS

The helmet was composed of two parts: the _headpiece_, which was
strengthened within by several circles of iron, and the _visor_, which,
as the name implies, was a sort of grating to see through, so contrived
as, by sliding in a groove, or turning on a pivot, to be raised or
lowered at pleasure. Some helmets had a further improvement called a
_bever_, from the Italian _bevere_, to drink. The _ventayle_, or
“air-passage,” is another name for this.

To secure the helmet from the possibility of falling, or of being struck
off, it was tied by several laces to the meshes of the hauberk;
consequently, when a knight was overthrown it was necessary to undo
these laces before he could be put to death; though this was sometimes
effected by lifting up the skirt of the hauberk, and stabbing him in the
belly. The instrument of death was a small dagger, worn on the right
side.

                                ROMANCES

In ages when there were no books, when noblemen and princes themselves
could not read, history or tradition was monopolized by the
story-tellers. They inherited, generation after generation, the wondrous
tales of their predecessors, which they retailed to the public with such
additions of their own as their acquired information supplied them with.
Anachronisms became of course very common, and errors of geography, of
locality, of manners, equally so. Spurious genealogies were invented, in
which Arthur and his knights, and Charlemagne and his paladins, were
made to derive their descent from Æneas, Hector, or some other of the
Trojan heroes.

With regard to the derivation of the word “Romance,” we trace it to the
fact that the dialects which were formed in Western Europe, from the
admixture of Latin with the native languages, took the name of _Langue
Romaine_. The French language was divided into two dialects. The river
Loire was their common boundary. In the provinces to the south of that
river the affirmative, _yes_, was expressed by the word _oc_; in the
north it was called _oil_ (_oui_); and hence Dante has named the
southern language _langue d’oc_, and the northern _langue d’oil_. The
latter, which was carried into England by the Normans, and is the origin
of the present French, may be called the French Romane; and the former
the Provençal, or Provencial Romane, because it was spoken by the people
of Provence and Languedoc, southern provinces of France.

These dialects were soon distinguished by very opposite characters. A
soft and enervating climate, a spirit of commerce encouraged by an easy
communication with other maritime nations, the influx of wealth, and a
more settled government, may have tended to polish and soften the
diction of the Provencials, whose poets, under the name of Troubadours,
were the masters of the Italians, and particularly of Petrarch. Their
favorite pieces were _Sirventes_ (satirical pieces), love-songs, and
_Ténsons_, which last were a sort of dialogue in verse between two
poets, who questioned each other on some refined points of loves’
casuistry. It seems the Provencials were so completely absorbed in these
delicate questions as to neglect and despise the composition of fabulous
histories of adventure and knighthood, which they left in a great
measure to the poets of the northern part of the kingdom, called
Trouveurs.

At a time when chivalry excited universal admiration, and when all the
efforts of that chivalry were directed against the enemies of religion,
it was natural that literature should receive the same impulse, and that
history and fable should be ransacked to furnish examples of courage and
piety that might excite increased emulation. Arthur and Charlemagne were
the two heroes selected for this purpose. Arthur’s pretensions were that
he was a brave, though not always a successful warrior; he had withstood
with great resolution the arms of the infidels, that is to say of the
Saxons, and his memory was held in the highest estimation by his
countrymen, the Britons, who carried with them into Wales, and into the
kindred country of Armorica, or Brittany, the memory of his exploits,
which their national vanity insensibly exaggerated, till the little
prince of the Silures (South Wales) was magnified into the conqueror of
England, of Gaul, and of the greater part of Europe. His genealogy was
gradually carried up to an imaginary Brutus, and to the period of the
Trojan war, and a sort of chronicle was composed in the Welsh, or
Armorican language, which, under the pompous title of the “History of
the Kings of Britain,” was translated into Latin by Geoffrey of
Monmouth, about the year 1150. The Welsh critics consider the material
of the work to have been an older history, written by St. Talian, Bishop
of St. Asaph, in the seventh century.

As to Charlemagne, though his real merits were sufficient to secure his
immortality, it was impossible that his _holy wars_ against the Saracens
should not become a favorite topic for fiction. Accordingly, the
fabulous history of these wars was written, probably towards the close
of the eleventh century, by a monk, who, thinking it would add dignity
to his work to embellish it with a contemporary name, boldly ascribed it
to Turpin, who was Archbishop of Rheims about the year 773.

These fabulous chronicles were for a while imprisoned in languages of
local only or of professional access. Both Turpin and Geoffrey might
indeed be read by ecclesiastics, the sole Latin scholars of those times,
and Geoffrey’s British original would contribute to the gratification of
Welshmen; but neither could become extensively popular till translated
into some language of general and familiar use. The Anglo-Saxon was at
that time used only by a conquered and enslaved nation; the Spanish and
Italian languages were not yet formed; the Norman French alone was
spoken and understood by the nobility in the greater part of Europe, and
therefore was a proper vehicle for the new mode of composition.

That language was fashionable in England before the Conquest, and
became, after that event, the only language used at the court of London.
As the various conquests of the Normans, and the enthusiastic valor of
that extraordinary people, had familiarized the minds of men with the
most marvellous events, their poets eagerly seized the fabulous legends
of Arthur and Charlemagne, translated them into the language of the day,
and soon produced a variety of imitations. The adventures attributed to
these monarchs, and to their distinguished warriors, together with those
of many other traditionary or imaginary heroes, composed by degrees that
formidable body of marvellous histories which, from the dialect in which
the most ancient of them were written, were called “Romances.”

                           METRICAL ROMANCES

The earliest form in which romances appear is that of a rude kind of
verse. In this form it is supposed they were sung or recited at the
feasts of princes and knights in their baronial halls. The following
specimen of the language and style of Robert de Beauvais, who flourished
in 1257, is from Sir Walter Scott’s “Introduction to the Romance of Sir
Tristrem”:

            “Ne voil pas emmi dire,
            Ici diverse la matyere,
            Entre ceus qui solent cunter,
            E de le cunte Tristran parler.”

    “I will not say too much about it,
    So diverse is the matter,
    Among those who are in the habit of telling
    And relating the story of Tristran.”

This is a specimen of the language which was in use among the nobility
of England, in the ages immediately after the Norman conquest. The
following is a specimen of the English that existed at the same time,
among the common people. Robert de Brunne, speaking of his Latin and
French authorities, says:

    “Als thai haf wryten and sayd
    Haf I alle in myn Inglis layd,
    In symple speche as I couthe,
    That is lightest in manne’s mouthe.
    Alle for the luf of symple men,
    That strange Inglis cannot ken.”

The “strange Inglis” being the language of the previous specimen.

It was not till toward the end of the thirteenth century that the
_prose_ romances began to appear. These works generally began with
disowning and discrediting the sources from which in reality they drew
their sole information. As every romance was supposed to be a real
history, the compilers of those in prose would have forfeited all credit
if they had announced themselves as mere copyists of the minstrels. On
the contrary, they usually state that, as the popular poems upon the
matter in question contain many “lesings,” they had been induced to
translate the real and true history of such or such a knight from the
original Latin or Greek, or from the ancient British or Armorican
authorities, which authorities existed only in their own assertion.

A specimen of the style of the prose romances may be found in the
following extract from one of the most celebrated and latest of them,
the “Morte d’Arthur” of Sir Thomas Mallory, of the date of 1485. From
this work much of the contents of this volume has been drawn, with as
close an adherence to the original style as was thought consistent with
our plan of adapting our narrative to the taste of modern readers.

“It is notoyrly knowen thorugh the vnyuersal world that there been ix
worthy and the best that ever were. That is to wete thre paynyms, three
Jewes, and three crysten men. As for the paynyms, they were tofore the
Incarnacyon of Cryst whiche were named, the fyrst Hector of Troye; the
second Alysaunder the grete, and the thyrd Julyus Cezar, Emperour of
Rome, of whome thystoryes ben wel kno and had. And as for the thre Jewes
whyche also were tofore thyncarnacyon of our Lord, of whome the fyrst
was Duc Josue, whyche brought the chyldren of Israhel into the londe of
beheste; the second Dauyd, kyng of Jherusalem, and the thyrd Judas
Machabeus; of these thre the byble reherceth al theyr noble hystoryes
and actes. And sythe the sayd Incarnacyon haue ben the noble crysten men
stalled and admytted thorugh the vnyuersal world to the nombre of the ix
beste and worthy, of whome was fyrst the noble Arthur, whose noble actes
I purpose to wryte in this person book here folowyng. The second was
Charlemayn, or Charles the grete, of whome thystorye is had in many
places both in frensshe and englysshe, and the thyrd and last was
Godefray of boloyn.”

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER II

                    THE MYTHICAL HISTORY OF ENGLAND

THE illustrious poet, Milton, in his “History of England,” is the author
whom we chiefly follow in this chapter.

According to the earliest accounts, Albion, a giant, and son of Neptune,
a contemporary of Hercules, ruled over the island, to which he gave his
name. Presuming to oppose the progress of Hercules in his western march,
he was slain by him.

Another story is that Histion, the son of Japhet, the son of Noah, had
four sons, Francus, Romanus, Alemannus, and Britto, from whom descended
the French, Roman, German, and British people.

Rejecting these and other like stories, Milton gives more regard to the
story of Brutus, the Trojan, which, he says, is supported by “descents
of ancestry long continued, laws and exploits not plainly seeming to be
borrowed or devised, which on the common belief have wrought no small
impression; defended by many, denied utterly by few.” The principal
authority is Geoffrey of Monmouth, whose history, written in the twelfth
century, purports to be a translation of a history of Britain brought
over from the opposite shore of France, which, under the name of
Brittany, was chiefly peopled by natives of Britain who, from time to
time, emigrated thither, driven from their own country by the inroads of
the Picts and Scots. According to this authority, Brutus was the son of
Silvius, and he of Ascanius, the son of Æneas, whose flight from Troy
and settlement in Italy are narrated in “Stories of Gods and Heroes.”

Brutus, at the age of fifteen, attending his father to the chase,
unfortunately killed him with an arrow. Banished therefor by his
kindred, he sought refuge in that part of Greece where Helenus, with a
band of Trojan exiles, had become established. But Helenus was now dead
and the descendants of the Trojans were oppressed by Pandrasus, the king
of the country. Brutus, being kindly received among them, so throve in
virtue and in arms as to win the regard of all the eminent of the land
above all others of his age. In consequence of this the Trojans not only
began to hope, but secretly to persuade him to lead them the way to
liberty. To encourage them, they had the promise of help from Assaracus,
a noble Greek youth, whose mother was a Trojan. He had suffered wrong at
the hands of the king, and for that reason the more willingly cast in
his lot with the Trojan exiles.

Choosing a fit opportunity, Brutus with his countrymen withdrew to the
woods and hills, as the safest place from which to expostulate, and sent
this message to Pandrasus: “That the Trojans, holding it unworthy of
their ancestors to serve in a foreign land, had retreated to the woods,
choosing rather a savage life than a slavish one. If that displeased
him, then, with his leave, they would depart to some other country.”
Pandrasus, not expecting so bold a message from the sons of captives,
went in pursuit of them, with such forces as he could gather, and met
them on the banks of the Achelous, where Brutus got the advantage, and
took the king captive. The result was, that the terms demanded by the
Trojans were granted; the king gave his daughter Imogen in marriage to
Brutus, and furnished shipping, money, and fit provision for them all to
depart from the land.

The marriage being solemnized, and shipping from all parts got together,
the Trojans, in a fleet of no less than three hundred and twenty sail,
betook themselves to the sea. On the third day they arrived at a certain
island, which they found destitute of inhabitants, though there were
appearances of former habitation, and among the ruins a temple of Diana.
Brutus, here performing sacrifice at the shrine of the goddess, invoked
an oracle for his guidance, in these lines:

    “Goddess of shades, and huntress, who at will
    Walk’st on the rolling sphere, and through the deep;
    On thy third realm, the earth, look now, and tell
    What land, what seat of rest, thou bidd’st me seek;
    What certain seat where I may worship thee
    For aye, with temples vowed and virgin choirs.”

To whom, sleeping before the altar, Diana in a vision thus answered:

    “Brutus! far to the west, in the ocean wide,
    Beyond the realm of Gaul, a land there lies,
    Seagirt it lies, where giants dwelt of old;
    Now, void, it fits thy people: thither bend
    Thy course; there shalt thou find a lasting seat;
    There to thy sons another Troy shall rise,
    And kings be born of thee, whose dreaded might
    Shall awe the world, and conquer nations bold.”

Brutus, guided now, as he thought, by divine direction, sped his course
towards the west, and, arriving at a place on the Tyrrhene sea, found
there the descendants of certain Trojans who, with Antenor, came into
Italy, of whom Corineus was the chief. These joined company, and the
ships pursued their way till they arrived at the mouth of the river
Loire, in France, where the expedition landed, with a view to a
settlement, but were so rudely assaulted by the inhabitants that they
put to sea again, and arrived at a part of the coast of Britain, now
called Devonshire, where Brutus felt convinced that he had found the
promised end of his voyage, landed his colony, and took possession.

The island, not yet Britain, but Albion, was in a manner desert and
inhospitable, occupied only by a remnant of the giant race whose
excessive force and tyranny had destroyed the others. The Trojans
encountered these and extirpated them, Corineus, in particular,
signalizing himself by his exploits against them; from whom Cornwall
takes its name, for that region fell to his lot, and there the hugest
giants dwelt, lurking in rocks and caves, till Corineus rid the land of
them.

Brutus built his capital city, and called it Trojanova (New Troy),
changed in time to Trinovantus, now London;[39] and, having governed the
isle twenty-four years, died, leaving three sons, Locrine, Albanact and
Camber. Locrine had the middle part, Camber the west, called Cambria
from him, and Albanact Albania, now Scotland. Locrine was married to
Guendolen, the daughter of Corineus, but having seen a fair maid named
Estrildis, who had been brought captive from Germany, he became
enamoured of her, and had by her a daughter, whose name was Sabra. This
matter was kept secret while Corineus lived, but after his death Locrine
divorced Guendolen, and made Estrildis his queen. Guendolen, all in
rage, departed to Cornwall, where Madan, her son, lived, who had been
brought up by Corineus, his grandfather. Gathering an army of her
father’s friends and subjects, she gave battle to her husband’s forces
and Locrine was slain. Guendolen caused her rival, Estrildis, with her
daughter Sabra, to be thrown into the river, from which cause the river
thenceforth bore the maiden’s name, which by length of time is now
changed into Sabrina or Severn. Milton alludes to this in his address to
the rivers,—

    “Severn swift, guilty of maiden’s death”;—

and in his “Comus” tells the story with a slight variation, thus:

    “There is a gentle nymph not far from hence,
    That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream;
    Sabrina is her name, a virgin pure:
    Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine,
    That had the sceptre from his father, Brute,
    She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit
    Of her enragéd step-dame, Guendolen,
    Commended her fair innocence to the flood,
    That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course
    The water-nymphs that in the bottom played,
    Held up their pearléd wrists and took her in,
    Bearing her straight to aged Nereus’ hall,
    Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head,
    And gave her to his daughters to imbathe
    In nectared lavers strewed with asphodel,
    And through the porch and inlet of each sense
    Dropped in ambrosial oils till she revived,
    And underwent a quick, immortal change,
    Made goddess of the river,” etc.

If our readers ask when all this took place, we must answer, in the
first place, that mythology is not careful of dates; and next, that, as
Brutus was the great-grandson of Æneas, it must have been not far from a
century subsequent to the Trojan war, or about eleven hundred years
before the invasion of the island by Julius Cæsar. This long interval is
filled with the names of princes whose chief occupation was in warring
with one another. Some few, whose names remain connected with places, or
embalmed in literature, we will mention.

                                 BLADUD

Bladud built the city of Bath, and dedicated the medicinal waters to
Minerva. He was a man of great invention, and practised the arts of
magic, till, having made him wings to fly, he fell down upon the temple
of Apollo, in Trinovant, and so died, after twenty years’ reign.

                                  LEIR

Leir, who next reigned, built Leicester, and called it after his name.
He had no male issue, but only three daughters. When grown old he
determined to divide his kingdom among his daughters, and bestow them in
marriage. But first, to try which of them loved him best, he determined
to ask them solemnly in order, and judge of the warmth of their
affection by their answers. Goneril, the eldest, knowing well her
father’s weakness, made answer that she loved him “above her soul.”
“Since thou so honorest my declining age,” said the old man, “to thee
and to thy husband I give the third part of my realm.” Such good success
for a few words soon uttered was ample instruction to Regan, the second
daughter, what to say. She therefore to the same question replied that
“she loved him more than all the world beside;” and so received an equal
reward with her sister. But Cordeilla, the youngest, and hitherto the
best beloved, though having before her eyes the reward of a little easy
soothing, and the loss likely to attend plain-dealing, yet was not moved
from the solid purpose of a sincere and virtuous answer, and replied:
“Father, my love towards you is as my duty bids. They who pretend beyond
this flatter.” When the old man, sorry to hear this, and wishing her to
recall these words, persisted in asking, she still restrained her
expressions so as to say rather less than more than the truth. Then
Leir, all in a passion, burst forth: “Since thou hast not reverenced thy
aged father like thy sisters, think not to have any part in my kingdom
or what else I have;”—and without delay, giving in marriage his other
daughters, Goneril to the Duke of Albany, and Regan to the Duke of
Cornwall, he divides his kingdom between them, and goes to reside with
his eldest daughter, attended only by a hundred knights. But in a short
time his attendants, being complained of as too numerous and disorderly,
are reduced to thirty. Resenting that affront, the old king betakes him
to his second daughter; but she, instead of soothing his wounded pride,
takes part with her sister, and refuses to admit a retinue of more than
five. Then back he returns to the other, who now will not receive him
with more than one attendant. Then the remembrance of Cordeilla comes to
his thoughts, and he takes his journey into France to seek her, with
little hope of kind consideration from one whom he had so injured, but
to pay her the last recompense he can render,—confession of his
injustice. When Cordeilla is informed of his approach, and of his sad
condition, she pours forth true filial tears. And, not willing that her
own or others’ eyes should see him in that forlorn condition, she sends
one of her trusted servants to meet him, and convey him privately to
some comfortable abode, and to furnish him with such state as befitted
his dignity. After which Cordeilla, with the king her husband, went in
state to meet him, and, after an honorable reception, the king permitted
his wife, Cordeilla, to go with an army and set her father again upon
his throne. They prospered, subdued the wicked sisters and their
consorts, and Leir obtained the crown and held it three years. Cordeilla
succeeded him and reigned five years; but the sons of her sisters, after
that, rebelled against her, and she lost both her crown and life.

Shakspeare has chosen this story as the subject of his tragedy of “King
Lear,” varying its details in some respects. The madness of Leir, and
the ill success of Cordeilla’s attempt to reinstate her father, are the
principal variations, and those in the names will also be noticed. Our
narrative is drawn from Milton’s “History;” and thus the reader will
perceive that the story of Leir has had the distinguished honor of being
told by the two acknowledged chiefs of British literature.

                           FERREX AND PORREX

Ferrex and Porrex were brothers, who held the kingdom after Leir. They
quarrelled about the supremacy, and Porrex expelled his brother, who,
obtaining aid from Suard, king of the Franks, returned and made war upon
Porrex. Ferrex was slain in battle and his forces dispersed. When their
mother came to hear of her son’s death, who was her favorite, she fell
into a great rage, and conceived a mortal hatred against the survivor.
She took, therefore, her opportunity when he was asleep, fell upon him,
and, with the assistance of her women, tore him in pieces. This horrid
story would not be worth relating, were it not for the fact that it has
furnished the plot for the first tragedy which was written in the
English language. It was entitled “Gorboduc,” but in the second edition
“Ferrex and Porrex,” and was the production of Thomas Sackville,
afterwards Earl of Dorset, and Thomas Norton, a barrister. Its date was
1561.

                           DUNWALLO MOLMUTIUS

This is the next name of note. Molmutius established the Molmutine laws,
which bestowed the privilege of sanctuary on temples, cities, and the
roads leading to them, and gave the same protection to ploughs,
extending a religious sanction to the labors of the field. Shakspeare
alludes to him in “Cymbeline,” Act III., Scene 1:

    “. . . Molmutius made our laws;
    Who was the first of Britain which did put
    His brows within a golden crown, and called
    Himself a king.”

                          BRENNUS AND BELINUS,

the sons of Molmutius, succeeded him. They quarrelled, and Brennus was
driven out of the island, and took refuge in Gaul, where he met with
such favor from the king of the Allobroges that he gave him his daughter
in marriage, and made him his partner on the throne. Brennus is the name
which the Roman historians give to the famous leader of the Gauls who
took Rome in the time of Camillus. Geoffrey of Monmouth claims the glory
of the conquest for the British prince, after he had become king of the
Allobroges.

                                ELIDURE

After Belinus and Brennus there reigned several kings of little note,
and then came Elidure. Arthgallo, his brother, being king, gave great
offence to his powerful nobles, who rose against him, deposed him, and
advanced Elidure to the throne. Arthgallo fled, and endeavored to find
assistance in the neighboring kingdoms to reinstate him, but found none.
Elidure reigned prosperously and wisely. After five years’ possession of
the kingdom, one day, when hunting, he met in the forest his brother,
Arthgallo, who had been deposed. After long wandering, unable longer to
bear the poverty to which he was reduced, he had returned to Britain,
with only ten followers, designing to repair to those who had formerly
been his friends. Elidure, at the sight of his brother in distress,
forgetting all animosities, ran to him, and embraced him. He took
Arthgallo home with him, and concealed him in the palace. After this he
feigned himself sick, and, calling his nobles about him, induced them,
partly by persuasion, partly by force, to consent to his abdicating the
kingdom, and reinstating his brother on the throne. The agreement being
ratified, Elidure took the crown from his own head, and put it on his
brother’s head. Arthgallo after this reigned ten years, well and wisely,
exercising strict justice towards all men.

He died, and left the kingdom to his sons, who reigned with various
fortunes, but were not long-lived, and left no offspring, so that
Elidure was again advanced to the throne, and finished the course of his
life in just and virtuous actions, receiving the name of _the pious_,
from the love and admiration of his subjects.

Wordsworth has taken the story of Artegal and Elidure for the subject of
a poem, which is No. 2 of “Poems founded on the Affections.”

                                  LUD

After Elidure, the Chronicle names many kings, but none of special note,
till we come to Lud, who greatly enlarged Trinovant, his capital, and
surrounded it with a wall. He changed its name, bestowing upon it his
own, so that henceforth it was called Lud’s town, afterwards London. Lud
was buried by the gate of the city called after him Ludgate. He had two
sons, but they were not old enough at the time of their father’s death
to sustain the cares of government, and therefore their uncle,
Caswallaun, or Cassibellaunus, succeeded to the kingdom. He was a brave
and magnificent prince, so that his fame reached to distant countries.

                             CASSIBELLAUNUS

About this time it happened (as is found in the Roman histories) that
Julius Cæsar, having subdued Gaul, came to the shore opposite Britain.
And having resolved to add this island also to his conquests, he
prepared ships and transported his army across the sea, to the mouth of
the River Thames. Here he was met by Cassibellaun with all his forces,
and a battle ensued, in which Nennius, the brother of Cassibellaun,
engaged in single combat with Cæsar. After several furious blows given
and received, the sword of Cæsar stuck so fast in the shield of Nennius
that it could not be pulled out, and the combatants being separated by
the intervention of the troops Nennius remained possessed of this
trophy. At last, after the greater part of the day was spent, the
Britons poured in so fast that Cæsar was forced to retire to his camp
and fleet. And finding it useless to continue the war any longer at that
time, he returned to Gaul.

Shakspeare alludes to Cassibellaunus, in “Cymbeline”:

    “The famed Cassibelan, who was once at point
    (O giglot fortune!) to master Cæsar’s sword,
    Made Lud’s town with rejoicing fires bright,
    And Britons strut with courage.”

                        KYMBELINUS, OR CYMBELINE

Cæsar, on a second invasion of the island, was more fortunate, and
compelled the Britons to pay tribute. Cymbeline, the nephew of the king,
was delivered to the Romans as a hostage for the faithful fulfilment of
the treaty, and, being carried to Rome by Cæsar, he was there brought up
in the Roman arts and accomplishments. Being afterwards restored to his
country, and placed on the throne, he was attached to the Romans, and
continued through all his reign at peace with them. His sons, Guiderius
and Arviragus, who made their appearance in Shakspeare’s play of
“Cymbeline,” succeeded their father, and, refusing to pay tribute to the
Romans, brought on another invasion. Guiderius was slain, but Arviragus
afterward made terms with the Romans, and reigned prosperously many
years.

                                ARMORICA

The next event of note is the conquest and colonization of Armorica, by
Maximus, a Roman general, and Conan, lord of Miniadoc or Denbigh-land,
in Wales. The name of the country was changed to Brittany, or Lesser
Britain; and so completely was it possessed by the British colonists,
that the language became assimilated to that spoken in Wales, and it is
said that to this day the peasantry of the two countries can understand
each other when speaking their native language.

The Romans eventually succeeded in establishing themselves in the
island, and after the lapse of several generations they became blended
with the natives so that no distinction existed between the two races.
When at length the Roman armies were withdrawn from Britain, their
departure was a matter of regret to the inhabitants, as it left them
without protection against the barbarous tribes, Scots, Picts, and
Norwegians, who harassed the country incessantly. This was the state of
things when the era of King Arthur began.

The adventure of Albion, the giant, with Hercules is alluded to by
Spenser, “Faery Queene,” Book IV., Canto xi:

    “For Albion the son of Neptune was;
    Who for the proof of his great puissance,
    Out of his Albion did on dry foot pass
    Into old Gaul that now is cleped France,
    To fight with Hercules, that did advance
    To vanquish all the world with matchless might:
    And there his mortal part by great mischance
    Was slain.”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER III

                                 MERLIN

MERLIN was the son of no mortal father, but of an Incubus, one of a
class of beings not absolutely wicked, but far from good, who inhabit
the regions of the air. Merlin’s mother was a virtuous young woman, who,
on the birth of her son, intrusted him to a priest, who hurried him to
the baptismal fount, and so saved him from sharing the lot of his
father, though he retained many marks of his unearthly origin.

At this time Vortigern reigned in Britain. He was a usurper, who had
caused the death of his sovereign, Moines, and driven the two brothers
of the late king, whose names were Uther and Pendragon, into banishment.
Vortigern, who lived in constant fear of the return of the rightful
heirs of the kingdom, began to erect a strong tower for defence. The
edifice, when brought by the workmen to a certain height, three times
fell to the ground, without any apparent cause. The king consulted his
astrologers on this wonderful event, and learned from them that it would
be necessary to bathe the corner-stone of the foundation with the blood
of a child born without a mortal father.

In search of such an infant, Vortigern sent his messengers all over the
kingdom, and they by accident discovered Merlin, whose lineage seemed to
point him out as the individual wanted. They took him to the king; but
Merlin, young as he was, explained to the king the absurdity of
attempting to rescue the fabric by such means, for he told him the true
cause of the instability of the tower was its being placed over the den
of two immense dragons, whose combats shook the earth above them. The
king ordered his workmen to dig beneath the tower, and when they had
done so they discovered two enormous serpents, the one white as milk,
the other red as fire. The multitude looked on with amazement, till the
serpents, slowly rising from their den, and expanding their enormous
folds, began the combat, when every one fled in terror, except Merlin,
who stood by clapping his hands and cheering on the conflict. The red
dragon was slain, and the white one, gliding through a cleft in the
rock, disappeared.

These animals typified, as Merlin afterwards explained, the invasion of
Uther and Pendragon, the rightful princes, who soon after landed with a
great army. Vortigern was defeated, and afterwards burned alive in the
castle he had taken such pains to construct. On the death of Vortigern,
Pendragon ascended the throne. Merlin became his chief adviser, and
often assisted the king by his magical arts.

    “Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts,
    Had built the King his havens, ships and halls.”
                                        —_Vivian._

Among other endowments, he had the power of transforming himself into
any shape he pleased. At one time he appeared as a dwarf, at others as a
damsel, a page, or even a greyhound or a stag. This faculty he often
employed for the service of the king, and sometimes also for the
diversion of the court and the sovereign.

Merlin continued to be a favorite counsellor through the reigns of
Pendragon, Uther, and Arthur, and at last disappeared from view, and was
no more found among men, through the treachery of his mistress, Viviane,
the Fairy, which happened in this wise.

Merlin, having become enamoured of the fair Viviane, the Lady of the
Lake, was weak enough to impart to her various important secrets of his
art, being impelled by fatal destiny, of which he was at the same time
fully aware. The lady, however, was not content with his devotion,
unbounded as it seems to have been, but “cast about,” the Romance tells
us, how she might “detain him for evermore,” and one day addressed him
in these terms: “Sir, I would that we should make a fair place and a
suitable, so contrived by art and by cunning that it might never be
undone, and that you and I should be there in joy and solace.” “My
lady,” said Merlin, “I will do all this.” “Sir,” said she, “I would not
have you do it, but you shall teach me, and I will do it, and then it
will be more to my mind.” “I grant you this,” said Merlin. Then he began
to devise, and the damsel put it all in writing. And when he had devised
the whole, then had the damsel full great joy, and showed him greater
semblance of love than she had ever before made, and they sojourned
together a long while. At length it fell out that, as they were going
one day hand in hand through the forest of Brécéliande, they found a
bush of white-thorn, which was laden with flowers; and they seated
themselves under the shade of this white-thorn, upon the green grass,
and Merlin laid his head upon the damsel’s lap, and fell asleep. Then
the damsel rose, and made a ring with her wimple round the bush, and
round Merlin, and began her enchantments, such as he himself had taught
her; and nine times she made the ring, and nine times she made the
enchantment, and then she went and sat down by him, and placed his head
again upon her lap.

                                “And a sleep
    Fell upon Merlin more like death, so deep
    Her finger on her lips; then Vivian rose,
    And from her brown-locked head the wimple throws,
    And takes it in her hand and waves it over
    The blossomed thorn tree and her sleeping lover.
    Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round,
    And made a little plot of magic ground.”
                                   —_Matthew Arnold._

And when he awoke, and looked round him, it seemed to him that he was
enclosed in the strongest tower in the world, and laid upon a fair bed.
Then said he to the dame: “My lady, you have deceived me, unless you
abide with me, for no one hath power to unmake this tower but you
alone.” She then promised she would be often there, and in this she held
her covenant with him. And Merlin never went out of that tower where his
Mistress Viviane had enclosed him; but she entered and went out again
when she listed.

After this event Merlin was never more known to hold converse with any
mortal but Viviane, except on one occasion. Arthur, having for some time
missed him from his court, sent several of his knights in search of him,
and, among the number, Sir Gawain, who met with a very unpleasant
adventure while engaged in this quest. Happening to pass a damsel on his
road, and neglecting to salute her, she revenged herself for his
incivility by transforming him into a hideous dwarf. He was bewailing
aloud his evil fortune as he went through the forest of Brécéliande,
when suddenly he heard the voice of one groaning on his right hand; and,
looking that way, he could see nothing save a kind of smoke, which
seemed like air, and through which he could not pass. Merlin then
addressed him from out the smoke, and told him by what misadventure he
was imprisoned there. “Ah, sir!” he added, “you will never see me more,
and that grieves me, but I cannot remedy it; I shall never more speak to
you, nor to any other person, save only my mistress. But do thou hasten
to King Arthur, and charge him from me to undertake, without delay, the
quest of the Sacred Graal. The knight is already born, and has received
knighthood at his hands, who is destined to accomplish this quest.” And
after this he comforted Gawain under his transformation, assuring him
that he should speedily be disenchanted; and he predicted to him that he
should find the king at Carduel, in Wales, on his return, and that all
the other knights who had been on like quest would arrive there the same
day as himself. And all this came to pass as Merlin had said.

Merlin is frequently introduced in the tales of chivalry, but it is
chiefly on great occasions, and at a period subsequent to his death, or
magical disappearance. In the romantic poems of Italy, and in Spenser,
Merlin is chiefly represented as a magical artist. Spenser represents
him as the artificer of the impenetrable shield and other armor of
Prince Arthur (“Faery Queene,” Book I., Canto vii.), and of a mirror, in
which a damsel viewed her lover’s shade. The Fountain of Love, in the
“Orlando Innamorata,” is described as his work; and in the poem of
“Ariosto” we are told of a hall adorned with prophetic paintings, which
demons had executed in a single night, under the direction of Merlin.

The following legend is from Spenser’s “Faery Queene,” Book III., Canto
iii.:

    CAER-MERDIN, OR CAERMARTHEN (IN WALES), MERLIN’S TOWER, AND THE
                           IMPRISONED FIENDS.

      “Forthwith themselves disguising both, in straunge
      And base attire, that none might them bewray,
      To Maridunum, that is now by chaunge
      Of name Caer-Merdin called, they took their way:
      There the wise Merlin whylome wont (they say)
      To make his wonne, low underneath the ground
      In a deep delve, far from the view of day,
      That of no living wight he mote be found,
    Whenso he counselled with his sprights encompassed round.

      “And if thou ever happen that same way
      To travel, go to see that dreadful place;
      It is a hideous hollow cave (they say)
      Under a rock that lies a little space
      From the swift Barry, tombling down apace
      Amongst the woody hills of Dynevor;
      But dare not thou, I charge, in any case,
      To enter into that same baleful bower,
    For fear the cruel fiends should thee unwares devour.

      “But standing high aloft, low lay thine ear,
      And there such ghastly noise of iron chains
      And brazen cauldrons thou shalt rumbling hear,
      Which thousand sprites with long enduring pains
      Do toss, that it will stun thy feeble brains;
      And oftentimes great groans, and grievous stounds,
      When too huge toil and labor them constrains;
      And oftentimes loud strokes and ringing sounds
    From under that deep rock most horribly rebounds.

      “The cause some say is this. A little while
      Before that Merlin died, he did intend
      A brazen wall in compas to compile
      About Caermerdin, and did it commend
      Unto these sprites to bring to perfect end;
      During which work the Lady of the Lake,
      Whom long he loved, for him in haste did send;
      Who, thereby forced his workmen to forsake,
    Them bound till his return their labor not to slack.

      “In the mean time, through that false lady’s train,
      He was surprised, and buried under beare,[40]
      Ne ever to his work returned again;
      Nathless those fiends may not their work forbear,
      So greatly his commandëment they fear;
      But there do toil and travail day and night,
      Until that brazen wall they up do rear.
      For Merlin had in magic more insight
    Than ever him before or after living wight.”

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER IV

                                 ARTHUR

WE shall begin our history of King Arthur by giving those particulars of
his life which appear to rest on historical evidence; and then proceed
to record those legends concerning him which form the earliest portion
of British literature.

Arthur was a prince of the tribe of Britons called Silures, whose
country was South Wales, the son of Uther, named Pendragon, a title
given to an elective sovereign, paramount over the many kings of
Britain. He appears to have commenced his martial career about the year
500, and was raised to the Pendragonship about ten years later. He is
said to have gained twelve victories over the Saxons. The most important
of them was that of Badon, by some supposed to be Bath, by others
Berkshire. This was the last of his battles with the Saxons, and checked
their progress so effectually, that Arthur experienced no more annoyance
from them, and reigned in peace, until the revolt of his nephew Modred,
twenty years later, which led to the fatal battle of Camlan, in
Cornwall, in 542. Modred was slain, and Arthur, mortally wounded, was
conveyed by sea to Glastonbury, where he died, and was buried. Tradition
preserved the memory of the place of his interment within the abbey, as
we are told by Giraldus Cambrensis, who was present when the grave was
opened by command of Henry II. about 1150, and saw the bones and sword
of the monarch, and a leaden cross let into his tombstone, with the
inscription in rude Roman letters, “Here lies buried the famous King
Arthur, in the island Avalonia.” This story has been elegantly versified
by Warton. A popular traditional belief was long entertained among the
Britons, that Arthur was not dead, but had been carried off to be healed
of his wounds in Fairy-land, and that he would reappear to avenge his
countrymen and reinstate them in the sovereignty of Britain. In Warton’s
“Ode” a bard relates to King Henry the traditional story of Arthur’s
death, and closes with these lines.

    “Yet in vain a paynim foe
    Armed with fate the mighty blow:
    For when he fell, the Elfin queen,
    All in secret and unseen,
    O’er the fainting hero threw
    Her mantle of ambrosial blue,
    And bade her spirits bear him far,
    In Merlin’s agate-axled car,
    To her green isle’s enamelled steep,
    Far in the navel of the deep.
    O’er his wounds she sprinkled dew
    From flowers that in Arabia grew.
      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
    There he reigns a mighty king,
    Thence to Britain shall return,
    If right prophetic rolls I learn,
    Borne on victory’s spreading plume,
    His ancient sceptre to resume,
    His knightly table to restore,
    And brave the tournaments of yore.”

After this narration another bard came forward who recited a different
story:

    “When Arthur bowed his haughty crest,
    No princess veiled in azure vest
    Snatched him, by Merlin’s powerful spell,
    In groves of golden bliss to dwell;
    But when he fell, with winged speed,
    His champions, on a milk-white steed,
    From the battle’s hurricane,
    Bore him to Joseph’s towered fane,[41]
    In the fair vale of Avalon;
    There, with chanted orison
    And the long blaze of tapers clear,
    The stoled fathers met the bier;
    Through the dim aisles, in order dread
    Of martial woe, the chief they led,
    And deep entombed in holy ground,
    Before the altar’s solemn bound.”

It must not be concealed that the very existence of Arthur has been
denied by some. Milton says of him: “As to Arthur, more renowned in
songs and romances than in true stories, who he was, and whether ever
any such reigned in Britain, hath been doubted heretofore, and may
again, with good reason.” Modern critics, however, admit that there was
a prince of this name, and find proof of it in the frequent mention of
him in the writings of the Welsh bards. But the Arthur of romance,
according to Mr. Owen, a Welsh scholar and antiquarian, is a
mythological person. “Arthur,” he says, “is the Great Bear, as the name
literally implies (Arctos, Arcturus), and perhaps this constellation,
being so near the pole, and visibly describing a circle in a small
space, is the origin of the famous Round Table.”

                              KING ARTHUR

Constans, king of Britain, had three sons, Moines, Ambrosius, otherwise
called Uther, and Pendragon. Moines, soon after his accession to the
crown, was vanquished by the Saxons, in consequence of the treachery of
his seneschal, Vortigern, and growing unpopular, through misfortune, he
was killed by his subjects, and the traitor Vortigern chosen in his
place.

Vortigern was soon after defeated in a great battle by Uther and
Pendragon, the surviving brothers of Moines and Pendragon ascended the
throne.

This prince had great confidence in the wisdom of Merlin, and made him
his chief adviser. About this time a dreadful war arose between the
Saxons and Britons. Merlin obliged the royal brothers to swear fidelity
to each other, but predicted that one of them must fall in the first
battle. The Saxons were routed, and Pendragon, being slain, was
succeeded by Uther, who now assumed in addition to his own name the
appellation of Pendragon.

Merlin still continued a favorite counsellor. At the request of Uther he
transported by magic art enormous stones from Ireland, to form the
sepulchre of Pendragon. These stones constitute the monument now called
Stonehenge, on Salisbury plain.

Merlin next proceeded to Carlisle to prepare the Round Table, at which
he seated an assemblage of the great nobles of the country. The
companions admitted to this high order were bound by oath to assist each
other at the hazard of their own lives, to attempt singly the most
perilous adventures, to lead, when necessary, a life of monastic
solitude, to fly to arms at the first summons, and never to retire from
battle till they had defeated the enemy, unless night intervened and
separated the combatants.

Soon after this institution, the king invited all his barons to the
celebration of a great festival, which he proposed holding annually at
Carlisle.

As the knights had obtained the sovereign’s permission to bring their
ladies along with them, the beautiful Igerne accompanied her husband,
Gorlois, Duke of Tintadel, to one of these anniversaries. The king
became deeply enamoured of the duchess, and disclosed his passion; but
Igerne repelled his advances, and revealed his solicitations to her
husband. On hearing this, the duke instantly removed from court with
Igerne, and without taking leave of Uther. The king complained to his
council of this want of duty, and they decided that the duke should be
summoned to court, and, if refractory, should be treated as a rebel. As
he refused to obey the citation, the king carried war into the estates
of his vassal and besieged him in the strong castle of Tintadel. Merlin
transformed the king into the likeness of Gorlois, and enabled him to
have many stolen interviews with Igerne. At length the duke was killed
in battle and the king espoused Igerne.

From this union sprang Arthur, who succeeded his father, Uther, upon the
throne.

                           ARTHUR CHOSEN KING

Arthur, though only fifteen years old at his father’s death, was elected
king, at a general meeting of the nobles. It was not done without
opposition, for there were many ambitious competitors.

                    “For while he linger’d there
    A doubt that ever smoulder’d in the hearts
    Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm
    Flash’d forth and into war: for most of these
    Made head against him, crying, ‘Who is he
    That he should rule us? who hath proven him
    King Uther’s son? for lo! we look at him,
    And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice,
    Are like to those of Uther whom we knew.”
                            —_Coming of Arthur._

But Bishop Brice, a person of great sanctity, on Christmas eve addressed
the assembly, and represented that it would well become them, at that
solemn season, to put up their prayers for some token which should
manifest the intentions of Providence respecting their future sovereign.
This was done, and with such success, that the service was scarcely
ended when a miraculous stone was discovered before the church door, and
in the stone was firmly fixed a sword, with the following words engraven
on its hilt:

    “I am hight Escalibore,
    Unto a king fair tresore.”

Bishop Brice, after exhorting the assembly to offer up their
thanksgiving for this signal miracle, proposed a law, that whoever
should be able to draw out the sword from the stone, should be
acknowledged as sovereign of the Britons; and his proposal was decreed
by general acclamation. The tributary kings of Uther, and the most
famous knights, successively put their strength to the proof, but the
miraculous sword resisted all their efforts. It stood till Candlemas; it
stood till Easter, and till Pentecost, when the best knights in the
kingdom usually assembled for the annual tournament. Arthur, who was at
that time serving in the capacity of squire to his foster-brother, Sir
Kay, attended his master to the lists. Sir Kay fought with great valor
and success, but had the misfortune to break his sword, and sent Arthur
to his mother for a new one. Arthur hastened home, but did not find the
lady; but having observed near the church a sword, sticking in a stone,
he galloped to the place, drew out the sword with great ease, and
delivered it to his master. Sir Kay would willingly have assumed to
himself the distinction conferred by the possession of the sword, but
when, to confirm the doubters, the sword was replaced in the stone he
was utterly unable to withdraw it, and it would yield a second time to
no hand but Arthur’s. Thus decisively pointed out by Heaven as their
king, Arthur was by general consent proclaimed as such, and an early day
appointed for his solemn coronation.

Immediately after his election to the crown, Arthur found himself
opposed by eleven kings and one duke, who with a vast army were actually
encamped in the forest of Rockingham. By Merlin’s advice Arthur sent an
embassy to Brittany, to solicit the aid of King Ban and King Bohort, two
of the best knights in the world. They accepted the call, and with a
powerful army crossed the sea, landing at Portsmouth, where they were
received with great rejoicing. The rebel kings were still superior in
numbers; but Merlin, by a powerful enchantment, caused all their tents
to fall down at once, and in the confusion Arthur with his allies fell
upon them and totally routed them.

After defeating the rebels, Arthur took the field against the Saxons. As
they were too strong for him unaided, he sent an embassy to Armorica,
beseeching the assistance of Hoel, who soon after brought over an army
to his aid. The two kings joined their forces, and sought the enemy,
whom they met, and both sides prepared for a decisive engagement.
“Arthur himself,” as Geoffrey of Monmouth relates, “dressed in a
breastplate worthy of so great a king, places on his head a golden
helmet engraved with the semblance of a dragon. Over his shoulders he
throws his shield called Priwen, on which a picture of the Holy Virgin
constantly recalled her to his memory. Girt with Caliburn, a most
excellent sword, and fabricated in the isle of Avalon, he graces his
right hand with the lance named Ron. This was a long and broad spear,
well contrived for slaughter.” After a severe conflict, Arthur, calling
on the name of the Virgin, rushes into the midst of his enemies, and
destroys multitudes of them with the formidable Caliburn, and puts the
rest to flight. Hoel, being detained by sickness, took no part in this
battle.

This is called the victory of Mount Badon, and, however disguised by
fable, it is regarded by historians as a real event.

The feats performed by Arthur at the battle of Badon Mount are thus
celebrated in Drayton’s verse:

    “They sung how he himself at Badon bore, that day,
    When at the glorious goal his British sceptre lay;
    Two daies together how the battel stronglie stood;
    Pendragon’s worthie son, who waded there in blood,
    Three hundred Saxons slew with his owne valiant hand.”
                                           —_Song IV._

                                GUENEVER

Merlin had planned for Arthur a marriage with the daughter of King
Laodegan of Carmalide. By his advice Arthur paid a visit to the court of
that sovereign, attended only by Merlin and by thirty-nine knights whom
the magician had selected for that service. On their arrival they found
Laodegan and his peers sitting in council, endeavoring, but with small
prospect of success, to devise means of resisting the impending attack
of Ryence, king of Ireland, who, with fifteen tributary kings and an
almost innumerable army, had nearly surrounded the city. Merlin, who
acted as leader of the band of British knights, announced them as
strangers, who came to offer the king their services in his wars; but
under the express condition that they should be at liberty to conceal
their names and quality until they should think proper to divulge them.
These terms were thought very strange, but were thankfully accepted, and
the strangers, after taking the usual oath to the king, retired to the
lodging which Merlin had prepared for them.

A few days after this, the enemy, regardless of a truce into which they
had entered with King Laodegan, suddenly issued from their camp and made
an attempt to surprise the city. Cleodalis, the king’s general,
assembled the royal forces with all possible despatch. Arthur and his
companions also flew to arms, and Merlin appeared at their head, bearing
a standard on which was emblazoned a terrific dragon. Merlin advanced to
the gate, and commanded the porter to open it, which the porter refused
to do, without the king’s order. Merlin thereupon took up the gate, with
all its appurtenances of locks, bars, bolts, etc., and directed his
troops to pass through, after which he replaced it in perfect order. He
then set spurs to his horse and dashed, at the head of his little troop,
into a body of two thousand pagans. The disparity of numbers being so
enormous, Merlin cast a spell upon the enemy, so as to prevent their
seeing the small number of their assailants; notwithstanding which the
British knights were hard pressed. But the people of the city, who saw
from the walls this unequal contest, were ashamed of leaving the small
body of strangers to their fate, so they opened the gate and sallied
forth. The numbers were now more nearly equal, and Merlin revoked his
spell, so that the two armies encountered on fair terms. Where Arthur,
Ban, Bohort, and the rest fought the king’s army had the advantage; but
in another part of the field the king himself was surrounded and carried
off by the enemy. The sad sight was seen by Guenever, the fair daughter
of the king, who stood on the city wall and looked at the battle. She
was in dreadful distress, tore her hair, and swooned away.

But Merlin, aware of what passed in every part of the field, suddenly
collected his knights, led them out of the battle, intercepted the
passage of the party who were carrying away the king, charged them with
irresistible impetuosity, cut in pieces or dispersed the whole escort,
and rescued the king. In the fight Arthur encountered Caulang, a giant
fifteen feet high, and the fair Guenever, who had already began to feel
a strong interest in the handsome young stranger, trembled for the issue
of the contest. But Arthur, dealing a dreadful blow on the shoulder of
the monster, cut through his neck so that his head hung over on one
side, and in this condition his horse carried him about the field, to
the great horror and dismay of the Pagans. Guenever could not refrain
from expressing aloud her wish that the gentle knight, who dealt with
giants so dexterously, were destined to become her husband, and the wish
was echoed by her attendants. The enemy soon turned their backs and fled
with precipitation, closely pursued by Laodegan and his allies.

After the battle Arthur was disarmed and conducted to the bath by the
princess Guenever, while his friends were attended by the other ladies
of the court. After the bath the knights were conducted to a magnificent
entertainment, at which they were diligently served by the same fair
attendants. Laodegan, more and more anxious to know the name and quality
of his generous deliverers, and occasionally forming a secret wish that
the chief of his guests might be captivated by the charms of his
daughter, appeared silent and pensive, and was scarcely roused from his
reverie by the banters of his courtiers. Arthur, having had an
opportunity of explaining to Guenever his great esteem for her merit,
was in the joy of his heart, and was still further delighted by hearing
from Merlin the late exploits of Gawain at London, by means of which his
immediate return to his dominions was rendered unnecessary, and he was
left at liberty to protract his stay at the court of Laodegan. Every day
contributed to increase the admiration of the whole court for the
gallant strangers, and the passion of Guenever for their chief; and when
at last Merlin announced to the king that the object of the visit of the
party was to procure a bride for their leader, Laodegan at once
presented Guenever to Arthur, telling him that, whatever might be his
rank, his merit was sufficient to entitle him to the possession of the
heiress of Carmalide.

    “And could he find a woman in her womanhood
    As great as he was in his manhood—
    The twain together might change the world.”
                                  —_Guinevere._

Arthur accepted the lady with the utmost gratitude, and Merlin then
proceeded to satisfy the king of the rank of his son-in-law; upon which
Laodegan, with all his barons, hastened to do homage to their lawful
sovereign, the successor of Uther Pendragon. The fair Guenever was then
solemnly betrothed to Arthur, and a magnificent festival was proclaimed,
which lasted seven days. At the end of that time, the enemy appearing
again with renewed force, it became necessary to resume military
operations.[42]

We must now relate what took place at and near London, while Arthur was
absent from his capital. At this very time a band of young heroes were
on their way to Arthur’s court, for the purpose of receiving knighthood
from him. They were Gawain and his three brothers, nephews of Arthur,
sons of King Lot, and Galachin, another nephew, son of King Nanters.
King Lot had been one of the rebel chiefs whom Arthur had defeated, but
he now hoped by means of the young men to be reconciled to his
brother-in-law. He equipped his sons and his nephew with the utmost
magnificence, giving them a splendid retinue of young men, sons of earls
and barons, all mounted on the best horses, with complete suits of
choice armor. They numbered in all seven hundred, but only nine had yet
received the order of knighthood; the rest were candidates for that
honor, and anxious to earn it by an early encounter with the enemy.
Gawain, the leader, was a knight of wonderful strength; but what was
most remarkable about him was that his strength was greater at certain
hours of the day than at others. From nine o’clock till noon his
strength was doubled, and so it was from three to evensong; for the rest
of the time it was less remarkable, though at all times surpassing that
of ordinary men.

After a march of three days they arrived in the vicinity of London,
where they expected to find Arthur and his court, and very unexpectedly
fell in with a large convoy belonging to the enemy, consisting of
numerous carts and wagons, all loaded with provisions, and escorted by
three thousand men, who had been collecting spoil from all the country
round. A single charge from Gawain’s impetuous cavalry was sufficient to
disperse the escort and recover the convoy, which was instantly
despatched to London. But before long a body of seven thousand fresh
soldiers advanced to the attack of the five princes and their little
army. Gawain, singling out a chief named Choas, of gigantic size, began
the battle by splitting him from the crown of the head to the breast.
Galachin encountered King Sanagran, who was also very huge, and cut off
his head. Agrivain and Gahariet also performed prodigies of valor. Thus
they kept the great army of assailants at bay, though hard pressed, till
of a sudden they perceived a strong body of the citizens advancing from
London, where the convoy which had been recovered by Gawain had arrived,
and informed the mayor and citizens of the danger of their deliverer.
The arrival of the Londoners soon decided the contest. The enemy fled in
all directions, and Gawain and his friends, escorted by the grateful
citizens, entered London, and were received with acclamations.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER V

                          ARTHUR (_Continued_)

AFTER the great victory of Mount Badon, by which the Saxons were for the
time effectually put down, Arthur turned his arms against the Scots and
Picts, whom he routed at Lake Lomond, and compelled to sue for mercy. He
then went to York to keep his Christmas, and employed himself in
restoring the Christian churches which the Pagans had rifled and
overthrown. The following summer he conquered Ireland, and then made a
voyage with his fleet to Iceland, which he also subdued. The kings of
Gothland and of the Orkneys came voluntarily and made their submission,
promising to pay tribute. Then he returned to Britain, where, having
established the kingdom, he dwelt twelve years in peace.

During this time he invited over to him all persons whatsoever that were
famous for valor in foreign nations, and augmented the number of his
domestics, and introduced such politeness into his court as people of
the remotest countries thought worthy of their imitation. So that there
was not a nobleman who thought himself of any consideration unless his
clothes and arms were made in the same fashion as those of Arthur’s
knights.

Finding himself so powerful at home, Arthur began to form designs for
extending his power abroad. So, having prepared his fleet, he first
attempted Norway, that he might procure the crown of it for Lot, his
sister’s husband. Arthur landed in Norway, fought a great battle with
the king of that country, defeated him, and pursued the victory till he
had reduced the whole country under his dominion, and established Lot
upon the throne. Then Arthur made a voyage to Gaul and laid siege to the
city of Paris. Gaul was at that time a Roman province, and governed by
Flollo, the Tribune. When the siege of Paris had continued a month, and
the people began to suffer from famine, Flollo challenged Arthur to
single combat, proposing to decide the conquest of the province in that
way. Arthur gladly accepted the challenge, and slew his adversary in the
contest, upon which the citizens surrendered the city to him. After the
victory Arthur divided his army into two parts, one of which he
committed to the conduct of Hoel, whom he ordered to march into
Aquitaine, while he with the other part should endeavor to subdue the
other provinces. At the end of nine years, in which time all the parts
of Gaul were entirely reduced, Arthur returned to Paris, where he kept
his court, and, calling an assembly of the clergy and people,
established peace and the just administration of the laws in that
kingdom. Then he bestowed Normandy upon Bedver, his butler, and the
province of Andegavia upon Kay, his steward,[43] and several other
provinces upon his great men that attended him. And, having settled the
peace of the cities and countries, he returned back in the beginning of
spring to Britain.

Upon the approach of the feast of Pentecost, Arthur, the better to
demonstrate his joy after such triumphant successes, and for the more
solemn observation of that festival, and reconciling the minds of the
princes that were now subject to him, resolved during that season to
hold a magnificent court, to place the crown upon his head, and to
invite all the kings and dukes under his subjection to the solemnity.
And he pitched upon Caerleon, the City of Legions, as the proper place
for his purpose. For, besides its great wealth above the other
cities,[44] its situation upon the river Usk, near the Severn sea, was
most pleasant and fit for so great a solemnity. For on one side it was
washed by that noble river, so that the kings and princes from the
countries beyond the seas might have the convenience of sailing up to
it. On the other side the beauty of the meadows and groves, and
magnificence of the royal palaces, with lofty gilded roofs that adorned
it, made it even rival the grandeur of Rome. It was also famous for two
churches, whereof one was adorned with a choir of virgins, who devoted
themselves wholly to the service of God, and the other maintained a
convent of priests. Besides, there was a college of two hundred
philosophers, who, being learned in astronomy and the other arts, were
diligent in observing the courses of the stars, and gave Arthur true
predictions of the events that would happen. In this place, therefore,
which afforded such delights, were preparations made for the ensuing
festival.

Ambassadors were then sent into several kingdoms, to invite to court the
princes both of Gaul and of the adjacent islands. Accordingly there came
Augusel, king of Albania, now Scotland, Cadwallo, king of Venedotia, now
North Wales, Sater, king of Demetia, now South Wales; also the
archbishops of the metropolitan sees, London and York, and Dubricius,
bishop of Caerleon, the City of Legions. This prelate, who was primate
of Britain, was so eminent for his piety that he could cure any sick
person by his prayers. There were also the counts of the principal
cities, and many other worthies of no less dignity.

From the adjacent islands came Guillamurius, king of Ireland, Gunfasius,
king of the Orkneys, Malvasius, king of Iceland, Lot, king of Norway,
Bedver, the butler, Duke of Normandy, Kay, the sewer, Duke of Andegavia;
also the twelve peers of Gaul, and Hoel, Duke of the Armorican Britons,
with his nobility, who came with such a train of mules, horses, and rich
furniture as it is difficult to describe. Besides these there remained
no prince of any consideration on this side of Spain who came not upon
this invitation. And no wonder, when Arthur’s munificence, which was
celebrated over the whole world, made him beloved by all people.

When all were assembled upon the day of the solemnity the archbishops
were conducted to the palace, in order to place the crown upon the
king’s head. Then Dubricius, inasmuch as the court was held in his
diocese, made himself ready to celebrate the office. As soon as the king
was invested with his royal habiliments he was conducted in great pomp
to the metropolitan church, having four kings, viz., of Albania,
Cornwall, Demetia, and Venedotia, bearing four golden swords before him.
On another part was the queen, dressed out in her richest ornaments,
conducted by the archbishops and bishops to the Church of Virgins; the
four queens, also, of the kings last mentioned, bearing before her four
white doves, according to ancient custom. When the whole procession was
ended so transporting was the harmony of the musical instruments and
voices, whereof there was a vast variety in both churches, that the
knights who attended were in doubt which to prefer, and therefore
crowded from the one to the other by turns, and were far from being
tired of the solemnity, though the whole day had been spent in it. At
last, when divine service was over at both churches, the king and queen
put off their crowns, and, putting on their lighter ornaments, went to
the banquet. When they had all taken their seats according to
precedence, Kay, the sewer, in rich robes of ermine, with a thousand
young noblemen all in like manner clothed in rich attire, served up the
dishes. From another part Bedver, the butler, was followed by the same
number of attendants, who waited with all kinds of cups and
drinking-vessels. And there was food and drink in abundance, and
everything was of the best kind, and served in the best manner. For at
that time Britain had arrived at such a pitch of grandeur that in
riches, luxury, and politeness it far surpassed all other kingdoms.

As soon as the banquets were over they went into the fields without the
city to divert themselves with various sports, such as shooting with
bows and arrows, tossing the pike, casting of heavy stones and rocks,
playing at dice, and the like, and all these inoffensively, and without
quarrelling. In this manner were three days spent, and after that they
separated, and the kings and noblemen departed to their several homes.

After this Arthur reigned five years in peace. Then came ambassadors
from Lucius Tiberius, Procurator under Leo, Emperor of Rome, demanding
tribute. But Arthur refused to pay tribute, and prepared for war. As
soon as the necessary dispositions were made he committed the government
of his kingdom to his nephew Modred and to Queen Guenever, and marched
with his army to Hamo’s Port, where the wind stood fair for him. The
army crossed over in safety, and landed at the mouth of the river Barba.
And there they pitched their tents to wait the arrival of the kings of
the islands.

As soon as all the forces were arrived Arthur marched forward to
Augustodunum, and encamped on the banks of the river Alba. Here repeated
battles were fought, in all which the Britons, under their valiant
leaders, Hoel, Duke of Armorica, and Gawain, nephew to Arthur, had the
advantage. At length Lucius Tiberius determined to retreat, and wait for
the Emperor Leo to join him with fresh troops. But Arthur, anticipating
this event, took possession of a certain valley, and closed up the way
of retreat to Lucius, compelling him to fight a decisive battle, in
which Arthur lost some of the bravest of his knights and most faithful
followers. But on the other hand Lucius Tiberius was slain, and his army
totally defeated. The fugitives dispersed over the country, some to the
by-ways and woods, some to cities and towns, and all other places where
they could hope for safety.

Arthur stayed in those parts till the next winter was over, and employed
his time in restoring order and settling the government. He then
returned into England, and celebrated his victories with great splendor.

Then the king stablished all his knights, and to them that were not rich
he gave lands, and charged them all never to do outrage nor murder, and
always to flee treason; also, by no means to be cruel, but to give mercy
unto him that asked mercy, upon pain of forfeiture of their worship and
lordship; and always to do ladies, damosels, and gentlewomen service,
upon pain of death. Also that no man take battle in a wrongful quarrel,
for no law, nor for any world’s goods. Unto this were all the knights
sworn of the Table Round, both old and young. And at every year were
they sworn at the high feast of Pentecost.

           KING ARTHUR SLAYS THE GIANT OF ST. MICHAEL’S MOUNT

While the army was encamped in Brittany, awaiting the arrival of the
kings, there came a countryman to Arthur, and told him that a giant,
whose cave was on a neighboring mountain, called St. Michael’s Mount,
had for a long time been accustomed to carry off the children of the
peasants to devour them. “And now he hath taken the Duchess of Brittany,
as she rode with her attendants, and hath carried her away in spite of
all they could do.” “Now, fellow,” said King Arthur, “canst thou bring
me there where this giant haunteth?” “Yea, sure,” said the good man;
“lo, yonder where thou seest two great fires, there shalt thou find him,
and more treasure than I suppose is in all France beside.” Then the king
called to him Sir Bedver and Sir Kay, and commanded them to make ready
horse and harness for himself and them; for after evening he would ride
on pilgrimage to St. Michael’s Mount.

So they three departed, and rode forth till they came to the foot of the
mount. And there the king commanded them to tarry, for he would himself
go up into that mount. So he ascended the hill till he came to a great
fire, and there he found an aged woman sitting by a new-made grave,
making great sorrow. Then King Arthur saluted her, and demanded of her
wherefore she made such lamentation; to whom she answered: “Sir knight,
speak low, for yonder is a devil, and if he hear thee speak, he will
come and destroy thee. For ye cannot make resistance to him, he is so
fierce and so strong. He hath murdered the Duchess, which here lieth,
who was the fairest of all the world, wife to Sir Hoel, Duke of
Brittany.” “Dame,” said the king, “I come from the noble conqueror, King
Arthur, to treat with that tyrant.” “Fie on such treaties,” said she;
“he setteth not by the king, nor by no man else.” “Well,” said Arthur,
“I will accomplish my message for all your fearful words.” So he went
forth by the crest of the hill, and saw where the giant sat at supper,
gnawing on the limb of a man, and baking his broad limbs at the fire,
and three fair damsels lying bound, whose lot it was to be devoured in
their turn. When King Arthur beheld that, he had great compassion on
them, so that his heart bled for sorrow. Then he hailed the giant,
saying, “He that all the world ruleth give thee short life and shameful
death. Why hast thou murdered this Duchess? Therefore come forth, for
this day thou shalt die by my hand.” Then the giant started up, and took
a great club, and smote at the king, and smote off his coronal; and then
the king struck him in the belly with his sword, and made a fearful
wound. Then the giant threw away his club, and caught the king in his
arms, so that he crushed his ribs. Then the three maidens kneeled down
and prayed for help and comfort for Arthur. And Arthur weltered and
wrenched, so that he was one while under, and another time above. And so
weltering and wallowing they rolled down the hill, and ever as they
weltered Arthur smote him with his dagger; and it fortuned they came to
the place where the two knights were. And when they saw the king fast in
the giant’s arms they came and loosed him. Then the king commanded Sir
Kay to smite off the giant’s head, and to set it on the truncheon of a
spear, and fix it on the barbican, that all the people might see and
behold it. This was done, and anon it was known through all the country,
wherefor the people came and thanked the king. And he said, “Give your
thanks to God; and take ye the giant’s spoil and divide it among you.”
And King Arthur caused a church to be builded on that hill, in honor of
St. Michael.

           KING ARTHUR GETS A SWORD FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE

One day King Arthur rode forth, and on a sudden he was ware of three
churls chasing Merlin, to have slain him. And the king rode unto them
and bade them, “Flee, churls!” Then were they afraid when they saw a
knight, and fled. “O Merlin,” said Arthur, “here hadst thou been slain,
for all thy crafts, had I not been by.” “Nay,” said Merlin, “not so, for
I could save myself if I would; but thou art more near thy death than I
am.” So, as they went thus talking, King Arthur perceived where sat a
knight on horseback, as if to guard the pass. “Sir knight,” said Arthur,
“for what cause abidest thou here?” Then the knight said, “There may no
knight ride this way unless he just with me, for such is the custom of
the pass.” “I will amend that custom,” said the king. Then they ran
together, and they met so hard that their spears were shivered. Then
they drew their swords and fought a strong battle, with many great
strokes. But at length the sword of the knight smote King Arthur’s sword
in two pieces. Then said the knight unto Arthur, “Thou art in my power,
whether to save thee or slay thee, and unless thou yield thee as
overcome and recreant, thou shalt die.” “As for death,” said King
Arthur, “welcome be it when it cometh; but to yield me unto thee as
recreant, I will not.” Then he leapt upon the knight, and took him by
the middle and threw him down; but the knight was a passing strong man,
and anon he brought Arthur under him, and would have razed off his helm
to slay him. Then said Merlin, “Knight, hold thy hand, for this knight
is a man of more worship than thou art aware of.” “Why, who is he?” said
the knight. “It is King Arthur.” Then would he have slain him for dread
of his wrath, and lifted up his sword to slay him; and therewith Merlin
cast an enchantment on the knight, so that he fell to the earth in a
great sleep. Then Merlin took up King Arthur, and set him on his horse.
“Alas!” said Arthur, “what hast thou done, Merlin? hast thou slain this
good knight by thy crafts?” “Care ye not,” said Merlin; “he is wholer
than ye be. He is only asleep, and will wake in three hours.”

Then the king and he departed, and went till they came to a hermit, that
was a good man and a great leech. So the hermit searched all his wounds,
and applied good salves; and the king was there three days, and then
were his wounds well amended, that he might ride and go. So they
departed, and as they rode Arthur said, “I have no sword.” “No matter,”
said Merlin; “hereby is a sword that shall be yours.” So they rode till
they came to a lake, which was a fair water and broad. And in the midst
of the lake Arthur was aware of an arm clothed in white samite,[45] that
held a fair sword in the hand. “Lo!” said Merlin, “yonder is that sword
that I spake of. It belongeth to the Lady of the Lake, and, if she will,
thou mayest take it; but if she will not, it will not be in thy power to
take it.”

So Sir Arthur and Merlin alighted from their horses, and went into a
boat. And when they came to the sword that the hand held Sir Arthur took
it by the handle and took it to him, and the arm and the hand went under
the water.

Then they returned unto the land and rode forth. And Sir Arthur looked
on the sword and liked it right well.

So they rode unto Caerleon, whereof his knights were passing glad. And
when they heard of his adventures they marvelled that he would jeopard
his person so alone. But all men of worship said it was a fine thing to
be under such a chieftain as would put his person in adventure as other
poor knights did.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER VI

                               SIR GAWAIN

SIR GAWAIN was nephew to King Arthur, by his sister Morgana, married to
Lot, king of Orkney, who was by Arthur made king of Norway. Sir Gawain
was one of the most famous knights of the Round Table, and is
characterized by the romancers as the _sage_ and _courteous_ Gawain. To
this Chaucer alludes in his “Squiere’s Tale,” where the strange knight
“salueth” all the court

    “With so high reverence and observance,
    As well in speeche as in countenance,
    That Gawain, with his olde curtesie,
    Though he were come agen out of faërie,
    Ne coude him not amenden with a word.”

Gawain’s brothers were Agrivain, Gahariet, and Gareth.

                         SIR GAWAIN’S MARRIAGE

Once upon a time King Arthur held his court in merry Carlisle, when a
damsel came before him and craved a boon. It was for vengeance upon a
caitiff knight, who had made her lover captive and despoiled her of her
lands. King Arthur commanded to bring him his sword, Excalibar, and to
saddle his steed, and rode forth without delay to right the lady’s
wrong. Ere long he reached the castle of the grim baron, and challenged
him to the conflict. But the castle stood on magic ground, and the spell
was such that no knight could tread thereon but straight his courage
fell and his strength decayed. King Arthur felt the charm, and before a
blow was struck, his sturdy limbs lost their strength, and his head grew
faint. He was fain to yield himself prisoner to the churlish knight, who
refused to release him except upon condition that he should return at
the end of a year, and bring a true answer to the question, “What thing
is it which women most desire?” or in default thereof surrender himself
and his lands. King Arthur accepted the terms, and gave his oath to
return at the time appointed. During the year the king rode east, and he
rode west, and inquired of all whom he met what thing it is which all
women most desire. Some told him riches; some, pomp and state; some,
mirth; some, flattery; and some, a gallant knight. But in the diversity
of answers he could find no sure dependence. The year was well-nigh
spent, when one day, as he rode thoughtfully through a forest, he saw
sitting beneath a tree a lady of such hideous aspect that he turned away
his eyes, and when she greeted him in seemly sort, made no answer. “What
wight art thou,” the lady said, “that will not speak to me? It may
chance that I may resolve thy doubts, though I be not fair of aspect.”
“If thou wilt do so,” said King Arthur, “choose what reward thou wilt,
thou grim lady, and it shall be given thee.” “Swear me this upon thy
faith,” she said, and Arthur swore it. Then the lady told him the
secret, and demanded her reward, which was that the king should find
some fair and courtly knight to be her husband.

King Arthur hastened to the grim baron’s castle and told him one by one
all the answers which he had received from his various advisers, except
the last, and not one was admitted as the true one. “Now yield thee,
Arthur,” the giant said, “for thou hast not paid thy ransom, and thou
and thy lands are forfeited to me.” Then King Arthur said:

    “Yet hold thy hand, thou proud baron,
      I pray thee hold thy hand,
    And give me leave to speak once more,
      In rescue of my land.
    This morn as I came over a moor,
      I saw a lady set,
    Between an oak and a green holly,
      All clad in red scarlett.
    She says _all women would have their will_,
      This is their chief desire;
    Now yield, as thou art a baron true,
      That I have paid my hire.”

“It was my sister that told thee this,” the churlish baron exclaimed.
“Vengeance light on her! I will some time or other do her as ill a
turn.”

King Arthur rode homeward, but not light of heart, for he remembered the
promise he was under to the loathly lady to give her one of his young
and gallant knights for a husband. He told his grief to Sir Gawain, his
nephew, and he replied, “Be not sad, my lord, for I will marry the
loathly lady.” King Arthur replied:

    “Now nay, now nay, good Sir Gawaine,
      My sister’s son ye be;
    The loathly lady’s all too grim,
      And all too foule for thee.”

But Gawain persisted, and the king at last, with sorrow of heart,
consented that Gawain should be his ransom. So one day the king and his
knights rode to the forest, met the loathly lady, and brought her to the
court. Sir Gawain stood the scoffs and jeers of his companions as he
best might, and the marriage was solemnized, but not with the usual
festivities. Chaucer tells us:

    “. . . There was no joye ne feste at alle;
    There n’ as but hevinesse and mochel sorwe,
    For prively he wed her on the morwe,
    And all day after hid him as an owle,
    So we was him his wife loked so foule!”[46]

When night came, and they were alone together, Sir Gawain could not
conceal his aversion; and the lady asked him why he sighed so heavily,
and turned away his face. He candidly confessed it was on account of
three things, her age, her ugliness, and her low degree. The lady, not
at all offended, replied with excellent arguments to all his objections.
She showed him that with age is discretion, with ugliness security from
rivals, and that all true gentility depends, not upon the accident of
birth, but upon the character of the individual.

Sir Gawain made no reply; but, turning his eyes on his bride, what was
his amazement to perceive that she wore no longer the unseemly aspect
that had so distressed him. She then told him that the form she had worn
was not her true form, but a disguise imposed upon her by a wicked
enchanter, and that she was condemned to wear it until two things should
happen: one, that she should obtain some young and gallant knight to be
her husband. This having been done, one-half of the charm was removed.
She was now at liberty to wear her true form for half the time, and she
bade him choose whether he would have her fair by day, and ugly by
night, or the reverse. Sir Gawain would fain have had her look her best
by night, when he alone would see her, and show her repulsive visage, if
at all, to others. But she reminded him how much more pleasant it would
be to her to wear her best looks in the throng of knights and ladies by
day. Sir Gawain yielded, and gave up his will to hers. This alone was
wanting to dissolve the charm. The lovely lady now with joy assured him
that she should change no more, but as she now was, so would she remain
by night as well as by day.

    “Sweet blushes stayned her rud-red cheek,
      Her eyen were black as sloe,
    The ripening cherrye swelled her lippe,
      And all her neck was snow.
    Sir Gawain kist that ladye faire
      Lying upon the sheete,
    And swore, as he was a true knight,
      The spice was never so swete.”

The dissolution of the charm which had held the lady also released her
brother, the “grim baron,” for he too had been implicated in it. He
ceased to be a churlish oppressor, and became a gallant and generous
knight as any at Arthur’s court.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER VII

          CARADOC BRIEFBRAS; OR, CARADOC WITH THE SHRUNKEN ARM

CARADOC was the son of Ysenne, the beautiful niece of Arthur. He was
ignorant who his father was, till it was discovered in the following
manner: When the youth was of proper years to receive the honors of
knighthood, King Arthur held a grand court for the purpose of knighting
him. On this occasion a strange knight presented himself, and challenged
the knights of Arthur’s court to exchange blow for blow with him. His
proposal was this—to lay his neck on a block for any knight to strike,
on condition that, if he survived the blow, the knight should submit in
turn to the same experiment. Sir Kay, who was usually ready to accept
all challenges, pronounced this wholly unreasonable, and declared that
he would not accept it for all the wealth in the world. And when the
knight offered his sword, with which the operation was to be performed,
no person ventured to accept it, till Caradoc, growing angry at the
disgrace which was thus incurred by the Round Table, threw aside his
mantle and took it. “Do you do this as one of the best knights?” said
the stranger. “No,” he replied, “but as one of the most foolish.” The
stranger lays his head upon the block, receives a blow which sends it
rolling from his shoulders, walks after it, picks it up, replaces it
with great success, and says he will return when the court shall be
assembled next year, and claim his turn. When the anniversary arrived,
both parties were punctual to their engagement. Great entreaties were
used by the king and queen, and the whole court, in behalf of Caradoc,
but the stranger was inflexible. The young knight laid his head upon the
block, and more than once desired him to make an end of the business,
and not keep him longer in so disagreeable a state of expectation. At
last the stranger strikes him gently with the side of the sword, bids
him rise, and reveals to him the fact that he is his father, the
enchanter Eliaures, and that he gladly owns him for a son, having proved
his courage and fidelity to his word.

But the favor of enchanters is short-lived and uncertain. Eliaures fell
under the influence of a wicked woman, who, to satisfy her pique against
Caradoc, persuaded the enchanter to fasten on his arm a serpent, which
remained there sucking at his flesh and blood, no human skill sufficing
either to remove the reptile or alleviate the torments which Caradoc
endured.

Caradoc was betrothed to Guimier, sister to his bosom friend, Cador, and
daughter to the king of Cornwall. As soon as they were informed of his
deplorable condition, they set out for Nantes, where Caradoc’s castle
was, that Guimier might attend upon him. When Caradoc heard of their
coming, his first emotion was that of joy and love. But soon he began to
fear that the sight of his emaciated form, and of his sufferings, would
disgust Guimier; and this apprehension became so strong, that he
departed secretly from Nantes, and hid himself in a hermitage. He was
sought far and near by the knights of Arthur’s court, and Cador made a
vow never to desist from the quest till he should have found him. After
long wandering, Cador discovered his friend in the hermitage, reduced
almost to a skeleton, and apparently near his death. All other means of
relief having already been tried in vain, Cador at last prevailed on the
enchanter Eliaures to disclose the only method which could avail for his
rescue. A maiden must be found, his equal in birth and beauty, and
loving him better than herself, so that she would expose herself to the
same torment to deliver him. Two vessels were then to be provided, the
one filled with sour wine, and the other with milk. Caradoc must enter
the first, so that the wine should reach his neck, and the maiden must
get into the other, and, exposing her bosom upon the edge of the vessel,
invite the serpent to forsake the withered flesh of his victim for this
fresh and inviting food. The vessels were to be placed three feet apart,
and as the serpent crossed from one to the other, a knight was to cut
him in two. If he failed in his blow, Caradoc would indeed be delivered,
but it would be only to see his fair champion suffering the same cruel
and hopeless torment. The sequel may be easily foreseen. Guimier
willingly exposed herself to the perilous adventure, and Cador, with a
lucky blow, killed the serpent. The arm in which Caradoc had suffered so
long recovered its strength, but not its shape, in consequence of which
he was called Caradoc Briefbras, Caradoc of the Shrunken Arm.

Caradoc and Guimier are the hero and heroine of the ballad of the “Boy
and the Mantle,” which follows:

         “THE BOY AND THE MANTLE

    “In Carlisle dwelt King Arthur,
      A prince of passing might,
    And there maintained his Table Round,
      Beset with many a knight.

    “And there he kept his Christmas,
      With mirth and princely cheer,
    When lo! a strange and cunning boy
      Before him did appear.

    “A kirtle and a mantle
      This boy had him upon,
    With brooches, rings, and ouches,
      Full daintily bedone.

    “He had a sash of silk
      About his middle meet;
    And thus with seemly curtesie
      He did King Arthur greet:

    “‘God speed thee, brave King Arthur.
      Thus feasting in thy bower,
    And Guenever, thy goodly queen,
      That fair and peerless flower.

    “‘Ye gallant lords and lordlings,
      I wish you all take heed,
    Lest what ye deem a blooming rose
      Should prove a cankered weed.’

    “Then straightway from his bosom
      A little wand he drew;
    And with it eke a mantle,
      Of wondrous shape and hue.

    “Now have thou here, King Arthur,
      Have this here of me,
    And give unto thy comely queen,
      All shapen as you see.

    “‘No wife it shall become,
      That once hath been to blame.’
    Then every knight in Arthur’s court
      Sly glanced at his dame.

    “And first came Lady Guenever,
      The mantle she must try.
    This dame she was new-fangled,[47]
      And of a roving eye.

    “When she had taken the mantle,
      And all with it was clad,
    From top to toe it shivered down,
      As though with shears beshred.

    “One while it was too long,
      Another while too short,
    And wrinkled on her shoulders,
      In most unseemly sort.

    “Now green, now red it seemed,
      Then all of sable hue;
    ‘Beshrew me,’ quoth King Arthur,
      ‘I think thou be’st not true!’

    “Down she threw the mantle,
      No longer would she stay;
    But, storming like a fury,
      To her chamber flung away.

    “She cursed the rascal weaver,
      That had the mantle wrought;
    And doubly cursed the froward imp
      Who thither had it brought.

    “‘I had rather live in deserts,
      Beneath the greenwood tree,
    Than here, base king, among thy grooms
      The sport of them and thee.’

    “Sir Kay called forth his lady,
      And bade her to come near:
    ‘Yet dame, if thou be guilty,
      I pray thee now forbear.’

    “This lady, pertly giggling,
      With forward step came on,
    And boldly to the little boy
      With fearless face is gone.

    “When she had taken the mantle,
      With purpose for to wear,
    It shrunk up to her shoulder,
      And left her back all bare.

    “Then every merry knight,
      That was in Arthur’s court,
    Gibed and laughed and flouted,
      To see that pleasant sport.

    “Down she threw the mantle,
      No longer bold or gay,
    But, with a face all pale and wan,
      To her chamber slunk away.

    “Then forth came an old knight
      A pattering o’er his creed,
    And proffered to the little boy
      Five nobles to his meed:

    “‘And all the time of Christmas
      Plum-porridge shall be thine,
    If thou wilt let my lady fair
      Within the mantle shine.’

    “A saint his lady seemed,
      With step demure and slow,
    And gravely to the mantle
      With mincing face doth go.

    “When she the same had taken
      That was so fine and thin,
    It shrivelled all about her,
      And showed her dainty skin.

    “Ah! little did her mincing,
      Or his long prayers bestead;
    She had no more hung on her
      Than a tassel and a thread.

    “Down she threw the mantle,
      With terror and dismay,
    And with a face of scarlet
      To her chamber hied away.

    “Sir Cradock called his lady,
      And bade her to come near:
    ‘Come win this mantle, lady,
      And do me credit here:

    “‘Come win this mantle, lady,
      For now it shall be thine,
    If thou hast never done amiss,
      Since first I made thee mine.’

    “The lady, gently blushing,
      With modest grace came on;
    And now to try the wondrous charm
      Courageously is gone.

    “When she had ta’en the mantle,
      And put it on her back,
    About the hem it seemed
      To wrinkle and to crack.

    “‘Lie still,’ she cried, ‘O mantle!
      And shame me not for naught;
    I’ll freely own whate’er amiss
      Or blameful I have wrought.

    “‘Once I kissed Sir Cradock
      Beneath the greenwood tree;
    Once I kissed Sir Cradock’s mouth,
      Before he married me.’

    “When she had thus her shriven,
      And her worst fault had told,
    The mantle soon became her,
      Right comely as it should.

    “Most rich and fair of color,
      Like gold it glittering shone,
    And much the knights in Arthur’s court
      Admired her every one.”

The ballad goes on to tell of two more trials of a similar kind, made by
means of a boar’s head and a drinking horn, in both of which the result
was equally favorable with the first to Sir Cradock and his lady. It
then concludes as follows:

    “Thus boar’s head, horn, and mantle
      Were this fair couple’s meed;
    And all such constant lovers,
      God send them well to speed.”
                   —_Percy’s Reliques._

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER VIII

                         LAUNCELOT OF THE LAKE

KING BAN, of Brittany, the faithful ally of Arthur was attacked by his
enemy Claudas, and after a long war saw himself reduced to the
possession of a single fortress, where he was besieged by his enemy. In
this extremity he determined to solicit the assistance of Arthur, and
escaped in a dark night, with his wife Helen and his infant son
Launcelot, leaving his castle in the hands of his seneschal, who
immediately surrendered the place to Claudas. The flames of his burning
citadel reached the eyes of the unfortunate monarch during his flight
and he expired with grief. The wretched Helen, leaving her child on the
brink of a lake, flew to receive the last sighs of her husband, and on
returning perceived the little Launcelot in the arms of a nymph, who, on
the approach of the queen, threw herself into the lake with the child.
This nymph was Viviane, mistress of the enchanter Merlin, better known
by the name of the Lady of the Lake. Launcelot received his appellation
from having been educated at the court of this enchantress, whose palace
was situated in the midst, not of a real, but, like the appearance which
deceives the African traveller, of an imaginary lake, whose deluding
resemblance served as a barrier to her residence. Here she dwelt not
alone, but in the midst of a numerous retinue, and a splendid court of
knights and damsels.

The queen, after her double loss, retired to a convent, where she was
joined by the widow of Bohort, for this good king had died of grief on
hearing of the death of his brother Ban. His two sons, Lionel and
Bohort, were rescued by a faithful knight, and arrived in the shape of
greyhounds at the palace of the lake, where, having resumed their
natural form, they were educated along with their cousin Launcelot.

The fairy, when her pupil had attained the age of eighteen, conveyed him
to the court of Arthur for the purpose of demanding his admission to the
honor of knighthood; and at the first appearance of the youthful
candidate the graces of his person, which were not inferior to his
courage and skill in arms, made an instantaneous and indelible
impression on the heart of Guenever, while her charms inspired him with
an equally ardent and constant passion. The mutual attachment of these
lovers exerted, from that time forth, an influence over the whole
history of Arthur. For the sake of Guenever, Launcelot achieved the
conquest of Northumberland, defeated Gallehaut, King of the Marches, who
afterwards became his most faithful friend and ally, exposed himself in
numberless encounters, and brought hosts of prisoners to the feet of his
sovereign.

                             SIR LAUNCELOT

After King Arthur was come from Rome into England all the knights of the
Table Round resorted unto him and made him many justs and tournaments.
And in especial Sir Launcelot of the Lake in all tournaments and justs
and deeds of arms, both for life and death, passed all other knights,
and was never overcome, except it were by treason or enchantment; and he
increased marvellously in worship, wherefore Queen Guenever had him in
great favor, above all other knights. And for certain he loved the queen
again above all other ladies; and for her he did many deeds of arms, and
saved her from peril, through his noble chivalry. Thus Sir Launcelot
rested him long with play and game, and then he thought to prove himself
in strange adventures; so he bade his nephew, Sir Lionel, to make him
ready,—“for we two will seek adventures.” So they mounted on their
horses, armed at all sights, and rode into a forest, and so into a deep
plain. And the weather was hot about noon, and Sir Launcelot had great
desire to sleep. Then Sir Lionel espied a great apple-tree that stood by
a hedge, and he said: “Brother, yonder is a fair shadow—there may we
rest us and our horses.” “It is well said,” replied Sir Launcelot. So
they there alighted, and Sir Launcelot laid him down, and his helm under
his head, and soon was asleep passing fast. And Sir Lionel waked while
he slept. And presently there came three knights riding as fast as ever
they might ride, and there followed them but one knight. And Sir Lionel
thought he never saw so great a knight before. So within a while this
great knight overtook one of those knights, and smote him so that he
fell to the earth. Then he rode to the second knight and smote him, and
so he did to the third knight. Then he alighted down and bound all the
three knights fast with their own bridles. When Sir Lionel saw him do
thus, he thought to assay him, and made him ready silently, not to awake
Sir Launcelot, and rode after the strong knight, and bade him turn. And
the other smote Sir Lionel so hard that horse and man fell to the earth;
and then he alighted down and bound Sir Lionel, and threw him across his
own horse; and so he served them all four, and rode with them away to
his own castle. And when he came there he put them in a deep prison, in
which were many more knights in great distress.

Now while Sir Launcelot lay under the apple-tree sleeping, there came by
him four queens of great estate. And that the heat should not grieve
them, there rode four knights about them, and bare a cloth of green silk
on four spears, betwixt them and the sun. And the queens rode on four
white mules.

Thus as they rode they heard by them a great horse grimly neigh. Then
they were aware of a sleeping knight, that lay all armed under an
apple-tree; and as the queens looked on his face, they knew it was Sir
Launcelot. Then they began to strive for that knight, and each one said
she would have him for her love. “We will not strive,” said Morgane le
Fay, that was King Arthur’s sister, “for I will put an enchantment upon
him, that he shall not wake for six hours, and we will take him away to
my castle; and then when he is surely within my hold, I will take the
enchantment from him, and then let him choose which of us he will have
for his love.” So the enchantment was cast upon Sir Launcelot. And then
they laid him upon his shield, and bare him so on horseback between two
knights, and brought him unto the castle and laid him in a chamber, and
at night they sent him his supper.

And on the morning came early those four queens, richly dight, and bade
him good morning, and he them again. “Sir knight,” they said, “thou must
understand thou art our prisoner; and we know thee well, that thou art
Sir Launcelot of the Lake, King Ban’s son, and that thou art the noblest
knight living. And we know well that there can no lady have thy love but
one, and that is Queen Guenever; and now thou shalt lose her for ever,
and she thee; and therefore it behooveth thee now to choose one of us. I
am the Queen Morgane le Fay, and here is the Queen of North Wales, and
the Queen of Eastland, and the Queen of the Isles. Now choose one of us
which thou wilt have, for if thou choose not, in this prison thou shalt
die.” “This is a hard case,” said Sir Launcelot, “that either I must
die, or else choose one of you; yet had I liever to die in this prison
with worship, than to have one of you for my paramour, for ye be false
enchantresses.” “Well,” said the queens, “is this your answer, that ye
will refuse us.” “Yea, on my life it is,” said Sir Launcelot. Then they
departed, making great sorrow.

Then at noon came a damsel unto him with his dinner, and asked him,
“What cheer?” “Truly, fair damsel,” said Sir Launcelot, “never so ill.”
“Sir,” said she, “if you will be ruled by me, I will help you out of
this distress. If ye will promise me to help my father on Tuesday next,
who hath made a tournament betwixt him and the king of North Wales; for
last Tuesday my father lost the field.” “Fair maiden,” said Sir
Launcelot, “tell me what is your father’s name, and then will I give you
an answer.” “Sir knight,” she said, “my father is King Bagdemagus.” “I
know him well,” said Sir Launcelot, “for a noble king and a good knight;
and, by the faith of my body, I will be ready to do your father and you
service at that day.”

So she departed, and came on the next morning early and found him ready,
and brought him out of twelve locks, and brought him to his own horse,
and lightly he saddled him, and so rode forth.

And on the Tuesday next he came to a little wood where the tournament
should be. And there were scaffolds and holds, that lords and ladies
might look on, and give the prize. Then came into the field the king of
North Wales, with eightscore helms, and King Badgemagus came with
fourscore helms. And then they couched their spears, and came together
with a great dash, and there were overthrown at the first encounter
twelve of King Bagdemagus’s party and six of the king of North Wales’s
party, and King Bagdemagus’s party had the worse.

With that came Sir Launcelot of the Lake, and thrust in with his spear
in the thickest of the press; and he smote down five knights ere he held
his hand; and he smote down the king of North Wales, and he brake his
thigh in that fall. And then the knights of the king of North Wales
would just no more; and so the gree was given to King Bagdemagus.

And Sir Launcelot rode forth with King Bagdemagus unto his castle; and
there he had passing good cheer, both with the king and with his
daughter. And on the morn he took his leave, and told the king he would
go and seek his brother, Sir Lionel, that went from him when he slept.
So he departed, and by adventure he came to the same forest where he was
taken sleeping. And in the highway he met a damsel riding on a white
palfrey, and they saluted each other. “Fair damsel,” said Sir Launcelot,
“know ye in this country any adventures?” “Sir knight,” said the damsel,
“here are adventures near at hand, if thou durst pursue them.” “Why
should I not prove adventures?” said Sir Launcelot, “since for that
cause came I hither.” “Sir,” said she, “hereby dwelleth a knight that
will not be overmatched for any man I know, except thou overmatch him.
His name is Sir Turquine, and, as I understand, he is a deadly enemy of
King Arthur, and he has in his prison good knights of Arthur’s court,
threescore and more, that he hath won with his own hands.” “Damsel,”
said Launcelot, “I pray you bring me unto this knight.” So she told him,
“Hereby, within this mile, is his castle, and by it on the left hand is
a ford for horses to drink of, and over that ford there groweth a fair
tree, and on that tree hang many shields that good knights wielded
aforetime, that are now prisoners; and on the tree hangeth a basin of
copper and latten, and if thou strike upon that basin thou shalt hear
tidings.” And Sir Launcelot departed, and rode as the damsel had shown
him, and shortly he came to the ford, and the tree where hung the
shields and the basin. And among the shields he saw Sir Lionel’s and Sir
Hector’s shields, besides many others of knights that he knew.

Then Sir Launcelot struck on the basin with the butt of his spear; and
long he did so, but he saw no man. And at length he was ware of a great
knight that drove a horse before him, and across the horse there lay an
armed knight bounden. And as they came near, Sir Launcelot thought he
should know the captive knight. Then Sir Launcelot saw that it was Sir
Gaheris, Sir Gawain’s brother, a knight of the Table Round. “Now, fair
knight,” said Sir Launcelot, “put that wounded knight off the horse, and
let him rest awhile, and let us two prove our strength. For, as it is
told me, thou hast done great despite and shame unto knights of the
Round Table, therefore now defend thee.” “If thou be of the Table
Round,” said Sir Turquine, “I defy thee and all thy fellowship.” “That
is overmuch said,” said Sir Launcelot.

Then they put their spears in the rests, and came together with their
horses as fast as they might run. And each smote the other in the middle
of their shields, so that their horses fell under them, and the knights
were both staggered; and as soon as they could clear their horses they
drew out their swords and came together eagerly, and each gave the other
many strong strokes, for neither shield nor harness might withstand
their strokes. So within a while both had grimly wounds, and bled
grievously. Then at the last they were breathless both, and stood
leaning upon their swords. “Now, fellow,” said Sir Turquine, “thou art
the stoutest man that ever I met with, and best breathed; and so be it
thou be not the knight that I hate above all other knights, the knight
that slew my brother, Sir Carados, I will gladly accord with thee; and
for thy love I will deliver all the prisoners that I have.”

“What knight is he that thou hatest so above others?” “Truly,” said Sir
Turquine, “his name is Sir Launcelot of the Lake.” “I am Sir Launcelot
of the Lake, King Ban’s son of Benwick, and very knight of the Table
Round; and now I defy thee do thy best.” “Ah!” said Sir Turquine,
“Launcelot, thou art to me the most welcome that ever was knight; for we
shall never part till the one of us be dead.” And then they hurtled
together like two wild bulls, rashing and lashing with their swords and
shields, so that sometimes they fell, as it were, headlong. Thus they
fought two hours and more, till the ground where they fought was all
bepurpled with blood.

Then at the last Sir Turquine waxed sore faint, and gave somewhat aback,
and bare his shield full low for weariness. That spied Sir Launcelot,
and leapt then upon him fiercely as a lion, and took him by the beaver
of his helmet, and drew him down on his knees. And he raised off his
helm, and smote his neck in sunder.

And Sir Gaheris, when he saw Sir Turquine slain, said, “Fair lord, I
pray you tell me your name, for this day I say ye are the best knight in
the world, for ye have slain this day in my sight the mightiest man and
the best knight except you that ever I saw.” “Sir, my name is Sir
Launcelot du Lac, that ought to help you of right for King Arthur’s
sake, and in especial for Sir Gawain’s sake, your own dear brother. Now
I pray you, that ye go into yonder castle, and set free all the
prisoners ye find there, for I am sure ye shall find there many knights
of the Table Round, and especially my brother Sir Lionel. I pray you
greet them all from me, and tell them I bid them take there such stuff
as they find; and tell my brother to go unto the court and abide me
there, for by the feast of Pentecost I think to be there; but at this
time I may not stop, for I have adventures on hand.” So he departed, and
Sir Gaheris rode into the castle, and took the keys from the porter, and
hastily opened the prison door and let out all the prisoners. There was
Sir Kay, Sir Brandeles, and Sir Galynde, Sir Bryan, and Sir Alyduke, Sir
Hector de Marys, and Sir Lionel, and many more. And when they saw Sir
Gaheris they all thanked him, for they thought, because he was wounded,
that he had slain Sir Turquine. “Not so,” said Sir Gaheris; “it was Sir
Launcelot that slew him, right worshipfully; I saw it with mine eyes.”

Sir Launcelot rode till at nightfall he came to a fair castle, and
therein he found an old gentlewoman, who lodged him with good-will, and
there he had good cheer for him and his horse. And when time was, his
host brought him to a fair chamber over the gate to his bed. Then Sir
Launcelot unarmed him, and set his harness by him, and went to bed, and
anon he fell asleep. And soon after, there came one on horseback and
knocked at the gate in great haste; and when Sir Launcelot heard this,
he arose and looked out of the window, and saw by the moonlight three
knights riding after that one man, and all three lashed on him with
their swords, and that one knight turned on them knightly again and
defended himself. “Truly,” said Sir Launcelot, “yonder one knight will I
help, for it is shame to see three knights on one.” Then he took his
harness and went out at the window by a sheet down to the four knights;
and he said aloud, “Turn you knights unto me, and leave your fighting
with that knight.” Then the knights left Sir Kay, for it was he they
were upon, and turned unto Sir Launcelot, and struck many great strokes
at Sir Launcelot, and assailed him on every side. Then Sir Kay addressed
him to help Sir Launcelot, but he said, “Nay, sir, I will none of your
help; let me alone with them.” So Sir Kay suffered him to do his will,
and stood one side. And within six strokes Sir Launcelot had stricken
them down.

Then they all cried, “Sir knight, we yield us unto you.” “As to that,”
said Sir Launcelot, “I will not take your yielding unto me. If so be ye
will yield you unto Sir Kay the Seneschal, I will save your lives, but
else not.” “Fair knight,” then they said, “we will do as thou commandest
us.” “Then shall ye,” said Sir Launcelot, “on Whitsunday next, go unto
the court of King Arthur, and there shall ye yield you unto Queen
Guenever, and say that Sir Kay sent you thither to be her prisoners.”
“Sir,” they said, “it shall be done, by the faith of our bodies;” and
then they swore, every knight upon his sword. And so Sir Launcelot
suffered them to depart.

On the morn Sir Launcelot rose early and left Sir Kay sleeping; and Sir
Launcelot took Sir Kay’s armor, and his shield, and armed him, and went
to the stable and took his horse, and so he departed. Then soon after
arose Sir Kay, and missed Sir Launcelot. And then he espied that he had
taken his armor and his horse. “Now, by my faith, I know well,” said Sir
Kay, “that he will grieve some of King Arthur’s knights, for they will
deem that it is I, and will be bold to meet him. But by cause of his
armor I am sure I shall ride in peace.” Then Sir Kay thanked his host
and departed.

Sir Launcelot rode in a deep forest, and there he saw four knights,
under an oak, and they were of Arthur’s court. There was Sir Sagramour
le Desirus, and Hector de Marys, and Sir Gawain, and Sir Uwaine. As they
spied Sir Launcelot they judged by his arms it had been Sir Kay. “Now,
by my faith,” said Sir Sagramour, “I will prove Sir Kay’s might;” and
got his spear in his hand, and came towards Sir Launcelot. Therewith Sir
Launcelot couched his spear against him, and smote Sir Sagramour so sore
that horse and man fell both to the earth. Then said Sir Hector, “Now
shall ye see what I may do with him.” But he fared worse than Sir
Sagramour, for Sir Launcelot’s spear went through his shoulder and bare
him from his horse to the ground. “By my faith,” said Sir Uwaine,
“yonder is a strong knight, and I fear he hath slain Sir Kay, and taken
his armor.” And therewith Sir Uwaine took his spear in hand, and rode
toward Sir Launcelot; and Sir Launcelot met him on the plain and gave
him such a buffet that he was staggered, and wist not where he was. “Now
see I well,” said Sir Gawain, “that I must encounter with that knight.”
Then he adjusted his shield, and took a good spear in his hand, and Sir
Launcelot knew him well. Then they let run their horses with all their
mights, and each knight smote the other in the middle of his shield. But
Sir Gawain’s spear broke, and Sir Launcelot charged so sore upon him
that his horse fell over backward. Then Sir Launcelot passed by smiling
with himself, and he said, “Good luck be with him that made this spear,
for never came a better into my hand.” Then the four knights went each
to the other and comforted one another. “What say ye to this adventure,”
said Sir Gawain, “that one spear hath felled us all four?” “I dare lay
my head it is Sir Launcelot,” said Sir Hector; “I know it by his
riding.”

And Sir Launcelot rode through many strange countries, till by fortune
he came to a fair castle; and as he passed beyond the castle he thought
he heard two bells ring. And then he perceived how a falcon came flying
over his head, toward a high elm; and she had long lunys[48] about her
feet, and she flew unto the elm to take her perch, and the lunys got
entangled in the bough; and when she would have taken her flight, she
hung by the legs fast, and Sir Launcelot saw how she hung, and beheld
the fair falcon entangled, and he was sorry for her. Then came a lady
out of the castle and cried aloud, “O Launcelot, Launcelot, as thou art
the flower of all knights, help me to get my hawk; for if my hawk be
lost, my lord will slay me, he is so hasty.” “What is your lord’s name?”
said Sir Launcelot. “His name is Sir Phelot, a knight that belongeth to
the king of North Wales.” “Well, fair lady, since ye know my name, and
require me of knighthood to help you, I will do what I may to get your
hawk; and yet in truth I am an ill climber, and the tree is passing
high, and few boughs to help me.” And therewith Sir Launcelot alighted
and tied his horse to the tree, and prayed the lady to unarm him. And
when he was unarmed, he put off his jerkin, and with might and force he
clomb up to the falcon, and tied the lunys to a rotten bough, and threw
the hawk down with it; and the lady got the hawk in her hand. Then
suddenly there came out of the castle her husband, all armed, and with
his naked sword in his hand, and said, “O Knight Launcelot, now have I
got thee as I would,” and stood at the boll of the tree to slay him.
“Ah, lady!” said Sir Launcelot, “why have ye betrayed me?” “She hath
done,” said Sir Phelot, “but as I commanded her; and therefore there is
none other way but thine hour is come, and thou must die.” “That were
shame unto thee,” said Sir Launcelot; “thou an armed knight to slay a
naked man by treason.” “Thou gettest none other grace,” said Sir Phelot,
“and therefore help thyself if thou canst.” “Alas!” said Sir Launcelot,
“that ever a knight should die weaponless!” And therewith he turned his
eyes upward and downward; and over his head he saw a big bough leafless,
and he brake it off from the trunk. And then he came lower, and watched
how his own horse stood; and suddenly he leapt on the further side of
his horse from the knight. Then Sir Phelot lashed at him eagerly,
meaning to have slain him. But Sir Launcelot put away the stroke, with
the big bough, and smote Sir Phelot therewith on the side of the head,
so that he fell down in a swoon to the ground. Then Sir Launcelot took
his sword out of his hand and struck his head from the body. Then said
the lady, “Alas! why hast thou slain my husband?” “I am not the cause,”
said Sir Launcelot, “for with falsehood ye would have slain me, and now
it is fallen on yourselves.” Thereupon Sir Launcelot got all his armor,
and put it upon him hastily, for fear of more resort, for the knight’s
castle was so nigh. And as soon as he might, he took his horse and
departed, and thanked God he had escaped that adventure.

And two days before the feast of Pentecost, Sir Launcelot came home; and
the king and all the court were passing glad of his coming. And when Sir
Gawain, Sir Uwaine, Sir Sagramour, and Sir Hector de Marys saw Sir
Launcelot in Sir Kay’s armor then they wist well it was he that smote
them down, all with one spear. Then there was laughing and merriment
among them; and from time to time came all the knights that Sir Turquine
had prisoners, and they all honored and worshipped Sir Launcelot. Then
Sir Gaheris said, “I saw all the battle from the beginning to the end,”
and he told King Arthur all how it was. Then Sir Kay told the king how
Sir Launcelot had rescued him, and how he “made the knights yield to me,
and not to him.” And there they were, all three, and confirmed it all.
“And, by my faith,” said Sir Kay, “because Sir Launcelot took my harness
and left me his, I rode in peace, and no man would have to do with me.”

And so at that time Sir Launcelot had the greatest name of any knight of
the world, and most was he honored of high and low.

[Illustration: THE BEGUILING OF MERLIN.
 From painting by Sir Edwin Burne-Jones.]

[Illustration: THE ROUND TABLE.
 From a photograph. This supposed relic of King Arthur and his
 Knights now hangs in the Great Hall of the Castle of Winchester
   (Camelot).]




                               CHAPTER IX

                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE CART

IT befell in the month of May, Queen Guenever called to her knights of
the Table Round, and gave them warning that early upon the morrow she
would ride a-maying into the woods and fields beside Westminster; “and I
warn you that there be none of you but he be well horsed, and that ye
all be clothed in green, either silk or cloth; and I shall bring with me
ten ladies, and every knight shall have a lady behind him, and every
knight shall have a squire and two yeoman, and all well horsed.”

    “For thus it chanced one morn when all the court,
    Green-suited, but with plumes that mock’d the May,
    Had been, their wont, a-maying.”
                                        —_Guinevere._

So they made them ready; and these were the names of the knights: Sir
Kay the Seneschal, Sir Agrivaine, Sir Brandiles, Sir Sagramour le
Desirus, Sir Dodynas le Sauvage, Sir Ozanna, Sir Ladynas, Sir Persant of
Inde, Sir Ironside, and Sir Pelleas; and these ten knights made them
ready, in the freshest manner, to ride with the queen. So upon the morn
they took their horses with the queen, and rode a-maying in woods and
meadows, as it pleased them, in great joy and delight. Now there was a
knight named Maleagans, son to King Brademagus, who loved Queen Guenever
passing well, and so had he done long and many years. Now this knight,
Sir Maleagans, learned the queen’s purpose, and that she had no men of
arms with her but the ten noble knights all arrayed in green for maying;
so he prepared him twenty men of arms, and a hundred archers, to take
captive the queen and her knights.

    “In the merry month of May,
    In a morn at break of day,
    With a troop of damsels playing,
    The Queen, forsooth, went forth a-maying.”
                                  —_Old Song._

So when the queen had mayed, and all were bedecked with herbs, mosses,
and flowers in the best manner and freshest, right then came out of a
wood Sir Maleagans with eightscore men well harnessed, and bade the
queen and her knights yield them prisoners. “Traitor knight,” said Queen
Guenever, “what wilt thou do? Wilt thou shame thyself? Bethink thee how
thou art a king’s son, and a knight of the Table Round, and how thou art
about to dishonor all knighthood and thyself?” “Be it as it may,” said
Sir Maleagans, “know you well, madam, I have loved you many a year and
never till now could I get you to such advantage as I do now; and
therefore I will take you as I find you.” Then the ten knights of the
Round Table drew their swords, and the other party run at them with
their spears, and the ten knights manfully abode them, and smote away
their spears. Then they lashed together with swords till several were
smitten to the earth. So when the queen saw her knights thus dolefully
oppressed, and needs must be slain at the last, then for pity and sorrow
she cried, “Sir Maleagans, slay not my noble knights and I will go with
you, upon this covenant, that they be led with me wheresoever thou
leadest me.” “Madame,” said Maleagans, “for your sake they shall be led
with you into my own castle, if that ye will be ruled, and ride with
me.” Then Sir Maleagans charged them all that none should depart from
the queen, for he dreaded lest Sir Launcelot should have knowledge of
what had been done.

Then the queen privily called unto her a page of her chamber that was
swiftly horsed, to whom she said, “Go thou when thou seest thy time, and
bear this ring unto Sir Launcelot, and pray him as he loveth me, that he
will see me and rescue me. And spare not thy horse,” said the queen,
“neither for water nor for land.” So the child espied his time, and
lightly he took his horse with the spurs and departed as fast as he
might. And when Sir Maleagans saw him so flee, he understood that it was
by the queen’s commandment for to warn Sir Launcelot. Then they that
were best horsed chased him, and shot at him, but the child went from
them all. Then Sir Maleagans said to the queen, “Madam, ye are about to
betray me, but I shall arrange for Sir Launcelot that he shall not come
lightly at you.” Then he rode with her and them all to his castle, in
all the haste that they might. And by the way Sir Maleagans laid in
ambush the best archers that he had to wait for Sir Launcelot. And the
child came to Westminster and found Sir Launcelot and told his message
and delivered him the queen’s ring. “Alas!” said Sir Launcelot, “now am
I shamed for ever, unless I may rescue that noble lady.” Then eagerly he
asked his armor and put it on him, and mounted his horse and rode as
fast as he might; and men say he took the water at Westminster Bridge,
and made his horse swim over Thames unto Lambeth. Then within a while he
came to a wood where was a narrow way; and there the archers were laid
in ambush. And they shot at him and smote his horse so that he fell.
Then Sir Launcelot left his horse and went on foot, but there lay so
many ditches and hedges betwixt the archers and him that he might not
meddle with them. “Alas! for shame,” said Sir Launcelot, “that ever one
knight should betray another! but it is an old saw, a good man is never
in danger, but when he is in danger of a coward.” Then Sir Launcelot
went awhile and he was exceedingly cumbered by his armor, his shield,
and his spear, and all that belonged to him. Then by chance there came
by him a cart that came thither to fetch wood.

Now at this time carts were little used except for carrying offal and
for conveying criminals to execution. But Sir Launcelot took no thought
of anything but the necessity of haste for the purpose of rescuing the
queen; so he demanded of the carter that he should take him in and
convey him as speedily as possible for a liberal reward. The carter
consented, and Sir Launcelot placed himself in the cart and only
lamented that with much jolting he made but little progress. Then it
happened Sir Gawain passed by and seeing an armed knight travelling in
that unusual way he drew near to see who it might be. Then Sir Launcelot
told him how the queen had been carried off, and how, in hastening to
her rescue, his horse had been disabled and he had been compelled to
avail himself of the cart rather than give up his enterprise. Then Sir
Gawain said, “Surely it is unworthy of a knight to travel in such sort;”
but Sir Launcelot heeded him not.

At nightfall they arrived at a castle and the lady thereof came out at
the head of her damsels to welcome Sir Gawain. But to admit his
companion, whom she supposed to be a criminal, or at least a prisoner,
it pleased her not; however, to oblige Sir Gawain, she consented. At
supper Sir Launcelot came near being consigned to the kitchen and was
only admitted to the lady’s table at the earnest solicitation of Sir
Gawain. Neither would the damsels prepare a bed for him. He seized the
first he found unoccupied and was left undisturbed.

Next morning he saw from the turrets of the castle a train accompanying
a lady, whom he imagined to be the queen. Sir Gawain thought it might be
so, and became equally eager to depart. The lady of the castle supplied
Sir Launcelot with a horse and they traversed the plain at full speed.
They learned from some travellers whom they met, that there were two
roads which led to the castle of Sir Maleagans. Here therefore the
friends separated. Sir Launcelot found his way beset with obstacles,
which he encountered successfully, but not without much loss of time. As
evening approached he was met by a young and sportive damsel, who gayly
proposed to him a supper at her castle. The knight, who was hungry and
weary, accepted the offer, though with no very good grace. He followed
the lady to her castle and ate voraciously of her supper, but was quite
impenetrable to all her amorous advances. Suddenly the scene changed and
he was assailed by six furious ruffians, whom he dealt with so
vigorously that most of them were speedily disabled, when again there
was a change and he found himself alone with his fair hostess, who
informed him that she was none other than his guardian fairy, who had
but subjected him to tests of his courage and fidelity. The next day the
fairy brought him on his road, and before parting gave him a ring, which
she told him would by its changes of color disclose to him all
enchantments, and enable him to subdue them.

Sir Launcelot pursued his journey, without being much incommoded except
by the taunts of travellers, who all seemed to have learned, by some
means, his disgraceful drive in the cart. One, more insolent than the
rest, had the audacity to interrupt him during dinner, and even to risk
a battle in support of his pleasantry. Launcelot, after an easy victory,
only doomed him to be carted in his turn.

At night he was received at another castle, with great apparent
hospitality, but found himself in the morning in a dungeon, and loaded
with chains. Consulting his ring, and finding that this was an
enchantment, he burst his chains, seized his armor in spite of the
visionary monsters who attempted to defend it, broke open the gates of
the tower, and continued his journey. At length his progress was checked
by a wide and rapid torrent, which could only be passed on a narrow
bridge, on which a false step would prove his destruction. Launcelot,
leading his horse by the bridle, and making him swim by his side, passed
over the bridge, and was attacked as soon as he reached the bank by a
lion and a leopard, both of which he slew, and then, exhausted and
bleeding, seated himself on the grass, and endeavored to bind up his
wounds, when he was accosted by Brademagus, the father of Maleagans,
whose castle was then in sight, and at no great distance. This king, no
less courteous than his son was haughty and insolent, after
complimenting Sir Launcelot on the valor and skill he had displayed in
the perils of the bridge and the wild beasts, offered him his
assistance, and informed him that the queen was safe in his castle, but
could only be rescued by encountering Maleagans. Launcelot demanded the
battle for the next day, and accordingly it took place, at the foot of
the tower, and under the eyes of the fair captive. Launcelot was
enfeebled by his wounds, and fought not with his usual spirit, and the
contest for a time was doubtful; till Guenever exclaimed, “Ah,
Launcelot! my knight, truly have I been told that thou art no longer
worthy of me!” These words instantly revived the drooping knight; he
resumed at once his usual superiority, and soon laid at his feet his
haughty adversary.

He was on the point of sacrificing him to his resentment, when Guenever,
moved by the entreaties of Brademagus, ordered him to withhold the blow,
and he obeyed. The castle and its prisoners were now at his disposal.
Launcelot hastened to the apartment of the queen, threw himself at her
feet, and was about to kiss her hand, when she exclaimed, “Ah,
Launcelot! why do I see thee again, yet feel thee to be no longer worthy
of me, after having been disgracefully drawn about the country in a—”
She had not time to finish the phrase, for her lover suddenly started
from her, and, bitterly lamenting that he had incurred the displeasure
of his sovereign lady, rushed out of the castle, threw his sword and his
shield to the right and left, ran furiously into the woods, and
disappeared.

It seems that the story of the abominable cart, which haunted Launcelot
at every step, had reached the ears of Sir Kay, who had told it to the
queen, as a proof that her knight must have been dishonored. But
Guenever had full leisure to repent the haste with which she had given
credit to the tale. Three days elapsed, during which Launcelot wandered
without knowing where he went, till at last he began to reflect that his
mistress had doubtless been deceived by misrepresentation, and that it
was his duty to set her right. He therefore returned, compelled
Maleagans to release his prisoners, and, taking the road by which they
expected the arrival of Sir Gawain, had the satisfaction of meeting him
the next day; after which the whole company proceeded gayly towards
Camelot.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER X

                          THE LADY OF SHALOTT

KING ARTHUR proclaimed a solemn tournament to be held at Winchester. The
king, not less impatient than his knights for this festival, set off
some days before to superintend the preparations, leaving the queen with
her court at Camelot. Sir Launcelot, under pretence of indisposition,
remained behind also. His intention was to attend the tournament in
disguise; and having communicated his project to Guenever, he mounted
his horse, set off without any attendant, and, counterfeiting the
feebleness of age, took the most unfrequented road to Winchester, and
passed unnoticed as an old knight who was going to be a spectator of the
sports. Even Arthur and Gawain, who happened to behold him from the
windows of a castle under which he passed, were the dupes of his
disguise. But an accident betrayed him. His horse happened to stumble,
and the hero, forgetting for a moment his assumed character, recovered
the animal with a strength and agility so peculiar to himself, that they
instantly recognized the inimitable Launcelot. They suffered him,
however, to proceed on his journey without interruption, convinced that
his extraordinary feats of arms must discover him at the approaching
festival.

In the evening Launcelot was magnificently entertained as a stranger
knight at the neighboring castle of Shalott. The lord of this castle had
a daughter of exquisite beauty, and two sons lately received into the
order of knighthood, one of whom was at that time ill in bed, and
thereby prevented from attending the tournament, for which both brothers
had long made preparation. Launcelot offered to attend the other, if he
were permitted to borrow the armor of the invalid, and the lord of
Shalott, without knowing the name of his guest, being satisfied from his
appearance that his son could not have a better assistant in arms, most
thankfully accepted the offer. In the meantime the young lady, who had
been much struck by the first appearance of the stranger knight,
continued to survey him with increased attention, and, before the
conclusion of supper, became so deeply enamoured of him, that after
frequent changes of color, and other symptoms which Sir Launcelot could
not possibly mistake, she was obliged to retire to her chamber, and seek
relief in tears. Sir Launcelot hastened to convey to her, by means of
her brother, the information that his heart was already disposed of, but
that it would be his pride and pleasure to act as her knight at the
approaching tournament. The lady, obliged to be satisfied with that
courtesy, presented him her scarf to be worn at the tournament.

Launcelot set off in the morning with the young knight, who, on their
approaching Winchester, carried him to the castle of a lady, sister to
the lord of Shalott, by whom they were hospitably entertained. The next
day they put on their armor, which was perfectly plain and without any
device, as was usual to youths during the first year of knighthood,
their shields being only painted red, as some color was necessary to
enable them to be recognized by their attendants. Launcelot wore on his
crest the scarf of the maid of Shalott, and, thus equipped, proceeded to
the tournament, where the knights were divided into two companies, the
one commanded by Sir Galehaut, the other by King Arthur. Having surveyed
the combat for a short time from without the lists, and observed that
Sir Galehaut’s party began to give way, they joined the press and
attacked the royal knights, the young man choosing such adversaries as
were suited to his strength, while his companion selected the principal
champions of the Round Table, and successively overthrew Gawain, Bohort,
and Lionel. The astonishment of the spectators was extreme, for it was
thought that no one but Launcelot could possess such invincible force;
yet the favor on his crest seemed to preclude the possibility of his
being thus disguised, for Launcelot had never been known to wear the
badge of any but his sovereign lady. At length Sir Hector, Launcelot’s
brother, engaged him, and, after a dreadful combat, wounded him
dangerously in the head, but was himself completely stunned by a blow on
the helmet, and felled to the ground; after which the conqueror rode off
at full speed, attended by his companion.

They returned to the castle of Shalott, where Launcelot was attended
with the greatest care by the good earl, by his two sons, and, above
all, by his fair daughter, whose medical skill probably much hastened
the period of his recovery. His health was almost completely restored,
when Sir Hector, Sir Bohort, and Sir Lionel, who, after the return of
the court to Camelot, had undertaken the quest of their relation,
discovered him walking on the walls of the castle. Their meeting was
very joyful; they passed three days in the castle amidst constant
festivities, and bantered each other on the events of the tournament.
Launcelot, though he began by vowing vengeance against the author of his
wound, yet ended by declaring that he felt rewarded for the pain by the
pride he took in witnessing his brother’s extraordinary prowess. He then
dismissed them with a message to the queen, promising to follow
immediately, it being necessary that he should first take a formal leave
of his kind hosts, as well as of the fair maid of Shalott.

The young lady, after vainly attempting to detain him by her tears and
solicitations, saw him depart without leaving her any ground for hope.

It was early summer when the tournament took place; but some months had
passed since Launcelot’s departure, and winter was now near at hand. The
health and strength of the Lady of Shalott had gradually sunk, and she
felt that she could not live apart from the object of her affections.
She left the castle, and descending to the river’s brink placed herself
in a boat, which she loosed from its moorings, and suffered to bear her
down the current toward Camelot.

One morning, as Arthur and Sir Lionel looked from the window of the
tower, the walls of which were washed by a river, they descried a boat
richly ornamented, and covered with an awning of cloth of gold, which
appeared to be floating down the stream without any human guidance. It
struck the shore while they watched it, and they hastened down to
examine it. Beneath the awning they discovered the dead body of a
beautiful woman, in whose features Sir Lionel easily recognized the
lovely maid of Shalott. Pursuing their search, they discovered a purse
richly embroidered with gold and jewels, and within the purse a letter,
which Arthur opened, and found addressed to himself and all the knights
of the Round Table, stating that Launcelot of the Lake, the most
accomplished of knights and most beautiful of men, but at the same time
the most cruel and inflexible, had by his rigor produced the death of
the wretched maiden, whose love was no less invincible than his cruelty.
The king immediately gave orders for the interment of the lady with all
the honors suited to her rank, at the same time explaining to the
knights the history of her affection for Launcelot, which moved the
compassion and regret of all.

                                  ————

Tennyson has chosen the story of the “Lady of Shalott” for the subject
of a poem. The catastrophe is told thus:

    “Under tower and balcony,
    By garden-wall and gallery,
    A gleaming shape she floated by,
    A corse between the houses high,
        Silent into Camelot.
    Out upon the wharfs they came,
    Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
    And round the prow they read her name,
        ‘The Lady of Shalott.’

    “Who is this? and what is here?
    And in the lighted palace near
    Died the sound of royal cheer;
    And they crossed themselves for fear,
    All the knights at Camelot.
    But Launcelot mused a little space;
    He said, ‘She has a lovely face;
    God in his mercy lend her grace,
        The Lady of Shalott.’”

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER XI

                         QUEEN GUENEVER’S PERIL

IT happened at this time that Queen Guenever was thrown into great peril
of her life. A certain squire who was in her immediate service, having
some cause of animosity to Sir Gawain, determined to destroy him by
poison, at a public entertainment. For this purpose he concealed the
poison in an apple of fine appearance, which he placed on the top of
several others, and put the dish before the queen, hoping that, as Sir
Gawain was the knight of greatest dignity, she would present the apple
to him. But it happened that a Scottish knight of high distinction, who
arrived on that day, was seated next to the queen, and to him as a
stranger she presented the apple, which he had no sooner eaten than he
was seized with dreadful pain, and fell senseless. The whole court was,
of course, thrown into confusion; the knights rose from table, darting
looks of indignation at the wretched queen, whose tears and
protestations were unable to remove their suspicions. In spite of all
that could be done the knight died, and nothing remained but to order a
magnificent funeral and monument for him, which was done.

Some time after Sir Mador, brother of the murdered knight, arrived at
Arthur’s court in quest of him. While hunting in the forest he by chance
came to the spot where the monument was erected, read the inscription,
and returned to court determined on immediate and signal vengeance. He
rode into the hall, loudly accused the queen of treason, and insisted on
her being given up for punishment, unless she should find by a certain
day a knight hardy enough to risk his life in support of her innocence.
Arthur, powerful as he was, did not dare to deny the appeal, but was
compelled with a heavy heart to accept it, and Mador sternly took his
departure, leaving the royal couple plunged in terror and anxiety.

During all this time Launcelot was absent, and no one knew where he was.
He fled in anger from his fair mistress, upon being reproached by her
with his passion for the Lady of Shalott, which she had hastily inferred
from his wearing her scarf at the tournament. He took up his abode with
a hermit in the forest, and resolved to think no more of the cruel
beauty, whose conduct he thought must flow from a wish to get rid of
him. Yet calm reflection had somewhat cooled his indignation, and he had
begun to wish, though hardly able to hope, for a reconciliation when the
news of Sir Mador’s challenge fortunately reached his ears. The
intelligence revived his spirits, and he began to prepare with the
utmost cheerfulness for a contest which, if successful, would insure him
at once the affection of his mistress and the gratitude of his
sovereign.

The sad fate of the Lady of Shalott had ere this completely acquitted
Launcelot in the queen’s mind of all suspicion of his fidelity, and she
lamented most grievously her foolish quarrel with him, which now, at her
time of need, deprived her of her most efficient champion.

As the day appointed by Sir Mador was fast approaching, it became
necessary that she should procure a champion for her defence; and she
successively adjured Sir Hector, Sir Lionel, Sir Bohort, and Sir Gawain
to undertake the battle. She fell on her knees before them, called
heaven to witness her innocence of the crime alleged against her, but
was sternly answered by all that they could not fight to maintain the
innocence of one whose act, and the fatal consequence of it, they had
seen with their own eyes. She retired, therefore, dejected and
disconsolate; but the sight of the fatal pile on which, if guilty, she
was doomed to be burned, exciting her to fresh effort, she again
repaired to Sir Bohort, threw herself at his feet, and piteously calling
on him for mercy, fell into a swoon. The brave knight was not proof
against this. He raised her up, and hastily promised that he would
undertake her cause, if no other or better champion should present
himself. He then summoned his friends, and told them his resolution; and
as a mortal combat with Sir Mador was a most fearful enterprise, they
agreed to accompany him in the morning to the hermitage in the forest,
where he proposed to receive absolution from the hermit, and to make his
peace with Heaven before he entered the lists. As they approached the
hermitage, they espied a knight riding in the forest, whom they at once
recognized as Sir Launcelot. Overjoyed at the meeting, they quickly, in
answer to his questions, confirmed the news of the queen’s imminent
danger, and received his instructions to return to court, to comfort her
as well as they could, but to say nothing of his intention of
undertaking her defence, which he meant to do in the character of an
unknown adventurer.

On their return to the castle they found that mass was finished, and had
scarcely time to speak to the queen before they were summoned into the
hall to dinner. A general gloom was spread over the countenances of all
the guests. Arthur himself was unable to conceal his dejection, and the
wretched Guenever, motionless and bathed in tears, sat in trembling
expectation of Sir Mador’s appearance. Nor was it long ere he stalked
into the hall, and with a voice of thunder, rendered more impressive by
the general silence, demanded instant justice on the guilty party.
Arthur replied with dignity, that little of the day was yet spent, and
that perhaps a champion might yet be found capable of satisfying his
thirst for battle. Sir Bohort now rose from table, and shortly returning
in complete armor, resumed his place, after receiving the embraces and
thanks of the king, who now began to resume some degree of confidence.
Sir Mador, growing impatient, again repeated his denunciations of
vengeance, and insisted that the combat should no longer be postponed.

In the height of the debate there came riding into the hall a knight
mounted on a black steed, and clad in black armor, with his visor down,
and lance in hand. “Sir,” said the king, “is it your will to alight and
partake of our cheer?” “Nay, sir,” he replied; “I come to save a lady’s
life. The queen hath ill bestowed her favors, and honored many a knight,
that in her hour of need she should have none to take her part. Thou
that darest accuse her of treachery, stand forth, for to-day shalt thou
need all thy might.”

Sir Mador, though surprised, was not appalled by the stern challenge and
formidable appearance of his antagonist, but prepared for the encounter.
At the first shock both were unhorsed. They then drew their swords, and
commenced a combat which lasted from noon till evening, when Sir Mador,
whose strength began to fail, was felled to the ground by Launcelot, and
compelled to sue for mercy. The victor, whose arm was already raised to
terminate the life of his opponent, instantly dropped his sword,
courteously lifted up the fainting Sir Mador, frankly confessing that he
had never before encountered so formidable an enemy. The other, with
similar courtesy, solemnly renounced all further projects of vengeance
for his brother’s death; and the two knights, now become fast friends,
embraced each other with the greatest cordiality. In the meantime
Arthur, having recognized Sir Launcelot, whose helmet was now unlaced,
rushed down into the lists, followed by all his knights, to welcome and
thank his deliverer. Guenever swooned with joy, and the place of combat
suddenly exhibited a scene of the most tumultuous delight.

The general satisfaction was still further increased by the discovery of
the real culprit. Having accidentally incurred some suspicion, he
confessed his crime, and was publicly punished in the presence of Sir
Mador.

The court now returned to the castle, which, with the title of “La
Joyeuse Garde” bestowed upon it in memory of the happy event, was
conferred on Sir Launcelot by Arthur, as a memorial of his gratitude.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XII

                          TRISTRAM AND ISOUDE

MELIADUS was king of Leonois, or Lionesse, a country famous in the
annals of romance, which adjoined the kingdom of Cornwall, but has now
disappeared from the map, having been, it is said, overwhelmed by the
ocean. Meliadus was married to Isabella, sister of Mark, king of
Cornwall. A fairy fell in love with him, and drew him away by
enchantment while he was engaged in hunting. His queen set out in quest
of him, but was taken ill on her journey, and died, leaving an infant
son, whom, from the melancholy circumstances of his birth, she called
Tristram.

Gouvernail, the queen’s squire, who had accompanied her, took charge of
the child, and restored him to his father, who had at length burst the
enchantments of the fairy, and returned home.

Meliadus after seven years married again, and the new queen, being
jealous of the influence of Tristram with his father, laid plots for his
life, which were discovered by Gouvernail, who in consequence fled with
the boy to the court of the king of France, where Tristram was kindly
received, and grew up improving in every gallant and knightly
accomplishment, adding to his skill in arms the arts of music and of
chess. In particular, he devoted himself to the chase and to all
woodland sports, so that he became distinguished above all other
chevaliers of the court for his knowledge of all that relates to
hunting. No wonder that Belinda, the king’s daughter, fell in love with
him; but as he did not return her passion, she, in a sudden impulse of
anger, excited her father against him, and he was banished the kingdom.
The princess soon repented of her act, and in despair destroyed herself,
having first written a most tender letter to Tristram, sending him at
the same time a beautiful and sagacious dog, of which she was very fond,
desiring him to keep it as a memorial of her. Meliadus was now dead, and
as his queen, Tristram’s stepmother, held the throne, Gouvernail was
afraid to carry his pupil to his native country, and took him to
Cornwall, to his uncle Mark, who gave him a kind reception.

King Mark resided at the castle of Tintadel, already mentioned in the
history of Uther and Igerne. In this court Tristram became distinguished
in all the exercises incumbent on a knight; nor was it long before he
had an opportunity of practically employing his valor and skill.
Moraunt, a celebrated champion, brother to the queen of Ireland, arrived
at the court, to demand tribute of King Mark. The knights of Cornwall
are in ill repute in romance for their cowardice, and they exhibited it
on this occasion. King Mark could find no champion who dared to
encounter the Irish knight, till his nephew Tristram, who had not yet
received the honors of knighthood, craved to be admitted to the order,
offering at the same time to fight the battle of Cornwall against the
Irish champion. King Mark assented with reluctance; Tristram received
the accolade, which conferred knighthood upon him, and the place and
time were assigned for the encounter.

Without attempting to give the details of this famous combat, the first
and one of the most glorious of Tristram’s exploits, we shall only say
that the young knight, though severely wounded, cleft the head of
Moraunt, leaving a portion of his sword in the wound. Moraunt, half dead
with his wound and the disgrace of his defeat, hastened to hide himself
in his ship, sailed away with all speed for Ireland, and died soon after
arriving in his own country.

The kingdom of Cornwall was thus delivered from its tribute. Tristram,
weakened by loss of blood, fell senseless. His friends flew to his
assistance. They dressed his wounds, which in general healed readily;
but the lance of Moraunt was poisoned, and one wound which it made
yielded to no remedies, but grew worse day by day. The surgeons could do
no more. Tristram asked permission of his uncle to depart, and seek for
aid in the kingdom of Loegria (England). With his consent he embarked,
and after tossing for many days on the sea, was driven by the winds to
the coast of Ireland. He landed, full of joy and gratitude that he had
escaped the peril of the sea; took his rote,[49] and began to play. It
was a summer evening, and the king of Ireland and his daughter, the
beautiful Isoude, were at a window which overlooked the sea. The strange
harper was sent for, and conveyed to the palace, where, finding that he
was in Ireland, whose champion he had lately slain, he concealed his
name, and called himself Tramtris. The queen undertook his cure, and by
a medicated bath gradually restored him to health. His skill in music
and in games occasioned his being frequently called to court, and he
became the instructor of the princess Isoude in minstrelsy and poetry,
who profited so well under his care, that she soon had no equal in the
kingdom, except her instructor.

At this time a tournament was held, at which many knights of the Round
Table, and others, were present. On the first day a Saracen prince,
named Palamedes, obtained the advantage over all. They brought him to
the court, and gave him a feast, at which Tristram, just recovering from
his wound, was present. The fair Isoude appeared on this occasion in all
her charms. Palamedes could not behold them without emotion, and made no
effort to conceal his love. Tristram perceived it, and the pain he felt
from jealousy taught him how dear the fair Isoude had already become to
him.

Next day the tournament was renewed. Tristram, still feeble from his
wound, rose during the night, took his arms, and concealed them in a
forest near the place of the contest, and, after it had begun, mingled
with the combatants. He overthrew all that encountered him, in
particular Palamedes, whom he brought to the ground with a stroke of his
lance, and then fought him hand to hand, bearing off the prize of the
tourney. But his exertions caused his wound to reopen; he bled fast, and
in this sad state, yet in triumph, they bore him to the palace. The fair
Isoude devoted herself to his relief with an interest which grew more
vivid day by day; and her skilful care soon restored him to health.

It happened one day that a damsel of the court, entering the closet
where Tristram’s arms were deposited, perceived that a part of the sword
had been broken off. It occurred to her that the missing portion was
like that which was left in the skull of Moraunt, the Irish champion.
She imparted her thought to the queen, who compared the fragment taken
from her brother’s wound with the sword of Tristram, and was satisfied
that it was part of the same, and that the weapon of Tristram was that
which reft her brother’s life. She laid her griefs and resentment before
the king, who satisfied himself with his own eyes of the truth of her
suspicions. Tristram was cited before the whole court, and reproached
with having dared to present himself before them after having slain
their kinsman. He acknowledged that he had fought with Moraunt to settle
the claim for tribute, and said that it was by force of winds and waves
alone that he was thrown on their coast. The queen demanded vengeance
for the death of her brother; the fair Isoude trembled and grew pale,
but a murmur rose from all the assembly that the life of one so handsome
and so brave should not be taken for such a cause, and generosity
finally triumphed over resentment in the mind of the king. Tristram was
dismissed in safety, but commanded to leave the kingdom without delay,
and never to return thither under pain of death. Tristram went back,
with restored health, to Cornwall.

King Mark made his nephew give him a minute recital of his adventures.
Tristram told him all minutely; but when he came to speak of the fair
Isoude he described her charms with a warmth and energy such as none but
a lover could display. King Mark was fascinated with the description,
and, choosing a favorable time, demanded a boon[50] of his nephew, who
readily granted it. The king made him swear upon the holy reliques that
he would fulfil his commands. Then Mark directed him to go to Ireland,
and obtain for him the fair Isoude to be queen of Cornwall.

Tristram believed it was certain death for him to return to Ireland; and
how could he act as ambassador for his uncle in such a cause? Yet, bound
by his oath, he hesitated not for an instant. He only took the
precaution to change his armor. He embarked for Ireland; but a tempest
drove him to the coast of England, near Camelot, where King Arthur was
holding his court, attended by the knights of the Round Table, and many
others, the most illustrious in the world.

Tristram kept himself unknown. He took part in many justs; he fought
many combats, in which he covered himself with glory. One day he saw
among those recently arrived the king of Ireland, father of the fair
Isoude. This prince, accused of treason against his liege sovereign,
Arthur, came to Camelot to free himself from the charge. Blaanor, one of
the most redoubtable warriors of the Round Table, was his accuser, and
Argius, the king, had neither youthful vigor nor strength to encounter
him. He must therefore seek a champion to sustain his innocence. But the
knights of the Round Table were not at liberty to fight against one
another, unless in a quarrel of their own. Argius heard of the great
renown of the unknown knight; he also was witness of his exploits. He
sought him, and conjured him to adopt his defence, and on his oath
declared that he was innocent of the crime of which he was accused.
Tristram readily consented, and made himself known to the king, who on
his part promised to reward his exertions, if successful, with whatever
gift he might ask.

Tristram fought with Blaanor, and overthrew him, and held his life in
his power. The fallen warrior called on him to use his right of
conquest, and strike the fatal blow. “God forbid,” said Tristram, “that
I should take the life of so brave a knight!” He raised him up and
restored him to his friends. The judges of the field decided that the
king of Ireland was acquitted of the charge against him, and they led
Tristram in triumph to his tent. King Argius, full of gratitude,
conjured Tristram to accompany him to his kingdom. They departed
together, and arrived in Ireland; and the queen, forgetting her
resentment for her brother’s death, exhibited to the preserver of her
husband’s life nothing but gratitude and good-will.

How happy a moment for Isoude, who knew that her father had promised his
deliverer whatever boon he might ask! But the unhappy Tristram gazed on
her with despair, at the thought of the cruel oath which bound him. His
magnanimous soul subdued the force of his love. He revealed the oath
which he had taken, and with trembling voice demanded the fair Isoude
for his uncle.

Argius consented, and soon all was prepared for the departure of Isoude.
Brengwain, her favorite maid of honor, was to accompany her. On the day
of departure the queen took aside this devoted attendant, and told her
that she had observed that her daughter and Tristram were attached to
one another, and that to avert the bad effects of this inclination she
had procured from a powerful fairy a potent philter (love-draught),
which she directed Brengwain to administer to Isoude and to King Mark on
the evening of their marriage.

Isoude and Tristram embarked together. A favorable wind filled the
sails, and promised them a fortunate voyage. The lovers gazed upon one
another, and could not repress their sighs. Love seemed to light up all
his fires on their lips, as in their hearts. The day was warm; they
suffered from thirst. Isoude first complained. Tristram descried the
bottle containing the love-draught, which Brengwain had been so
imprudent as to leave in sight. He took it, gave some of it to the
charming Isoude, and drank the remainder himself. The dog Houdain licked
the cup. The ship arrived in Cornwall, and Isoude was married to King
Mark. The old monarch was delighted with his bride, and his gratitude to
Tristram was unbounded. He loaded him with honors, and made him
chamberlain of his palace, thus giving him access to the queen at all
times.

In the midst of the festivities of the court which followed the royal
marriage, an unknown minstrel one day presented himself, bearing a harp
of peculiar construction. He excited the curiosity of King Mark by
refusing to play upon it till he should grant him a boon. The king
having promised to grant his request, the minstrel, who was none other
than the Saracen knight, Sir Palamedes, the lover of the fair Isoude,
sung to the harp a lay, in which he demanded Isoude as the promised
gift. King Mark could not by the laws of knighthood withhold the boon.
The lady was mounted on her horse, and led away by her triumphant lover.
Tristram, it is needless to say, was absent at the time, and did not
return until their departure. When he heard what had taken place he
seized his rote, and hastened to the shore, where Isoude and her new
master had already embarked. Tristram played upon his rote, and the
sound reached the ears of Isoude, who became so deeply affected, that
Sir Palamedes was induced to return with her to land, that they might
see the unknown musician. Tristram watched his opportunity, seized the
lady’s horse by the bridle, and plunged with her into the forest,
tauntingly informing his rival that “what he had got by the harp he had
lost by the rote.” Palamedes pursued, and a combat was about to
commence, the result of which must have been fatal to one or other of
these gallant knights; but Isoude stepped between them, and, addressing
Palamedes, said, “You tell me that you love me; you will not then deny
me the request I am about to make?” “Lady,” he replied, “I will perform
your bidding.” “Leave, then,” said she, “this contest, and repair to
King Arthur’s court, and salute Queen Guenever from me; tell her that
there are in the world but two ladies, herself and I, and two lovers,
hers and mine; and come thou not in future in any place where I am.”
Palamedes burst into tears. “Ah, lady,” said he, “I will obey you; but I
beseech you that you will not for ever steel your heart against me.”
“Palamedes,” she replied, “may I never taste of joy again if I ever quit
my first love.” Palamedes then went his way. The lovers remained a week
in concealment, after which Tristram restored Isoude to her husband,
advising him in future to reward minstrels in some other way.

The king showed much gratitude to Tristram, but in the bottom of his
heart he cherished bitter jealousy of him. One day Tristram and Isoude
were alone together in her private chamber. A base and cowardly knight
of the court, named Andret, spied them through a keyhole. They sat at a
table of chess, but were not attending to the game. Andret brought the
king, having first raised his suspicions, and placed him so as to watch
their motions. The king saw enough to confirm his suspicions, and he
burst into the apartment with his sword drawn, and had nearly slain
Tristram before he was put on his guard. But Tristram avoided the blow,
drew his sword, and drove before him the cowardly monarch, chasing him
through all the apartments of the palace, giving him frequent blows with
the flat of his sword, while he cried in vain to his knights to save
him. They were not inclined, or did not dare, to interpose in his
behalf.

                                  ————

A proof of the great popularity of the tale of Sir Tristram is the fact
that the Italian poets, Boiardo and Ariosto, have founded upon it the
idea of the two enchanted fountains, which produced the opposite effects
of love and hatred. Boiardo thus describes the fountain of hatred:

      “Fair was that, fountain, sculptured all of gold,
      With alabaster sculptured, rich and rare;
      And in its basin clear thou might’st behold
      The flowery marge reflected fresh and fair.
      Sage Merlin framed the font,—so legends bear,—
      When on fair Isoude doated Tristram brave,
      That the good errant knight, arriving there,
      Might quaff oblivion in the enchanted wave,
    And leave his luckless love, and ’scape his timeless grave.

      “But ne’er the warrior’s evil fate allowed
      His steps that fountain’s charmed verge to gain.
      Though restless, roving on adventure proud,
      He traversed oft the land and oft the main.”
      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XIII

                   TRISTRAM AND ISOUDE (_Continued_)

AFTER this affair Tristram was banished from the kingdom, and Isoude
shut up in a tower, which stood on the bank of a river. Tristram could
not resolve to depart without some further communication with his
beloved; so he concealed himself in the forest, till at last he
contrived to attract her attention, by means of twigs which he curiously
peeled, and sent down the stream under her window. By this means many
secret interviews were obtained. Tristram dwelt in the forest,
sustaining himself by game, which the dog Houdain ran down for him; for
this faithful animal was unequalled in the chase, and knew so well his
master’s wish for concealment, that, in the pursuit of his game, he
never barked. At length Tristram departed, but left Houdain with Isoude,
as a remembrancer of him.

Sir Tristram wandered through various countries, achieving the most
perilous enterprises, and covering himself with glory, yet unhappy at
the separation from his beloved Isoude. At length King Mark’s territory
was invaded by a neighboring chieftain, and he was forced to summon his
nephew to his aid. Tristram obeyed the call, put himself at the head of
his uncle’s vassals, and drove the enemy out of the country. Mark was
full of gratitude, and Tristram, restored to favor and to the society of
his beloved Isoude, seemed at the summit of happiness. But a sad reverse
was at hand.

Tristram had brought with him a friend named Pheredin, son of the king
of Brittany. This young knight saw Queen Isoude, and could not resist
her charms. Knowing the love of his friend for the queen, and that that
love was returned, Pheredin concealed his own, until his health failed,
and he feared he was drawing near his end. He then wrote to the
beautiful queen that he was dying for love of her.

The gentle Isoude, in a moment of pity for the friend of Tristram,
returned him an answer so kind and compassionate that it restored him to
life. A few days afterwards Tristram found this letter. The most
terrible jealousy took possession of his soul; he would have slain
Pheredin, who with difficulty made his escape. Then Tristram mounted his
horse, and rode to the forest, where for ten days he took no rest nor
food. At length he was found by a damsel lying almost dead by the brink
of a fountain. She recognized him, and tried in vain to rouse his
attention. At last recollecting his love for music she went and got her
harp, and played thereon. Tristram was roused from his reverie; tears
flowed; he breathed more freely; he took the harp from the maiden, and
sung this lay, with a voice broken with sobs:

    “Sweet I sang in former days,
    Kind love perfected my lays:
    Now my art alone displays
    The woe that on my being preys.

    “Charming love, delicious power,
    Worshipped from my earliest hour,
    Thou who life on all dost shower,
    Love! my life thou dost devour.

    “In death’s hour I beg of thee,
    Isoude, dearest enemy,
    Thou who erst couldst kinder be,
    When I’m gone, forget not me.

    “On my gravestone passers-by
    Oft will read, as low I lie,
    ‘Never wight in love could vie
    With Tristram, yet she let him die.’”

Tristram, having finished his lay, wrote it off and gave it to the
damsel, conjuring her to present it to the queen.

Meanwhile Queen Isoude was inconsolable at the absence of Tristram. She
discovered that it was caused by the fatal letter which she had written
to Pheredin. Innocent, but in despair at the sad effects of her letter,
she wrote another to Pheredin, charging him never to see her again. The
unhappy lover obeyed this cruel decree. He plunged into the forest, and
died of grief and love in a hermit’s cell.

Isoude passed her days in lamenting the absence and unknown fate of
Tristram. One day her jealous husband, having entered her chamber
unperceived, overheard her singing the following lay:

    “My voice to piteous wail is bent,
    My harp to notes of languishment;
    Ah, love! delightsome days be meant
    For happier wights, with hearts content.

    “Ah, Tristram! far away from me,
    Art thou from restless anguish free?
    Ah! couldst thou so one moment be,
    From her who so much loveth thee?”

The king hearing these words burst forth in a rage; but Isoude was too
wretched to fear his violence. “You have heard me,” she said; “I confess
it all. I love Tristram, and always shall love him. Without doubt he is
dead, and died for me. I no longer wish to live. The blow that shall
finish my misery will be most welcome.”

The king was moved at the distress of the fair Isoude, and perhaps the
idea of Tristram’s death tended to allay his wrath. He left the queen in
charge of her women, commanding them to take especial care lest her
despair should lead her to do harm to herself.

Tristram meanwhile, distracted as he was, rendered a most important
service to the shepherds by slaying a gigantic robber named Taullas, who
was in the habit of plundering their flocks and rifling their cottages.
The shepherds, in their gratitude to Tristram, bore him in triumph to
King Mark to have him bestow on him a suitable reward. No wonder Mark
failed to recognize in the half-clad, wild man, before him his nephew
Tristram; but grateful for the service the unknown had rendered he
ordered him to be well taken care of, and gave him in charge to the
queen and her women. Under such care Tristram rapidly recovered his
serenity and his health, so that the romancer tells us he became
handsomer than ever. King Mark’s jealousy revived with Tristram’s health
and good looks, and, in spite of his debt of gratitude so lately
increased, he again banished him from the court.

Sir Tristram left Cornwall, and proceeded into the land of Loegria
(England) in quest of adventures. One day he entered a wide forest. The
sound of a little bell showed him that some inhabitant was near. He
followed the sound, and found a hermit, who informed him that he was in
the forest of Arnantes, belonging to the fairy Viviane, the Lady of the
Lake, who, smitten with love for King Arthur, had found means to entice
him to this forest, where by enchantments she held him a prisoner,
having deprived him of all memory of who and what he was. The hermit
informed him that all the knights of the Round Table were out in search
of the king, and that he (Tristram) was now in the scene of the most
grand and important adventures.

This was enough to animate Tristram in the search. He had not wandered
far before he encountered a knight of Arthur’s court, who proved to be
Sir Kay the Seneschal, who demanded of him whence he came. Tristram
answering, “From Cornwall,” Sir Kay did not let slip the opportunity of
a joke at the expense of the Cornish knight. Tristram chose to leave him
in his error, and even confirmed him in it; for meeting some other
knights Tristram declined to just with them. They spent the night
together at an abbey, where Tristram submitted patiently to all their
jokes. The Seneschal gave the word to his companions that they should
set out early next day, and intercept the Cornish knight on his way, and
enjoy the amusement of seeing his fright when they should insist on
running a tilt with him. Tristram next morning found himself alone; he
put on his armor, and set out to continue his quest. He soon saw before
him the Seneschal and the three knights, who barred the way, and
insisted on a just. Tristram excused himself a long time; at last he
reluctantly took his stand. He encountered them, one after the other,
and overthrew them all four, man and horse, and then rode off, bidding
them not to forget their friend, the knight of Cornwall.

Tristram had not ridden far when he met a damsel, who cried out, “Ah, my
lord! hasten forward, and prevent a horrid treason!” Tristram flew to
her assistance, and soon reached a spot where he beheld a knight, whom
three others had borne to the ground, and were unlacing his helmet in
order to cut off his head.

Tristram flew to the rescue, and slew with one stroke of his lance one
of the assailants. The knight, recovering his feet, sacrificed another
to his vengeance, and the third made his escape. The rescued knight then
raised the visor of his helmet, and a long white beard fell down upon
his breast. The majesty and venerable air of this knight made Tristram
suspect that it was none other than Arthur himself, and the prince
confirmed his conjecture. Tristram would have knelt before him, but
Arthur received him in his arms, and inquired his name and country; but
Tristram declined to disclose them, on the plea that he was now on a
quest requiring secrecy. At this moment the damsel who had brought
Tristram to the rescue darted forward, and, seizing the king’s hand,
drew from his finger a ring, the gift of the fairy, and by that act
dissolved the enchantment. Arthur, having recovered his reason and his
memory, offered to Tristram to attach him to his court, and to confer
honors and dignities upon him; but Tristram declined all, and only
consented to accompany him till he should see him safe in the hands of
his knights. Soon after, Hector de Marys rode up, and saluted the king,
who on his part introduced him to Tristram as one of the bravest of his
knights. Tristram took leave of the king and his faithful follower, and
continued his quest.

We cannot follow Tristram through all the adventures which filled this
epoch of his history. Suffice it to say, he fulfilled on all occasions
the duty of a true knight, rescuing the oppressed, redressing wrongs,
abolishing evil customs, and suppressing injustice, thus by constant
action endeavoring to lighten the pains of absence from her he loved. In
the meantime Isoude, separated from her dear Tristram, passed her days
in languor and regret. At length she could no longer resist the desire
to hear some news of her lover. She wrote a letter, and sent it by one
of her damsels, niece of her faithful Brengwain. One day Tristram, weary
with his exertions, had dismounted and laid himself down by the side of
a fountain and fallen asleep. The damsel of Queen Isoude arrived at the
same fountain, and recognized Passebreul, the horse of Tristram, and
presently perceived his master asleep. He was thin and pale, showing
evident marks of the pain he suffered in separation from his beloved.
She awakened him, and gave him the letter which she bore, and Tristram
enjoyed the pleasure, so sweet to a lover, of hearing from and talking
about the object of his affections. He prayed the damsel to postpone her
return till after the magnificent tournament which Arthur had proclaimed
should have taken place, and conducted her to the castle of Persides, a
brave and loyal knight, who received her with great consideration.

Tristram conducted the damsel of Queen Isoude to the tournament, and had
her placed in the balcony among the ladies of the queen.

        “He glanced and saw the stately galleries,
    Dame, damsel, each through worship of their Queen
    White-robed in honor of the stainless child,
    And some with scatter’d jewels, like a bank
    Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire.
    He looked but once, and veiled his eyes again.”
                           —_The Last Tournament._

He then joined the tourney. Nothing could exceed his strength and valor.
Launcelot admired him, and by a secret presentiment declined to dispute
the honor of the day with a knight so gallant and so skilful. Arthur
descended from the balcony to greet the conqueror; but the modest and
devoted Tristram, content with having borne off the prize in the sight
of the messenger of Isoude, made his escape with her, and disappeared.

The next day the tourney recommenced. Tristram assumed different armor,
that he might not be known; but he was soon detected by the terrible
blows that he gave. Arthur and Guenever had no doubt that it was the
same knight who had borne off the prize of the day before. Arthur’s
gallant spirit was roused. After Launcelot of the Lake and Sir Gawain he
was accounted the best knight of the Round Table. He went privately and
armed himself, and came into the tourney in undistinguished armor. He
ran a just with Tristram, whom he shook in his seat; but Tristram, who
did not know him, threw him out of the saddle. Arthur recovered himself,
and content with having made proof of the stranger knight bade Launcelot
finish the adventure, and vindicate the honor of the Round Table. Sir
Launcelot, at the bidding of the monarch, assailed Tristram, whose lance
was already broken in former encounters. But the law of this sort of
combat was that the knight after having broken his lance must fight with
his sword, and must not refuse to meet with his shield the lance of his
antagonist. Tristram met Launcelot’s charge upon his shield, which that
terrible lance could not fail to pierce. It inflicted a wound upon
Tristram’s side, and, breaking, left the iron in the wound. But Tristram
also with his sword smote so vigorously on Launcelot’s casque that he
cleft it, and wounded his head. The wound was not deep, but the blood
flowed into his eyes, and blinded him for a moment, and Tristram, who
thought himself mortally wounded, retired from the field. Launcelot
declared to the king that he had never received such a blow in his life
before.

Tristram hastened to Gouvernail, his squire, who drew forth the iron,
bound up the wound, and gave him immediate ease. Tristram after the
tournament kept retired in his tent, but Arthur, with the consent of all
the knights of the Round Table, decreed him the honors of the second
day. But it was no longer a secret that the victor of the two days was
the same individual, and Gouvernail, being questioned, confirmed the
suspicions of Launcelot and Arthur that it was no other than Sir
Tristram of Leonais, the nephew of the king of Cornwall.

King Arthur, who desired to reward his distinguished valor, and knew
that his Uncle Mark had ungratefully banished him, would have eagerly
availed himself of the opportunity to attach Tristram to his court,—all
the knights of the Round Table declaring with acclamation that it would
be impossible to find a more worthy companion. But Tristram had already
departed in search of adventures, and the damsel of Queen Isoude
returned to her mistress.

[Illustration: SIR GALAHAD.
 From painting by George Frederick Watts.]

[Illustration: KING ARTHUR AND QUEEN GUENEVER.
 Original drawing by A. Fredericks.]




                              CHAPTER XIV

                SIR TRISTRAM’S BATTLE WITH SIR LAUNCELOT

SIR TRISTRAM rode through a forest and saw ten men fighting, and one man
did battle against nine. So he rode to the knights and cried to them,
bidding them cease their battle, for they did themselves great shame, so
many knights to fight against one. Then answered the master of the
knights (his name was Sir Breuse sans Pitie, who was at that time the
most villanous knight living): “Sir knight, what have ye to do to meddle
with us? If ye be wise depart on your way as you came, for this knight
shall not escape us.” “That were pity,” said Sir Tristram, “that so good
a knight should be slain so cowardly; therefore I warn you I will succor
him with all my puissance.”

Then Sir Tristram alighted off his horse, because they were on foot,
that they should not slay his horse. And he smote on the right hand and
on the left so vigorously that well-nigh at every stroke he struck down
a knight. At last they fled, with Breuse sans Pitie, into the tower, and
shut Sir Tristram without the gate. Then Sir Tristram returned back to
the rescued knight, and found him sitting under a tree, sore wounded.
“Fair knight,” said he, “how is it with you?” “Sir knight,” said Sir
Palamedes, for he it was, “I thank you of your great goodness, for ye
have rescued me from death.” “What is your name?” said Sir Tristram. He
said, “My name is Sir Palamedes.” “Say ye so?” said Sir Tristram; “now
know that thou art the man in the world that I most hate; therefore make
thee ready, for I will do battle with thee.” “What is your name?” said
Sir Palamedes. “My name is Sir Tristram, your mortal enemy.” “It may be
so,” said Sir Palamedes; “but you have done overmuch for me this day,
that I should fight with you. Moreover, it will be no honor for you to
have to do with me, for you are fresh and I am wounded. Therefore, if
you will needs have to do with me, assign me a day, and I shall meet you
without fail.” “You say well,” said Sir Tristram; “now I assign you to
meet me in the meadow by the river of Camelot, where Merlin set the
monument.” So they were agreed. Then they departed and took their ways
diverse. Sir Tristram passed through a great forest into a plain, till
he came to a priory, and there he reposed him with a good man six days.

Then departed Sir Tristram, and rode straight into Camelot to the
monument of Merlin, and there he looked about him for Sir Palamedes. And
he perceived a seemly knight, who came riding against him all in white,
with a covered shield. When he came nigh Sir Tristram said aloud,
“Welcome, sir knight, and well and truly have you kept your promise.”
Then they made ready their shields and spears, and came together with
all the might of their horses, so fiercely, that both the horses and the
knights fell to the earth. And as soon as they might they quitted their
horses, and struck together with bright swords as men of might, and each
wounded the other wonderfully sore, so that the blood ran out upon the
grass. Thus they fought for the space of four hours and never one would
speak to the other one word. Then at last spake the white knight, and
said, “Sir, thou fightest wonderful well, as ever I saw a knight;
therefore, if it please you, tell me your name.” “Why dost thou ask my
name?” said Sir Tristram; “art thou not Sir Palamedes?” “No, fair
knight,” said he, “I am Sir Launcelot of the Lake.” “Alas!” said Sir
Tristram, “what have I done? for you are the man of the world that I
love best.” “Fair knight,” said Sir Launcelot, “tell me your name.”
“Truly,” said he, “my name is Sir Tristram de Lionesse.” “Alas! alas!”
said Sir Launcelot, “what adventure has befallen me!” And therewith Sir
Launcelot kneeled down and yielded him up his sword; and Sir Tristram
kneeled down and yielded him up his sword; and so either gave other the
degree. And then they both went to the stone, and sat them down upon it
and took off their helms and each kissed the other a hundred times. And
then anon they rode toward Camelot, and on the way they met with Sir
Gawain and Sir Gaheris, that had made promise to Arthur never to come
again to the court till they had brought Sir Tristram with them.

“Return again,” said Sir Launcelot, “for your quest is done; for I have
met with Sir Tristram. Lo, here he is in his own person.” Then was Sir
Gawain glad, and said to Sir Tristram, “Ye are welcome.” With this came
King Arthur, and when he wist there was Sir Tristram, he ran unto him,
and took him by the hand, and said, “Sir Tristram, ye are as welcome as
any knight that ever came to this court.” Then Sir Tristram told the
king how he came thither for to have had to do with Sir Palamedes, and
how he had rescued him from Sir Breuse sans Pitie and the nine knights.
Then King Arthur took Sir Tristram by the hand, and went to the Table
Round, and Queen Guenever came, and many ladies with her, and all the
ladies said with one voice, “Welcome, Sir Tristram.” “Welcome,” said the
knights. “Welcome,” said Arthur, “for one of the best of knights, and
the gentlest of the world, and the man of most worship; for of all
manner of hunting thou bearest the prize, and of all measures of blowing
thou art the beginning, and of all the terms of hunting and hawking ye
are the inventor, and of all instruments of music ye are the best
skilled; therefore, gentle knight,” said Arthur, “ye are welcome to this
court.” And then King Arthur made Sir Tristram knight of the Table Round
with great nobley and feasting as can be thought.

                      SIR TRISTRAM AS A SPORTSMAN

Tristram is often alluded to by the Romancers as the great authority and
model in all matters relating to the chase. In the “Faery Queene,”
Tristram, in answer to the inquiries of Sir Calidore, informs him of his
name and parentage, and concludes:

      “All which my days I have not lewdly spent,
      Nor spilt the blossom of my tender years
      In idlesse; but, as was convenient,
      Have trained been with many noble feres
      In gentle thewes, and such like seemly leers;[51]
      ’Mongst which my most delight hath always been
      To hunt the salvage chace, amongst my peers,
      Of all that rangeth in the forest green,
    Of which none is to me unknown that yet was seen.

      “Ne is there hawk which mantleth on her perch,
      Whether high towering or accosting low,
      But I the measure of her flight do search,
      And all her prey, and all her diet know.
      Such be our joys, which in these forests grow.”

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER XV

                            THE ROUND TABLE

THE famous enchanter, Merlin, had exerted all his skill in fabricating
the Round Table. Of the seats which surrounded it he had constructed
thirteen, in memory of the thirteen Apostles. Twelve of these seats only
could be occupied, and they only by knights of the highest fame; the
thirteenth represented the seat of the traitor Judas. It remained always
empty. It was called the _perilous seat_, ever since a rash and haughty
Saracen knight had dared to place himself in it, when the earth opened
and swallowed him up.

    “In our great hall there stood a vacant chair,
    Fashion’d by Merlin ere he past away,
    And carven with strange figures; and in and out
    The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll
    Of letters in a tongue no man could read.
    And Merlin call’d it ‘The Siege perilous,’
    Perilous for good and ill; ‘for there,’ he said,
    ‘No man could sit but he should lose himself.’”
                                —_The Holy Grail._

A magic power wrote upon each seat the name of the knight who was
entitled to sit in it. No one could succeed to a vacant seat unless he
surpassed in valor and glorious deeds the knight who had occupied it
before him; without this qualification he would be violently repelled by
a hidden force. Thus proof was made of all those who presented
themselves to replace any companions of the order who had fallen.

One of the principal seats, that of Moraunt of Ireland, had been vacant
ten years, and his name still remained over it ever since the time when
that distinguished champion fell beneath the sword of Sir Tristram.
Arthur now took Tristram by the hand and led him to that seat.
Immediately the most melodious sounds were heard, and exquisite perfumes
filled the place; the name of Moraunt disappeared, and that of Tristram
blazed forth in light. The rare modesty of Tristram had now to be
subjected to a severe task; for the clerks charged with the duty of
preserving the annals of the Round Table attended, and he was required
by the law of his order to declare what feats of arms he had
accomplished to entitle him to take that seat. This ceremony being
ended, Tristram received the congratulations of all his companions. Sir
Launcelot and Guenever took the occasion to speak to him of the fair
Isoude, and to express their wish that some happy chance might bring her
to the kingdom of Loegria.

While Tristram was thus honored and caressed at the court of King
Arthur, the most gloomy and malignant jealousy harassed the soul of
Mark. He could not look upon Isoude without remembering that she loved
Tristram, and the good fortune of his nephew goaded him to thoughts of
vengeance. He at last resolved to go disguised into the kingdom of
Loegria, attack Tristram by stealth, and put him to death. He took with
him two knights, brought up in his court, who he thought were devoted to
him; and, not willing to leave Isoude behind, named two of her maidens
to attend her, together with her faithful Brengwain, and made them
accompany him.

Having arrived in the neighborhood of Camelot, Mark imparted his plan to
his two knights, but they rejected it with horror; nay, more, they
declared that they would no longer remain in his service; and left him,
giving him reason to suppose that they should repair to the court to
accuse him before Arthur. It was necessary for Mark to meet and rebut
their accusation; so, leaving Isoude in an abbey, he pursued his way
alone to Camelot.

Mark had not ridden far when he encountered a party of knights of
Arthur’s court, and would have avoided them, for he knew their habit of
challenging to a just every stranger knight whom they met. But it was
too late. They had seen his armor, and recognized him as a Cornish
knight, and at once resolved to have some sport with him. It happened
they had with them Daguenet, King Arthur’s fool, who, though deformed
and weak of body, was not wanting in courage. The knights as Mark
approached laid their plan that Daguenet should personate Sir Launcelot
of the Lake, and challenge the Cornish knight. They equipped him in
armor belonging to one of their number who was ill, and sent him forward
to the cross-road to defy the strange knight. Mark, who saw that his
antagonist was by no means formidable in appearance, was not disinclined
to the combat; but when the dwarf rode towards him, calling out that he
was Sir Launcelot of the Lake, his fears prevailed, he put spurs to his
horse, and rode away at full speed, pursued by the shouts and laughter
of the party.

Meanwhile Isoude, remaining at the abbey with her faithful Brengwain,
found her only amusement in walking occasionally in a forest adjoining
the abbey. There, on the brink of a fountain girdled with trees, she
thought of her love, and sometimes joined her voice and her harp in lays
reviving the memory of its pains or pleasures. One day the caitiff
knight, Breuse the Pitiless, heard her voice, concealed himself, and
drew near. She sang:

    “Sweet silence, shadowy bower, and verdant lair,
      Ye court my troubled spirit to repose,
    Whilst I, such dear remembrance rises there,
      Awaken every echo with my woes.

    “Within these woods, by nature’s hand arrayed,
      A fountain springs, and feeds a thousand flowers;
    Ah! how my groans do all its murmurs aid!
      How my sad eyes do swell it with their showers!

    “What doth my knight the while? to him is given
      A double meed; in love and arms’ emprise,
    Him the Round Table elevates to heaven!
      Tristram! ah me! he hears not Isoude’s cries.”

Breuse the Pitiless, who like most other caitiffs had felt the weight of
Tristram’s arm, and hated him accordingly, at hearing his name breathed
forth by the beautiful songstress, impelled by a double impulse, rushed
forth from his concealment and laid hands on his victim. Isoude fainted,
and Brengwain filled the air with her shrieks. Breuse carried Isoude to
the place where he had left his horse; but the animal had got away from
his bridle, and was at some distance. He was obliged to lay down his
fair burden, and go in pursuit of his horse. Just then a knight came up,
drawn by the cries of Brengwain, and demanded the cause of her distress.
She could not speak, but pointed to her mistress lying insensible on the
ground.

Breuse had by this time returned, and the cries of Brengwain, renewed at
seeing him, sufficiently showed the stranger the cause of the distress.
Tristram spurred his horse towards Breuse, who, not unprepared, ran to
the encounter. Breuse was unhorsed, and lay motionless, pretending to be
dead; but when the stranger knight left him to attend to the distressed
damsels, he mounted his horse, and made his escape.

The knight now approached Isoude, gently raised her head, drew aside the
golden hair which covered her countenance, gazed thereon for an instant,
uttered a cry, and fell back insensible. Brengwain came; her cares soon
restored her mistress to life, and they then turned their attention to
the fallen warrior. They raised his visor, and discovered the
countenance of Sir Tristram. Isoude threw herself on the body of her
lover, and bedewed his face with her tears. Their warmth revived the
knight, and Tristram on awaking found himself in the arms of his dear
Isoude.

It was the law of the Round Table that each knight after his admission
should pass the next ten days in quest of adventures, during which time
his companions might meet him in disguised armor and try their strength
with him. Tristram had now been out seven days, and in that time had
encountered many of the best knights of the Round Table, and acquitted
himself with honor. During the remaining three days, Isoude remained at
the abbey, under his protection, and then set out with her maidens,
escorted by Sir Tristram, to rejoin King Mark at the court of Camelot.

This happy journey was one of the brightest epochs in the lives of
Tristram and Isoude. He celebrated it by a lay upon the harp in a
peculiar measure, to which the French give the name of _Triolet_.

    “With fair Isoude, and with love,
    Ah! how sweet the life I lead!
    How blest for ever thus to rove,
    With fair Isoude, and with love!
    As she wills, I live and move,
    And cloudless days to days succeed:
    With fair Isoude, and with love,
    Ah! how sweet the life I lead!

    “Journeying on from break of day,
    Feel you not fatigued, my fair?
    Yon green turf invites to play;
    Journeying on from day to day,
    Ah! let us to that shade away,
    Were it but to slumber there!
    Journeying on from break of day,
    Feel you not fatigued, my fair?”

They arrived at Camelot, where Sir Launcelot received them most
cordially. Isoude was introduced to King Arthur and Queen Guenever, who
welcomed her as a sister. As King Mark was held in arrest under the
accusation of the two Cornish knights, Queen Isoude could not rejoin her
husband, and Sir Launcelot placed his castle of La Joyeuse Garde at the
disposal of his friends, who there took up their abode.

King Mark, who found himself obliged to confess the truth of the charge
against him, or to clear himself by combat with his accusers, preferred
the former, and King Arthur, as his crime had not been perpetrated,
remitted the penalty, only enjoining upon him, under pain of his signal
displeasure, to lay aside all thoughts of vengeance against his nephew.
In the presence of the king and his court all parties were formally
reconciled; Mark and his queen departed for their home, and Tristram
remained at Arthur’s court.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XVI

                             SIR PALAMEDES

WHILE Sir Tristram and the fair Isoude abode yet at La Joyeuse Garde,
Sir Tristram rode forth one day, without armor, having no weapon but his
spear and his sword. And as he rode he came to a place where he saw two
knights in battle, and one of them had gotten the better and the other
lay overthrown. The knight who had the better was Sir Palamedes. When
Sir Palamedes knew Sir Tristram, he cried out, “Sir Tristram, now we be
met, and ere we depart we will redress our old wrongs.” “As for that,”
said Sir Tristram, “there never yet was Christian man that might make
his boast that I ever fled from him, and thou that art a Saracen shalt
never say that of me.” And therewith Sir Tristram made his horse to run,
and with all his might came straight upon Sir Palamedes, and broke his
spear upon him. Then he drew his sword and struck at Sir Palamedes six
great strokes, upon his helm. Sir Palamedes saw that Sir Tristram had
not his armor on, and he marvelled at his rashness and his great folly;
and said to himself, “If I meet and slay him, I am shamed wheresoever I
go.” Then Sir Tristram cried out and said, “Thou coward knight, why wilt
thou not do battle with me? for have thou no doubt I shall endure all
thy malice.” “Ah, Sir Tristram!” said Sir Palamedes, “thou knowest I may
not fight with thee for shame; for thou art here naked, and I am armed;
now I require that thou answer me a question that I shall ask you.”
“Tell me what it is,” said Sir Tristram. “I put the case,” said
Palamedes, “that you were well armed, and I naked as ye be; what would
you do to me now, by your true knighthood?” “Ah!” said Sir Tristram,
“now I understand thee well, Sir Palamedes; and, as God bless me, what I
shall say shall not be said for fear that I have of thee. But if it were
so, thou shouldest depart from me, for I would not have to do with
thee.” “No more will I with thee,” said Sir Palamedes, “and therefore
ride forth on thy way.” “As for that, I may choose,” said Sir Tristram,
“either to ride or to abide. But, Sir Palamedes, I marvel at one
thing,—that thou art so good a knight, yet that thou wilt not be
christened.” “As for that,” said Sir Palamedes, “I may not yet be
christened, for a vow which I made many years ago; yet in my heart I
believe in our Saviour and his mild mother, Mary; but I have yet one
battle to do, and when that is done I will be christened, with a good
will.” “By my head,” said Sir Tristram, “as for that one battle, thou
shalt seek it no longer; for yonder is a knight, whom you have smitten
down. Now help me to be clothed in his armor, and I will soon fulfil thy
vow.” “As ye will,” said Sir Palamedes, “so shall it be.” So they rode
both unto that knight that sat on a bank; and Sir Tristram saluted him,
and he full weary saluted him again. “Sir,” said Sir Tristram, “I pray
you to lend me your whole armor; for I am unarmed, and I must do battle
with this knight.” “Sir,” said the hurt knight, “you shall have it, with
a right good will.” Then Sir Tristram unarmed Sir Galleron, for that was
the name of the hurt knight, and he as well as he could helped to arm
Sir Tristram. Then Sir Tristram mounted upon his own horse, and in his
hand he took Sir Galleron’s spear. Thereupon Sir Palamedes was ready,
and so they came hurling together, and each smote the other in the midst
of their shields. Sir Palamedes’ spear broke, and Sir Tristram smote
down the horse. Then Sir Palamedes leapt from his horse, and drew out
his sword. That saw Sir Tristram, and therewith he alighted and tied his
horse to a tree. Then they came together as two wild beasts, lashing the
one on the other, and so fought more than two hours; and often Sir
Tristram smote such strokes at Sir Palamedes that he made him to kneel,
and Sir Palamedes broke away Sir Tristram’s shield, and wounded him.
Then Sir Tristram was wroth out of measure, and he rushed to Sir
Palamedes and wounded him passing sore through the shoulder, and by
fortune smote Sir Palamedes’ sword out of his hand. And if Sir Palamedes
had stooped for his sword Sir Tristram had slain him. Then Sir Palamedes
stood and beheld his sword with a full sorrowful heart. “Now,” said Sir
Tristram, “I have thee at a vantage, as thou hadst me to-day; but it
shall never be said, in court, or among good knights, that Sir Tristram
did slay any knight that was weaponless; therefore take thou thy sword,
and let us fight this battle to the end.” Then spoke Sir Palamedes to
Sir Tristram: “I have no wish to fight this battle any more. The offence
that I have done unto you is not so great but that, if it please you, we
may be friends. All that I have offended is for the love of the queen,
La Belle Isoude, and I dare maintain that she is peerless among ladies;
and for that offence ye have given me many grievous and sad strokes, and
some I have given you again. Wherefore I require you, my lord Sir
Tristram, forgive me all that I have offended you, and this day have me
unto the next church; and first I will be clean confessed, and after
that see you that I be truly baptized, and then we will ride together
unto the court of my lord, King Arthur, so that we may be there at the
feast of Pentecost.” “Now take your horse,” said Sir Tristram, “and as
you have said, so shall it be done.” So they took their horses, and Sir
Galleron rode with them. When they came to the church of Carlisle, the
bishop commanded to fill a great vessel with water; and when he had
hallowed it, he then confessed Sir Palamedes clean, and christened him,
and Sir Tristram and Sir Galleron were his godfathers. Then soon after
they departed, and rode towards Camelot, where the noble King Arthur and
Queen Guenever were keeping a court royal. And the king and all the
court were glad that Sir Palamedes was christened. Then Sir Tristram
returned again to La Joyeuse Garde, and Sir Palamedes went his way.

Not long after these events Sir Gawain returned from Brittany, and
related to King Arthur the adventure which befell him in the forest of
Breciliande, how Merlin had there spoken to him, and enjoined him to
charge the king to go without delay upon the quest of the Holy Greal.
While King Arthur deliberated Tristram determined to enter upon the
quest, and the more readily, as it was well known to him that this holy
adventure would, if achieved, procure him the pardon of all his sins. He
immediately departed for the kingdom of Brittany, hoping there to obtain
from Merlin counsel as to the proper course to pursue to insure success.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XVII

                              SIR TRISTRAM

ON arriving in Brittany Tristram found King Hoel engaged in a war with a
rebellious vassal, and hard pressed by his enemy. His best knights had
fallen in a late battle, and he knew not where to turn for assistance.
Tristram volunteered his aid. It was accepted; and the army of Hoel, led
by Tristram, and inspired by his example, gained a complete victory. The
king, penetrated by the most lively sentiments of gratitude, and having
informed himself of Tristram’s birth, offered him his daughter in
marriage. The princess was beautiful and accomplished, and bore the same
name with the Queen of Cornwall; but this one is designated by the
Romancers as Isoude of the White Hands, to distinguish her from Isoude
the Fair.

How can we describe the conflict that agitated the heart of Tristram? He
adored the first Isoude, but his love for her was hopeless, and not
unaccompanied by remorse. Moreover, the sacred quest on which he had now
entered demanded of him perfect purity of life. It seemed as if a happy
destiny had provided for him in the charming princess Isoude of the
White Hands the best security for all his good resolutions. This last
reflection determined him. They were married, and passed some months in
tranquil happiness at the court of King Hoel. The pleasure which
Tristram felt in his wife’s society increased day by day. An inward
grace seemed to stir within him from the moment when he took the oath to
go on the quest of the Holy Greal; it seemed even to triumph over the
power of the magic love-potion.

The war, which had been quelled for a time, now burst out anew. Tristram
as usual was foremost in every danger. The enemy was worsted in
successive conflicts, and at last shut himself up in his principal city.
Tristram led on the attack of the city. As he mounted a ladder to scale
the walls he was struck on the head by a fragment of rock, which the
besieged threw down upon him. It bore him to the ground, where he lay
insensible.

As soon as he recovered consciousness he demanded to be carried to his
wife. The princess, skilled in the art of surgery, would not suffer any
one but herself to touch her beloved husband. Her fair hands bound up
his wounds; Tristram kissed them with gratitude, which began to grow
into love. At first the devoted cares of Isoude seemed to meet with
great success; but after a while these flattering appearances vanished,
and, in spite of all her care, the malady grew more serious day by day.

In this perplexity, an old squire of Tristram’s reminded his master that
the princess of Ireland, afterwards queen of Cornwall, had once cured
him under circumstances quite as discouraging. He called Isoude of the
White Hands to him, told her of his former cure, added that he believed
that the Queen Isoude could heal him, and that he felt sure that she
would come to his relief, if sent for.

Isoude of the White Hands consented that Gesnes, a trusty man and
skilful navigator, should be sent to Cornwall. Tristram called him, and,
giving him a ring, “Take this,” he said, “to the Queen of Cornwall. Tell
her that Tristram, near to death, demands her aid. If you succeed in
bringing her with you, place white sails to your vessel on your return,
that we may know of your success when the vessel first heaves in sight.
But if Queen Isoude refuses, put on black sails; they will be the
presage of my impending death.”

Gesnes performed his mission successfully. King Mark happened to be
absent from his capital, and the queen readily consented to return with
the bark to Brittany. Gesnes clothed his vessel in the whitest of sails,
and sped his way back to Brittany.

Meantime the wound of Tristram grew more desperate day by day. His
strength, quite prostrated, no longer permitted him to be carried to the
seaside daily, as had been his custom from the first moment when it was
possible for the bark to be on the way homeward. He called a young
damsel, and gave her in charge to keep watch in the direction of
Cornwall, and to come and tell him the color of the sails of the first
vessel she should see approaching.

When Isoude of the White Hands consented that the queen of Cornwall
should be sent for, she had not known all the reasons which she had for
fearing the influence which renewed intercourse with that princess might
have on her own happiness. She had now learned more, and felt the danger
more keenly. She thought, if she could only keep the knowledge of the
queen’s arrival from her husband, she might employ in his service any
resources which her skill could supply, and still avert the dangers
which she apprehended. When the vessel was seen approaching, with its
white sails sparkling in the sun, the damsel, by command of her
mistress, carried word to Tristram that the sails were black.

Tristram, penetrated with inexpressible grief, breathed a profound sigh,
turned away his face, and said, “Alas, my beloved! we shall never see
one another again!” Then he commended himself to God, and breathed his
last.

The death of Tristram was the first intelligence which the queen of
Cornwall heard on landing. She was conducted almost senseless into the
chamber of Tristram, and expired holding him in her arms.

Tristram, before his death, had requested that his body should be sent
to Cornwall, and that his sword, with a letter he had written, should be
delivered to King Mark. The remains of Tristram and Isoude were embarked
in a vessel, along with the sword, which was presented to the king of
Cornwall. He was melted with tenderness when he saw the weapon which
slew Moraunt of Ireland,—which had so often saved his life, and
redeemed the honor of his kingdom. In the letter Tristram begged pardon
of his uncle, and related the story of the amorous draught.

Mark ordered the lovers to be buried in his own chapel. From the tomb of
Tristram there sprung a vine, which went along the walls, and descended
into the grave of the queen. It was cut down three times, but each time
sprung up again more vigorous than before, and this wonderful plant has
ever since shaded the tombs of Tristram and Isoude.

                                  ————

Spenser introduces Sir Tristram in his “Faery Queene.” In Book VI.,
Canto ii., Sir Calidore encounters in the forest a young hunter, whom he
thus describes:

      “Him steadfastly he marked, and saw to be
      A goodly youth of amiable grace,
      Yet but a slender slip, that scarce did see
      Yet seventeen yeares; but tall and faire of face,
      That sure he deemed him borne of noble race.
      All in a woodman’s jacket he was clad
      Of Lincoln greene, belayed with silver lace;
      And on his head an hood with aglets[52] sprad,
    And by his side his hunter’s horne he hanging had.

      “Buskins he wore of costliest cordawayne,
      Pinckt upon gold, and paled part per part,[53]
      As then the guize was for each gentle swayne.
      In his right hand he held a trembling dart,
      Whose fellow he before had sent apart;
      And in his left he held a sharp bore-speare,
      With which he wont to launch the salvage heart
      Of many a lyon, and of many a beare,
    That first unto his hand in chase did happen neare.”

                                  ————


                             CHAPTER XVIII

                                PERCEVAL

THE father and two elder brothers of Perceval had fallen in battle or
tournaments, and hence, as the last hope of his family, his mother
retired with him into a solitary region, where he was brought up in
total ignorance of arms and chivalry. He was allowed no weapon but “a
lyttel Scots spere,” which was the only thing of all “her lordes faire
gere” that his mother carried to the wood with her. In the use of this
he became so skilful, that he could kill with it not only the animals of
the chase for the table, but even birds on the wing. At length, however,
Perceval was roused to a desire of military renown by seeing in the
forest five knights who were in complete armor. He said to his mother,
“Mother, what are those yonder?” “They are angels, my son,” said she.
“By my faith, I will go and become an angel with them.” And Perceval
went to the road and met them. “Tell me, good lad,” said one of them,
“sawest thou a knight pass this way either to-day or yesterday?” “I know
not,” said he, “what a knight is.” “Such an one as I am,” said the
knight. “If thou wilt tell me what I ask thee, I will tell thee what
thou askest me.” “Gladly will I do so,” said Sir Owain, for that was the
knight’s name. “What is this?” demanded Perceval, touching the saddle.
“It is a saddle,” said Owain. Then he asked about all the accoutrements
which he saw upon the men and the horses, and about the arms, and what
they were for, and how they were used. And Sir Owain showed him all
those things fully. And Perceval in return gave him such information as
he had.

Then Perceval returned to his mother, and said to her, “Mother, those
were not angels, but honorable knights.” Then his mother swooned away.
And Perceval went to the place where they kept the horses that carried
firewood and provisions for the castle, and he took a bony, piebald
horse, which seemed to him the strongest of them. And he pressed a pack
into the form of a saddle, and with twisted twigs he imitated the
trappings which he had seen upon the horses. When he came again to his
mother, the countess had recovered from her swoon. “My son,” said she,
“desirest thou to ride forth?” “Yes, with thy leave,” said he. “Go
forward, then,” she said, “to the court of Arthur, where there are the
best and the noblest and the most bountiful of men, and tell him thou
art Perceval, the son of Pelenore, and ask of him to bestow knighthood
on thee. And whenever thou seest a church, repeat there thy
pater-noster; and if thou see meat and drink, and hast need of them,
thou mayest take them. If thou hear an outcry of one in distress,
proceed toward it, especially if it be the cry of a woman, and render
her what service thou canst. If thou see a fair jewel, win it, for thus
shalt thou acquire fame; yet freely give it to another, for thus thou
shalt obtain praise. If thou see a fair woman, pay court to her, for
thus thou wilt obtain love.”

After this discourse Perceval mounted the horse and taking a number of
sharp-pointed sticks in his hand he rode forth. And he rode far in the
woody wilderness without food or drink. At last he came to an opening in
the wood where he saw a tent, and as he thought it might be a church he
said his pater-noster to it. And he went towards it; and the door of the
tent was open. And Perceval dismounted and entered the tent. In the tent
he found a maiden sitting, with a golden frontlet on her forehead and a
gold ring on her hand. And Perceval said, “Maiden, I salute you, for my
mother told me whenever I met a lady I must respectfully salute her.”
Perceiving in one corner of the tent some food, two flasks full of wine,
and some boar’s flesh roasted, he said, “My mother told me, whenever I
saw meat and drink to take it.” And he ate greedily, for he was very
hungry. The maiden said, “Sir, thou hadst best go quickly from here, for
fear that my friends should come, and evil should befall you.” But
Perceval said, “My mother told me wheresoever I saw a fair jewel to take
it,” and he took the gold ring from her finger, and put it on his own;
and he gave the maiden his own ring in exchange for hers; then he
mounted his horse and rode away.

Perceval journeyed on till he arrived at Arthur’s court. And it so
happened that just at that time an uncourteous knight had offered Queen
Guenever a gross insult. For when her page was serving the queen with a
golden goblet, this knight struck the arm of the page and dashed the
wine in the queen’s face and over her stomacher. Then he said, “If any
have boldness to avenge this insult to Guenever, let him follow me to
the meadow.” So the knight took his horse and rode to the meadow,
carrying away the golden goblet. And all the household hung down their
heads and no one offered to follow the knight to take vengeance upon
him. For it seemed to them that no one would have ventured on so daring
an outrage unless he possessed such powers, through magic or charms,
that none could be able to punish him. Just then, behold, Perceval
entered the hall upon the bony, piebald horse, with his uncouth
trappings. In the centre of the hall stood Kay the Seneschal. “Tell me,
tall man,” said Perceval, “is that Arthur yonder?” “What wouldst thou
with Arthur?” asked Kay. “My mother told me to go to Arthur and receive
knighthood from him.” “By my faith,” said he, “thou art all too meanly
equipped with horse and with arms.” Then all the household began to jeer
and laugh at him. But there was a certain damsel who had been a whole
year at Arthur’s court, and had never been known to smile. And the
king’s fool[54] had said that this damsel would not smile till she had
seen him who would be the flower of chivalry. Now this damsel came up to
Perceval and told him, smiling, that if he lived he would be one of the
bravest and best of knights. “Truly,” said Kay, “thou art ill taught to
remain a year at Arthur’s court, with choice of society, and smile on no
one, and now before the face of Arthur and all his knights to call such
a man as this the flower of knighthood;” and he gave her a box on the
ear, that she fell senseless to the ground. Then said Kay to Perceval,
“Go after the knight who went hence to the meadow, overthrow him and
recover the golden goblet, and possess thyself of his horse and arms,
and thou shalt have knighthood.” “I will do so, tall man,” said
Perceval. So he turned his horse’s head toward the meadow. And when he
came there, the knight was riding up and down, proud of his strength and
valor and noble mien. “Tell me,” said the knight, “didst thou see any
one coming after me from the court?” “The tall man that was there,” said
Perceval, “told me to come and overthrow thee, and to take from thee the
goblet and thy horse and armor for myself.” “Silence!” said the knight;
“go back to the court, and tell Arthur either to come himself, or to
send some other to fight with me; and unless he do so quickly, I will
not wait for him.” “By my faith,” said Perceval, “choose thou whether it
shall be willingly or unwillingly, for I will have the horse and the
arms and the goblet.” Upon this the knight ran at him furiously, and
struck him a violent blow with the shaft of his spear, between the neck
and the shoulder. “Ha, ha, lad!” said Perceval, “my mother’s servants
were not used to play with me in this wise; so thus will I play with
thee.” And he threw at him one of his sharp-pointed sticks, and it
struck him in the eye, and came out at the back of his head, so that he
fell down lifeless.

“Verily,” said Sir Owain, the son of Urien, to Kay the Seneschal, “thou
wast ill-advised to send that madman after the knight, for he must
either be overthrown or flee, and either way it will be a disgrace to
Arthur and his warriors; therefore will I go to see what has befallen
him.” So Sir Owain went to the meadow, and he found Perceval trying in
vain to get the dead knight’s armor off, in order to clothe himself with
it. Sir Owain unfastened the armor, and helped Perceval to put it on,
and taught him how to put his foot in the stirrup, and use the spur; for
Perceval had never used stirrup nor spur, but rode without saddle, and
urged on his horse with a stick. Then Owain would have had him return to
the court to receive the praise that was his due; but Perceval said, “I
will not come to the court till I have encountered the tall man that is
there, to revenge the injury he did to the maiden. But take thou the
goblet to Queen Guenever, and tell King Arthur that, wherever I am, I
will be his vassal, and will do him what profit and service I can.” And
Sir Owain went back to the court, and related all these things to Arthur
and Guenever, and to all the household.

And Perceval rode forward. And he came to a lake on the side of which
was a fair castle, and on the border of the lake he saw a hoary-headed
man sitting upon a velvet cushion, and his attendants were fishing in
the lake. When the hoary-headed man beheld Perceval approaching, he
arose and went into the castle. Perceval rode to the castle, and the
door was open, and he entered the hall. And the hoary-headed man
received Perceval courteously, and asked him to sit by him on the
cushion. When it was time the tables were set, and they went to meat.
And when they had finished their meat the hoary-headed man asked
Perceval if he knew how to fight with the sword. “I know not,” said
Perceval, “but were I to be taught, doubtless I should.” And the
hoary-headed man said to him, “I am thy uncle, thy mother’s brother; I
am called King Pecheur.[55] Thou shalt remain with me a space, in order
to learn the manners and customs of different countries, and courtesy
and noble bearing. And this do thou remember, if thou seest aught to
cause thy wonder, ask not the meaning of it; if no one has the courtesy
to inform thee, the reproach will not fall upon thee, but upon me that
am thy teacher.” While Perceval and his uncle discoursed together,
Perceval beheld two youths enter the hall bearing a golden cup and a
spear of mighty size, with blood dropping from its point to the ground.
And when all the company saw this they began to weep and lament. But for
all that, the man did not break off his discourse with Perceval. And as
he did not tell him the meaning of what he saw, he forebore to ask him
concerning it. Now the cup that Perceval saw was the Sangreal, and the
spear the sacred spear; and afterwards King Pecheur removed with those
sacred relics into a far country.

  .      .      .      .      .      .      .

One evening Perceval entered a valley, and came to a hermit’s cell; and
the hermit welcomed him gladly, and there he spent the night. And in the
morning he arose, and when he went forth, behold! a shower of snow had
fallen in the night, and a hawk had killed a wild-fowl in front of the
cell. And the noise of the horse had scared the hawk away, and a raven
alighted on the bird. And Perceval stood and compared the blackness of
the raven and the whiteness of the snow and the redness of the blood to
the hair of the lady that best he loved, which was blacker than jet, and
to her skin, which was whiter than the snow, and to the two red spots
upon her cheeks, which were redder than the blood upon the snow.

Now Arthur and his household were in search of Perceval, and by chance
they came that way. “Know ye,” said Arthur, “who is the knight with the
long spear that stands by the brook up yonder?” “Lord,” said one of
them, “I will go and learn who he is.” So the youth came to the place
where Perceval was, and asked him what he did thus, and who he was. But
Perceval was so intent upon his thought that he gave him no answer. Then
the youth thrust at Perceval with his lance; and Perceval turned upon
him, and struck him to the ground. And when the youth returned to the
king, and told how rudely he had been treated, Sir Kay said, “I will go
myself.” And when he greeted Perceval, and got no answer, he spoke to
him rudely and angrily. And Perceval thrust at him with his lance, and
cast him down so that he broke his arm and his shoulder-blade. And while
he lay thus stunned his horse returned back at a wild and prancing pace.

Then said Sir Gawain, surnamed the Golden-Tongued, because he was the
most courteous knight in Arthur’s court: “It is not fitting that any
should disturb an honorable knight from his thought unadvisedly; for
either he is pondering some damage that he has sustained, or he is
thinking of the lady whom best he loves. If it seem well to thee, lord,
I will go and see if this knight has changed from his thought, and if he
has, I will ask him courteously to come and visit thee.”

And Perceval was resting on the shaft of his spear, pondering the same
thought, and Sir Gawain came to him, and said: “If I thought it would be
as agreeable to thee as it would be to me, I would converse with thee. I
have also a message from Arthur unto thee, to pray thee to come and
visit him. And two men have been before on this errand.” “That is true,”
said Perceval; “and uncourteously they came. They attacked me, and I was
annoyed thereat.” Then he told him the thought that occupied his mind,
and Gawain said, “This was not an ungentle thought, and I should marvel
if it were pleasant for thee to be drawn from it.” Then said Perceval,
“Tell me, is Sir Kay in Arthur’s court?” “He is,” said Gawain; “and
truly he is the knight who fought with thee last.” “Verily,” said
Perceval, “I am not sorry to have thus avenged the insult to the smiling
maiden.” Then Perceval told him his name, and said, “Who art thou?” And
he replied, “I am Gawain.” “I am right glad to meet thee,” said
Perceval, “for I have everywhere heard of thy prowess and uprightness;
and I solicit thy fellowship.” “Thou shalt have it, by my faith; and
grant me thine,” said he. “Gladly will I do so,” answered Perceval.

So they went together to Arthur, and saluted him.

“Behold, lord,” said Gawain, “him whom thou hast sought so long.”
“Welcome unto thee, chieftain,” said Arthur. And hereupon there came the
queen and her handmaidens, and Perceval saluted them. And they were
rejoiced to see him, and bade him welcome. And Arthur did him great
honor and respect and they returned towards Caerleon.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XIX

                      THE SANGREAL, OR HOLY GRAAL

THE Sangreal was the cup from which our Saviour drank at his last
supper. He was supposed to have given it to Joseph of Arimathea, who
carried it to Europe, together with the spear with which the soldier
pierced the Saviour’s side. From generation to generation, one of the
descendants of Joseph of Arimathea had been devoted to the guardianship
of these precious relics; but on the sole condition of leading a life of
purity in thought, word, and deed. For a long time the Sangreal was
visible to all pilgrims, and its presence conferred blessings upon the
land in which it was preserved. But at length one of those holy men to
whom its guardianship had descended so far forgot the obligation of his
sacred office as to look with unhallowed eye upon a young female pilgrim
whose robe was accidentally loosened as she knelt before him. The sacred
lance instantly punished his frailty, spontaneously falling upon him,
and inflicting a deep wound. The marvellous wound could by no means be
healed, and the guardian of the Sangreal was ever after called “Le Roi
Pescheur,”—The Sinner King. The Sangreal withdrew its visible presence
from the crowds who came to worship, and an iron age succeeded to the
happiness which its presence had diffused among the tribes of Britain.

              “But then the times
    Grew to such evil that the Holy cup
    Was caught away to heaven and disappear’d.”
                             —_The Holy Grail._

We have told in the history of Merlin how that great prophet and
enchanter sent a message to King Arthur by Sir Gawain, directing him to
undertake the recovery of the Sangreal, informing him at the same time
that the knight who should accomplish that sacred quest was already
born, and of a suitable age to enter upon it. Sir Gawain delivered his
message, and the king was anxiously revolving in his mind how best to
achieve the enterprise, when, at the vigil of Pentecost, all the
fellowship of the Round Table being met together at Camelot, as they sat
at meat, suddenly there was heard a clap of thunder, and then a bright
light burst forth, and every knight, as he looked on his fellow, saw
him, in seeming, fairer than ever before. All the hall was filled with
sweet odors, and every knight had such meat and drink as he best loved.
Then there entered into the hall the Holy Graal, covered with white
samite, so that none could see it, and it passed through the hall
suddenly, and disappeared. During this time no one spoke a word, but
when they had recovered breath to speak King Arthur said, “Certainly we
ought greatly to thank the Lord for what he hath showed us this day.”
Then Sir Gawain rose up, and made a vow that for twelve months and a day
he would seek the Sangreal, and not return till he had seen it, if so he
might speed. When they of the Round Table heard Sir Gawain say so, they
arose, the most part of them, and vowed the same. When King Arthur heard
this, he was greatly displeased, for he knew well that they might not
gainsay their vows. “Alas!” said he to Sir Gawain, “you have nigh slain
me with the vow and promise that ye have made, for ye have bereft me of
the fairest fellowship that ever were seen together in any realm of the
world; for when they shall depart hence, I am sure that all shall never
meet more in this world.”

                              SIR GALAHAD

At that time there entered the hall a good old man, and with him he
brought a young knight, and these words he said: “Peace be with you,
fair lords.” Then the old man said unto King Arthur, “Sir, I bring you
here a young knight that is of kings’ lineage, and of the kindred of
Joseph of Arimathea, being the son of Dame Elaine, the daughter of King
Pelles, king of the foreign country.” Now the name of the young knight
was Sir Galahad, and he was the son of Sir Launcelot du Lac; but he had
dwelt with his mother, at the court of King Pelles, his grandfather,
till now he was old enough to bear arms, and his mother had sent him in
the charge of a holy hermit to King Arthur’s court. Then Sir Launcelot
beheld his son, and had great joy of him. And Sir Bohort told his
fellows, “Upon my life, this young knight shall come to great worship.”
The noise was great in all the court, so that it came to the queen. And
she said, “I would fain see him, for he must needs be a noble knight,
for so is his father.” And the queen and her ladies all said that he
resembled much unto his father; and he was seemly and demure as a dove,
with all manner of good features, that in the whole world men might not
find his match. And King Arthur said, “God make him a good man, for
beauty faileth him not, as any that liveth.”

Then the hermit led the young knight to the Siege Perilous; and he
lifted up the cloth, and found there letters that said, “This is the
seat of Sir Galahad, the good knight;” and he made him sit in that seat.
And all the knights of the Round Table marvelled greatly at Sir Galahad,
seeing him sit securely in that seat, and said, “This is he by whom the
Sangreal shall be achieved, for there never sat one before in that seat
without being mischieved.”

On the next day the king said, “Now, at this quest of the Sangreal shall
all ye of the Round Table depart, and never shall I see you again
altogether; therefore I will that ye all repair to the meadow of
Camelot, for to just and tourney yet once more before ye depart.” But
all the meaning of the king was to see Sir Galahad proved. So then were
they all assembled in the meadow. Then Sir Galahad, by request of the
king and queen, put on his harness and his helm, but shield would he
take none for any prayer of the king. And the queen was in a tower, with
all her ladies, to behold that tournament. Then Sir Galahad rode into
the midst of the meadow; and there he began to break spears
marvellously, so that all men had wonder of him, for he surmounted all
knights that encountered with him, except two, Sir Launcelot and Sir
Perceval.

    “So many knights, that all the people cried,
    And almost burst the barriers in their heat,
    Shouting ‘Sir Galahad and Sir Perceval!’”
                                 —_Sir Galahad._

Then the king, at the queen’s request, made him to alight, and presented
him to the queen; and she said, “Never two men resembled one another
more than he and Sir Launcelot, and therefore it is no marvel that he is
like him in prowess.”

Then the king and the queen went to the minster, and the knights
followed them. And after the service was done they put on their helms
and departed, and there was great sorrow. They rode through the streets
of Camelot, and there was weeping of the rich and poor; and the king
turned away, and might not speak for weeping. And so they departed, and
every knight took the way that him best liked.

Sir Galahad rode forth without shield, and rode four days, and found no
adventure. And on the fourth day he came to a white abbey; and there he
was received with great reverence, and led to a chamber. He met there
two knights, King Bagdemagus and Sir Uwaine, and they made of him great
solace. “Sirs,” said Sir Galahad, “what adventure brought you hither?”
“Sir,” said they, “it is told us that within this place is a shield,
which no man may bear unless he be worthy; and if one unworthy should
attempt to bear it, it shall surely do him a mischief.” Then King
Bagdemagus said, “I fear not to bear it, and that shall ye see
to-morrow.”

So on the morrow they arose, and heard mass; then King Bagdemagus asked
where the adventurous shield was. Anon a monk led him behind an altar,
where the shield hung, as white as snow; but in the midst there was a
red cross. Then King Bagdemagus took the shield, and bare it out of the
minster; and he said to Sir Galahad, “If it please you, abide here till
ye know how I shall speed.”

Then King Bagdemagus and his squire rode forth; and when they had ridden
a mile or two, they saw a goodly knight come towards them, in white
armor, horse and all; and he came as fast as his horse might run, with
his spear in the rest; and King Bagdemagus directed his spear against
him, and broke it upon the white knight, but the other struck him so
hard that he broke the mails, and thrust him through the right shoulder,
for the shield covered him not, and so he bare him from his horse. Then
the white knight turned his horse and rode away.

Then the squire went to King Bagdemagus, and asked him whether he were
sore wounded or not. “I am sore wounded,” said he, “and full hardly
shall I escape death.” Then the squire set him on his horse, and brought
him to an abbey; and there he was taken down softly, and unarmed, and
laid in a bed, and his wound was looked to, for he lay there long, and
hardly escaped with his life. And the squire brought the shield back to
the abbey.

The next day Sir Galahad took the shield, and within a while he came to
the hermitage, where he met the white knight, and each saluted the other
courteously. “Sir,” said Sir Galahad, “can you tell me the marvel of the
shield?” “Sir,” said the white knight, “that shield belonged of old to
the gentle knight, Joseph of Arimathea; and when he came to die he said,
‘Never shall man bear this shield about his neck but he shall repent it,
unto the time that Sir Galahad the good knight bear it, the last of my
lineage, the which shall do many marvellous deeds.’” And then the white
knight vanished away.

                               SIR GAWAIN

After Sir Gawain departed, he rode many days, both toward and forward,
and at last he came to the abbey where Sir Galahad took the white
shield. And they told Sir Gawain of the marvellous adventure that Sir
Galahad had done. “Truly,” said Sir Gawain, “I am not happy that I took
not the way that he went, for, if I may meet with him, I will not part
from him lightly, that I may partake with him all the marvellous
adventures which he shall achieve.” “Sir,” said one of the monks, “he
will not be of your fellowship.” “Why?” said Sir Gawain. “Sir,” said he,
“because ye be sinful, and he is blissful.” Then said the monk, “Sir
Gawain, thou must do penance for thy sins.” “Sir, what penance shall I
do?” “Such as I will show,” said the good man. “Nay,” said Sir Gawain,
“I will do no penance, for we knights adventurous often suffer great woe
and pain.” “Well,” said the good man; and he held his peace. And Sir
Gawain departed.

Now it happened, not long after this, that Sir Gawain and Sir Hector
rode together, and they came to a castle where was a great tournament.
And Sir Gawain and Sir Hector joined themselves to the party that seemed
the weaker, and they drove before them the other party. Then suddenly
came into the lists a knight, bearing a white shield with a red cross,
and by adventure he came by Sir Gawain, and he smote him so hard that he
clave his helm and wounded his head, so that Sir Gawain fell to the
earth. When Sir Hector saw that, he knew that the knight with the white
shield was Sir Galahad, and he thought it no wisdom to abide him, and
also for natural love, that he was his uncle. Then Sir Galahad retired
privily, so that none knew where he had gone. And Sir Hector raised up
Sir Gawain, and said, “Sir, me seemeth your quest is done.” “It is
done,” said Sir Gawain; “I shall seek no further.” Then Gawain was borne
into the castle, and unarmed, and laid in a rich bed, and a leech found
to search his wound. And Sir Gawain and Sir Hector abode together, for
Sir Hector would not away till Sir Gawain were whole.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER XX

                       THE SANGREAL (_Continued_)

                             SIR LAUNCELOT

SIR LAUNCELOT rode overthwart and endlong in a wide forest, and held no
path but as wild adventure led him.

    “My golden spurs now bring to me,
      And bring to me my richest mail,
    For to-morrow I go over land and sea
      In search of the Holy, Holy Grail.
    Shall never a bed for me be spread,
    Nor shall a pillow be under my head,
    Till I begin my vow to keep.
    Here on the rushes will I sleep,
    And perchance there may come a vision true
    Ere day create the world anew.”
                       —_Lowell’s Holy Grail._

And at last he came to a stone cross. Then Sir Launcelot looked round
him, and saw an old chapel. So he tied his horse to a tree, and put off
his shield, and hung it upon a tree; and then he went into the chapel,
and looked through a place where the wall was broken. And within he saw
a fair altar, full richly arrayed with cloth of silk; and there stood a
fair candlestick, which bare six great candles, and the candlestick was
of silver. When Sir Launcelot saw this sight, he had a great wish to
enter the chapel, but he could find no place where he might enter. Then
was he passing heavy and dismayed. And he returned and came again to his
horse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, and let him pasture; and
unlaced his helm, and ungirded his sword, and laid him down to sleep
upon his shield before the cross.

And as he lay, half waking and half sleeping, he saw come by him two
palfreys, both fair and white, which bare a litter, on which lay a sick
knight. And when he was nigh the cross, he there abode still. And Sir
Launcelot heard him say, “O sweet Lord, when shall this sorrow leave me,
and when shall the holy vessel come by me whereby I shall be healed?”
And thus a great while complained the knight, and Sir Launcelot heard
it. Then Sir Launcelot saw the candlestick, with the lighted tapers,
come before the cross, but he could see nobody that brought it. Also
there came a salver of silver and the holy vessel of the Sangreal; and
therewithal the sick knight sat him upright, and held up both his hands,
and said, “Fair, sweet Lord, which is here within the holy vessel, take
heed to me, that I may be whole of this great malady.” And therewith,
upon his hands and upon his knees, he went so nigh that he touched the
holy vessel and kissed it. And anon he was whole. Then the holy vessel
went into the chapel again, with the candlestick and the light, so that
Sir Launcelot wist not what became of it.

Then the sick knight rose up and kissed the cross; and anon his squire
brought him his arms and asked his lord how he did. “I thank God right
heartily,” said he, “for, through the holy vessel, I am healed. But I
have great marvel of this sleeping knight, who hath had neither grace
nor power to awake during the time that the holy vessel hath been here
present.” “I dare it right well say,” said the squire, “that this same
knight is stained with some manner of deadly sin, whereof he was never
confessed.” So they departed.

Then anon Sir Launcelot waked, and set himself upright, and bethought
him of what he had seen and whether it were dreams or not. And he was
passing heavy, and wist not what to do. And he said: “My sin and my
wretchedness hath brought me into great dishonor. For when I sought
worldly adventures and worldly desires, I ever achieved them, and had
the better in every place, and never was I discomfited in any quarrel,
were it right or wrong. And now I take upon me the adventure of holy
things, I see and understand that mine old sin hindereth me, so that I
had no power to stir nor to speak when the holy blood appeared before
me.” So thus he sorrowed till it was day, and heard the fowls of the air
sing. Then was he somewhat comforted.

Then he departed from the cross into the forest. And there he found a
hermitage, and a hermit therein, who was going to mass. So when mass was
done Sir Launcelot called the hermit to him, and prayed him for charity
to hear his confession. “With a good will,” said the good man. And then
he told that good man all his life, and how he had loved a queen
unmeasurably many years. “And all my great deeds of arms that I have
done I did the most part for the queen’s sake, and for her sake would I
do battle, were it right or wrong, and never did I battle all only for
God’s sake, but for to win worship, and to cause me to be better
beloved; and little or naught I thanked God for it. I pray you counsel
me.”

“I will counsel you,” said the hermit, “if ye will insure me that ye
will never come in that queen’s fellowship as much as ye may forbear.”
And then Sir Launcelot promised the hermit, by his faith, that he would
no more come in her company. “Look that your heart and your mouth
accord,” said the good man, “and I shall insure you that ye shall have
more worship than ever ye had.”

Then the good man enjoined Sir Launcelot such penance as he might do,
and he assailed Sir Launcelot and made him abide with him all that day.
And Sir Launcelot repented him greatly.

                              SIR PERCEVAL

Sir Perceval departed and rode till the hour of noon; and he met in a
valley about twenty men of arms. And when they saw Sir Perceval, they
asked him whence he was; and he answered: “Of the court of King Arthur.”
Then they cried all at once, “Slay him.” But Sir Perceval smote the
first to the earth, and his horse upon him. Then seven of the knights
smote upon his shield all at once, and the remnant slew his horse, so
that he fell to the earth. So had they slain him or taken him, had not
the good knight Sir Galahad, with the red cross, come there by
adventure. And when he saw all the knights upon one, he cried out, “Save
me that knight’s life.” Then he rode toward the twenty men of arms as
fast as his horse might drive, with his spear in the rest, and smote the
foremost horse and man to the earth. And when his spear was broken, he
set his hand to his sword, and smote on the right hand and on the left,
that it was marvel to see; and at every stroke he smote down one, or put
him to rebuke, so that they would fight no more, but fled to a thick
forest, and Sir Galahad followed them. And when Sir Perceval saw him
chase them so, he made great sorrow that his horse was slain. And he
wist well it was Sir Galahad. Then he cried aloud, “Ah, fair knight,
abide, and suffer me to do thanks unto thee; for right well have ye done
for me.” But Sir Galahad rode so fast that at last he passed out of his
sight. When Sir Perceval saw that he would not turn, he said, “Now am I
a very wretch, and most unhappy above all other knights.” So in his
sorrow he abode all that day till it was night; and then he was faint,
and laid him down and slept till midnight; and then he awaked and saw
before him a woman, who said unto him, “Sir Perceval, what dost thou
here?” He answered, “I do neither good, nor great ill.” “If thou wilt
promise me,” said she, “that thou wilt fulfil my will when I summon
thee, I will lend thee my own horse, which shall bear thee whither thou
wilt.” Sir Perceval was glad of her proffer, and insured her to fulfil
all her desire. “Then abide me here, and I will go fetch you a horse.”
And so she soon came again, and brought a horse with her that was inky
black. When Perceval beheld that horse he marvelled, it was so great and
so well apparelled. And he leapt upon him and took no heed of himself.
And he thrust him with his spurs, and within an hour and less he bare
him four days’ journey thence, until he came to a rough water, which
roared, and his horse would have borne him into it. And when Sir
Perceval came nigh the brim and saw the water so boisterous he doubted
to overpass it. And then he made the sign of the cross on his forehead.
When the fiend felt him so charged, he shook off Sir Perceval, and went
into the water crying and roaring; and it seemed unto him that the water
burned. Then Sir Perceval perceived it was a fiend that would have
brought him unto his perdition. Then he commended himself unto God, and
prayed our Lord to keep him from all such temptations; and so he prayed
all that night till it was day. Then he saw that he was in a wild place,
that was closed with the sea nigh all about. And Sir Perceval looked
forth over the sea, and saw a ship come sailing towards him; and it came
and stood still under the rock. And when Sir Perceval saw this, he hied
him thither, and found the ship covered with silk; and therein was a
lady of great beauty, and clothed so richly that none might be better.

And when she saw Sir Perceval, she saluted him, and Sir Perceval
returned her salutation. Then he asked her of her country and her
lineage. And she said, “I am a gentlewoman that am disinherited, and was
once the richest woman of the world.” “Damsel,” said Sir Perceval, “who
hath disinherited you? for I have great pity of you.” “Sir,” said she,
“my enemy is a great and powerful lord, and aforetime he made much of
me, so that of his favor and of my beauty I had a little pride more than
I ought to have had. Also I said a word that pleased him not. So he
drove me from his company and from mine heritage. Therefore I know no
good knight nor good man, but I get him on my side if I may. And for
that I know that thou art a good knight, I beseech thee to help me.”

Then Sir Perceval promised her all the help that he might, and she
thanked him.

And at that time the weather was hot, and she called to her a
gentlewoman, and bade her bring forth a pavilion. And she did so, and
pitched it upon the gravel. “Sir,” said she, “now may ye rest you in
this heat of the day.” Then he thanked her, and she put off his helm and
his shield, and there he slept a great while. Then he awoke, and asked
her if she had any meat, and she said yea, and so there was set upon the
table all manner of meats that he could think on. Also he drank there
the strongest wine that ever he drank, and therewith he was a little
chafed more than he ought to be. With that he beheld the lady, and he
thought she was the fairest creature that ever he saw. And then Sir
Perceval proffered her love, and prayed her that she would be his. Then
she refused him in a manner, for the cause he should be the more ardent
on her, and ever he ceased not to pray her of love. And when she saw him
well enchafed, then she said, “Sir Perceval, wit you well I shall not
give ye my love, unless you swear from henceforth you will be my true
servant, and do no thing but that I shall command you. Will you insure
me this, as ye be a true knight?” “Yea,” said he, “fair lady, by the
faith of my body.” And as he said this, by adventure and grace, he saw
his sword lie on the ground naked, in whose pommel was a red cross, and
the sign of the crucifix thereon. Then he made the sign of the cross on
his forehead, and therewith the pavilion shrivelled up, and changed into
a smoke and a black cloud. And the damsel cried aloud, and hasted into
the ship, and so she went with the wind roaring and yelling that it
seemed all the water burned after her. Then Sir Perceval made great
sorrow, and called himself a wretch, saying, “How nigh was I lost!” Then
he took his arms, and departed thence.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XXI

                       THE SANGREAL (_Continued_)

                               SIR BOHORT

WHEN Sir Bohort departed from Camelot he met with a religious man,
riding upon an ass; and Sir Bohort saluted him. “What are ye?” said the
good man. “Sir,” said Sir Bohort, “I am a knight that fain would be
counselled in the quest of the Sangreal.” So rode they both together
till they came to a hermitage; and there he prayed Sir Bohort to dwell
that night with him. So he alighted, and put away his armor, and prayed
him that he might be confessed. And they went both into the chapel, and
there he was clean confessed. And they ate bread and drank water
together. “Now,” said the good man, “I pray thee that thou eat none
other till thou sit at the table where the Sangreal shall be.” “Sir,”
said Sir Bohort, “but how know ye that I shall sit there?” “Yea,” said
the good man, “that I know well; but there shall be few of your fellows
with you.” Then said Sir Bohort, “I agree me thereto.” And the good man
when he had heard his confession found him in so pure a life and so
stable that he marvelled thereof.

On the morrow, as soon as the day appeared, Sir Bohort departed thence,
and rode into a forest unto the hour of midday. And there befell him a
marvellous adventure. For he met, at the parting of two ways, two
knights that led Sir Lionel, his brother, all naked, bound upon a strong
hackney, and his hands bound before his breast; and each of them held in
his hand thorns wherewith they went beating him, so that he was all
bloody before and behind; but he said never a word, but, as he was great
of heart, he suffered all that they did to him as though he had felt
none anguish. Sir Bohort prepared to rescue his brother. But he looked
on the other side of him, and saw a knight dragging along a fair
gentlewoman, who cried out, “Saint Mary! succor your maid!” And when she
saw Sir Bohort, she called to him, and said, “By the faith that ye owe
to knighthood, help me!” When Sir Bohort heard her say thus he had such
sorrow that he wist not what to do. “For if I let my brother be he must
be slain, and that would I not for all the earth; and if I help not the
maid I am shamed for ever.” Then lift he up his eyes and said, weeping,
“Fair Lord, whose liegeman I am, keep Sir Lionel, my brother, that none
of these knights slay him, and for pity of you, and our Lady’s sake, I
shall succor this maid.”

Then he cried out to the knight, “Sir knight, lay your hand off that
maid, or else ye be but dead.” Then the knight set down the maid, and
took his shield, and drew out his sword. And Sir Bohort smote him so
hard that it went through his shield and habergeon, on the left
shoulder, and he fell down to the earth. Then came Sir Bohort to the
maid, “Ye be delivered of this knight this time.” “Now,” said she, “I
pray you lead me there where this knight took me.” “I shall gladly do
it,” said Sir Bohort. So he took the horse of the wounded knight, and
set the gentlewoman upon it, and brought her there where she desired to
be. And there he found twelve knights seeking after her; and when she
told them how Sir Bohort had delivered her, they made great joy, and
besought him to come to her father, a great lord, and he should be right
welcomed. “Truly,” said Sir Bohort, “that may not be; for I have a great
adventure to do.” So he commended them to God and departed.

Then Sir Bohort rode after Sir Lionel, his brother, by the trace of
their horses. Thus he rode seeking, a great while. Then he overtook a
man clothed in a religious clothing, who said, “Sir Knight, what seek
ye?” “Sir,” said Sir Bohort, “I seek my brother, that I saw within a
little space beaten of two knights.” “Ah, Sir Bohort, trouble not
thyself to seek for him, for truly he is dead.” Then he showed him a
new-slain body, lying in a thick bush; and it seemed him that it was the
body of Sir Lionel. And then he made such sorrow that he fell to the
ground in a swoon, and lay there long. And when he came to himself
again, he said, “Fair brother, since the fellowship of you and me is
sundered, shall I never have joy again; and now He that I have taken for
my Master, He be my help!” And when he had said thus he took up the body
in his arms, and put it upon the horse. And then he said to the man,
“Canst thou tell me the way to some chapel, where I may bury this body?”
“Come on,” said the man, “here is one fast by.” And so they rode till
they saw a fair tower, and beside it a chapel. Then they alighted both,
and put the body into a tomb of marble.

Then Sir Bohort commended the good man unto God, and departed. And he
rode all that day, and harbored with an old lady. And on the morrow he
rode unto the castle in a valley, and there he met with a yeoman. “Tell
me,” said Sir Bohort, “knowest thou of any adventure?” “Sir,” said he,
“here shall be, under this castle, a great and marvellous tournament.”
Then Sir Bohort thought to be there, if he might meet with any of the
fellowship that were in quest of the Sangreal; so he turned to a
hermitage that was on the border of the forest. And when he was come
hither, he found there Sir Lionel his brother, who sat all armed at the
entry of the chapel door. And when Sir Bohort saw him, he had great joy,
and he alighted off his horse, and said, “Fair brother, when came ye
hither?” As soon as Sir Lionel saw him he said, “Ah, Sir Bohort, make ye
no false show, for, as for you, I might have been slain, for ye left me
in peril of death to go succor a gentlewoman; and for that misdeed I now
assure you but death, for ye have right well deserved it.” When Sir
Bohort perceived his brother’s wrath he kneeled down to the earth and
cried him mercy, holding up both his hands, and prayed him to forgive
him. “Nay,” said Sir Lionel, “thou shalt have but death for it, if I
have the upper hand; therefore leap upon thy horse and keep thyself, and
if thou do not I will run upon thee there as thou standest on foot, and
so the shame shall be mine, and the harm thine, but of that I reck not.”
When Sir Bohort saw that he must fight with his brother or else die, he
wist not what to do. Then his heart counselled him not so to do,
inasmuch as Sir Lionel was his elder brother, wherefore he ought to bear
him reverence. Yet kneeled he down before Sir Lionel’s horse’s feet, and
said, “Fair brother, have mercy upon me and slay me not.” But Sir Lionel
cared not, for the fiend had brought him in such a will that he should
slay him. When he saw that Sir Bohort would not rise to give him battle,
he rushed over him, so that he smote him with his horse’s feet to the
earth, and hurt him sore, that he swooned of distress. When Sir Lionel
saw this he alighted from his horse for to have smitten off his head;
and so he took him by the helm, and would have rent it from his head.
But it happened that Sir Colgrevance, a knight of the Round Table, came
at that time thither, as it was our Lord’s will; and then he beheld how
Sir Lionel would have slain his brother, and he knew Sir Bohort, whom he
loved right well.

Then leapt he down from his horse and took Sir Lionel by the shoulders,
and drew him strongly back from Sir Bohort, and said, “Sir Lionel, will
ye slay your brother?” “Why,” said Sir Lionel, “will ye stay me? If ye
interfere in this I will slay you, and him after.” Then he ran upon Sir
Bohort, and would have smitten him; but Sir Colgrevance ran between
them, and said, “If ye persist to do so any more, we two shall meddle
together.” Then Sir Lionel defied him, and gave him a great stroke
through the helm. Then he drew his sword, for he was a passing good
knight, and defended himself right manfully. So long endured the battle,
that Sir Bohort rose up all anguishly, and beheld Sir Colgrevance, the
good knight, fight with his brother for his quarrel. Then was he full
sorry and heavy, and thought that if Sir Colgrevance slew him that was
his brother he should never have joy, and if his brother slew Sir
Colgrevance the shame should ever be his.

Then would he have risen for to have parted them, but he had not so much
strength to stand on his feet; so he staid so long that Sir Colgrevance
had the worse; for Sir Lionel was of great chivalry and right hardy.
Then cried Sir Colgrevance, “Ah, Sir Bohort, why come ye not to bring me
out of peril of death, wherein I have put me to succor you?” With that,
Sir Lionel smote off his helm and bore him to the earth. And when he had
slain Sir Colgrevance he ran upon his brother as a fiendly man, and gave
him such a stroke that he made him stoop. And he that was full of
humility prayed him, “for God’s sake leave this battle, for if it
befell, fair brother, that I slew you, or ye me, we should be dead of
that sin.” “Pray ye not me for mercy,” said Sir Lionel. Then Sir Bohort,
all weeping, drew his sword, and said, “Now God have mercy upon me,
though I defend my life against my brother.” With that Sir Bohort lifted
up his sword, and would have smitten his brother. Then he heard a voice
that said, “Flee, Sir Bohort, and touch him not.” Right so alighted a
cloud between them, in the likeness of a fire and a marvellous flame, so
that they both fell to the earth, and lay there a great while in a
swoon. And when they came to themselves, Sir Bohort saw that his brother
had no harm; and he was right glad, for he dread sore that God had taken
vengeance upon him. Then Sir Lionel said to his brother, “Brother,
forgive me, for God’s sake, all that I have trespassed against you.” And
Sir Bohort answered, “God forgive it thee, and I do.”

With that Sir Bohort heard a voice say, “Sir Bohort, take thy way anon,
right to the sea, for Sir Perceval abideth thee there.” So Sir Bohort
departed, and rode the nearest way to the sea. And at last he came to an
abbey that was nigh the sea. That night he rested him there, and in his
sleep there came a voice unto him and bade him go to the sea-shore. He
started up, and made a sign of the cross on his forehead, and armed
himself, and made ready his horse and mounted him, and at a broken wall
he rode out, and came to the sea-shore. And there he found a ship,
covered all with white samite. And he entered into the ship; but it was
anon so dark that he might see no man, and he laid him down and slept
till it was day. Then he awaked, and saw in the middle of the ship a
knight all armed, save his helm. And then he knew it was Sir Perceval de
Galis, and each made of other right great joy. Then said Sir Perceval,
“We lack nothing now but the good knight Sir Galahad.”

                       SIR LAUNCELOT (_Resumed_)

It befell upon a night Sir Launcelot arrived before a castle, which was
rich and fair. And there was a postern that was opened toward the sea,
and was open without any keeping, save two lions kept the entry; and the
moon shined clear. Anon Sir Launcelot heard a voice that said,
“Launcelot, enter into the castle, where thou shalt see a great part of
thy desire.” So he went unto the gate, and saw the two lions; then he
set hands to his sword, and drew it. Then there came suddenly as it were
a stroke upon the arm, so sore that the sword fell out of his hand, and
he heard a voice that said, “O man of evil faith, wherefore believest
thou more in thy armor than in thy Maker?” Then said Sir Launcelot,
“Fair Lord, I thank thee of thy great mercy, that thou reprovest me of
my misdeed; now see I well that thou holdest me for thy servant.” Then
he made a cross on his forehead, and came to the lions; and they made
semblance to do him harm, but he passed them without hurt, and entered
into the castle, and he found no gate nor door but it was open. But at
the last he found a chamber whereof the door was shut; and he set his
hand thereto, to have opened it, but he might not. Then he listened, and
heard a voice which sung so sweetly that it seemed none earthly thing;
and the voice said, “Joy and honor be to the Father of heaven.” Then Sir
Launcelot kneeled down before the chamber, for well he wist that there
was the Sangreal in that chamber. Then said he, “Fair, sweet Lord, if
ever I did anything that pleased thee, for thy pity show me something of
that which I seek.” And with that he saw the chamber door open, and
there came out a great clearness, that the house was as bright as though
all the torches of the world had been there. So he came to the chamber
door, and would have entered; and anon a voice said unto him, “Stay, Sir
Launcelot, and enter not.” And he withdrew him back, and was right heavy
in his mind. Then looked he in the midst of the chamber, and saw a table
of silver, and the holy vessel, covered with red samite, and many angels
about it; whereof one held a candle of wax burning, and another held a
cross, and the ornaments of the altar.

    “O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail,
    All pall’d in crimson samite, and around
    Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes.”
                                  —_The Holy Grail._

Then for very wonder and thankfulness Sir Launcelot forgot himself and
he stepped forward and entered the chamber. And suddenly a breath that
seemed intermixed with fire smote him so sore in the visage that
therewith he fell to the ground, and had no power to rise. Then felt he
many hands about him, which took him up and bare him out of the chamber,
without any amending of his swoon, and left him there, seeming dead to
all the people. So on the morrow, when it was fair daylight, and they
within were arisen, they found Sir Launcelot lying before the chamber
door. And they looked upon him and felt his pulse, to know if there were
any life in him. And they found life in him, but he might neither stand
nor stir any member that he had. So they took him and bare him into a
chamber, and laid him upon a bed, far from all folk, and there he lay
many days. Then the one said he was alive, and the others said nay. But
said an old man, “He is as full of life as the mightiest of you all, and
therefore I counsel you that he be well kept till God bring him back
again.” And after twenty-four days he opened his eyes; and when he saw
folk he made great sorrow, and said, “Why have ye wakened me? for I was
better at ease than I am now.” “What have ye seen?” said they about him.
“I have seen,” said he, “great marvels that no tongue can tell, and more
than any heart can think.” Then they said, “Sir, the quest of the
Sangreal is achieved right now in you, and never shall ye see more of it
than ye have seen.” “I thank God,” said Sir Launcelot, “of his great
mercy, for that I have seen, for it sufficeth me.” Then he rose up and
clothed himself; and when he was so arrayed they marvelled all, for they
knew it was Sir Launcelot the good knight. And after four days he took
his leave of the lord of the castle, and of all the fellowship that were
there, and thanked them for their great labor and care of him. Then he
departed, and turned to Camelot, where he found King Arthur and Queen
Guenever; but many of the knights of the Round Table were slain and
destroyed, more than half. Then all the court was passing glad of Sir
Launcelot; and he told the king all his adventures that had befallen him
since he departed.

                              SIR GALAHAD

Now, when Sir Galahad had rescued Perceval from the twenty knights, he
rode into a vast forest, wherein he abode many days. Then he took his
way to the sea, and it befell him that he was benighted in a hermitage.
And the good man was glad when he saw he was a knight-errant. And when
they were at rest, there came a gentlewoman knocking at the door; and
the good man came to the door to wit what she would. Then she said, “I
would speak with the knight which is with you.” Then Galahad went to
her, and asked her what she would. “Sir Galahad,” said she, “I will that
ye arm you, and mount upon your horse, and follow me; for I will show
you the highest adventure that ever knight saw.” Then Galahad armed
himself and commended himself to God, and bade the damsel go before, and
he would follow where she led.

So she rode as fast as her palfrey might bear her, till she came to the
sea; and there they found the ship where Sir Bohort and Sir Perceval
were, who cried from the ship, “Sir Galahad, you are welcome; we have
waited you long.” And when he heard them, he asked the damsel who they
were. “Sir,” said she, “leave your horse here, and I shall leave mine,
and we will join ourselves to their company.” So they entered into the
ship, and the two knights received them both with great joy. For they
knew the damsel, that she was Sir Perceval’s sister. Then the wind arose
and drove them through the sea all that day and the next, till the ship
arrived between two rocks, passing great and marvellous; but there they
might not land, for there was a whirlpool; but there was another ship,
and upon it they might go without danger. “Go we thither,” said the
gentlewoman, “and there we shall see adventures, for such is our Lord’s
will.” Then Sir Galahad blessed him, and entered therein, and then next
the gentlewoman, and then Sir Bohort and Sir Perceval. And when they
came on board they found there the table of silver, and the Sangreal,
which was covered with red samite. And they made great reverence
thereto, and Sir Galahad prayed a long time to our Lord, that at what
time he should ask to pass out of this world he should do so; and a
voice said to him, “Galahad, thou shalt have thy request; and when thou
askest the death of they body, thou shalt have it, and then shalt thou
find the life of thy soul.”

And anon the wind drove them across the sea, till they came to the city
of Sarras. Then took they out of the ship the table of silver, and Sir
Perceval and Sir Bohort took it before, and Sir Galahad came behind, and
right so they went to the city. And at the gate of the city they saw an
old man, a <DW36>.

    “And Sir Launfal said, ‘I behold in thee
    An image of Him who died on the tree.
    Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns,
    Thou also hast had the world’s buffets and scorns;
    And to thy life were not denied
    The wounds in thy hands and feet and side.
    Mild Mary’s son, acknowledge me;
    Behold, through Him I give to thee!’”
                               —_Lowell’s Holy Grail._

Then Galahad called him, and bade him help to bear this heavy thing.
“Truly,” said the old man, “it is ten years since I could not go but
with crutches.” “Care thou not,” said Sir Galahad, “but arise up, and
show thy good will.” Then the old man rose up, and assayed, and found
himself as whole as ever he was; and he ran to the table, and took one
part with Sir Galahad.

When they came to the city it chanced that the king was just dead, and
all the city was dismayed, and wist not who might be their king. Right
so, as they were in counsel, there came a voice among them, and bade
them choose the youngest knight of those three to be their king. So they
made Sir Galahad king, by all the assent of the city. And when he was
made king, he commanded to make a chest of gold and of precious stones
to hold the holy vessel. And every day the three companions would come
before it and make their prayers.

Now at the year’s end, and the same day of the year that Sir Galahad
received the crown, he got up early, and, with his fellows, came to
where the holy vessel was; and they saw one kneeling before it that had
about him a great fellowship of angels; and he called Sir Galahad, and
said, “Come, thou servant of the Lord, and thou shalt see what thou hast
much desired to see.” And Sir Galahad’s mortal flesh trembled right hard
when he began to behold the spiritual things. Then said the good man,
“Now wottest thou who I am?” “Nay,” said Sir Galahad. “I am Joseph of
Arimathea, whom our Lord hath sent here to thee, to bear thee
fellowship.” Then Sir Galahad held up his hands toward heaven, and said,
“Now, blessed Lord, would I not longer live, if it might please thee.”
And when he had said these words, Sir Galahad went to Sir Perceval and
to Sir Bohort and kissed them, and commended them to God. And then he
kneeled down before the table, and made his prayers, and suddenly his
soul departed, and a great multitude of angels bare his soul up to
heaven, so as the two fellows could well behold it. Also they saw come
from heaven a hand, but they saw not the body; and the hand came right
to the vessel and bare it up to heaven. Since then was there never one
so hardy as to say that he had seen the Sangreal on earth any more.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XXII

                         SIR AGRIVAIN’S TREASON

WHEN Sir Perceval and Sir Bohort saw Sir Galahad dead they made as much
sorrow as ever did two men. And if they had not been good men they might
have fallen into despair. As soon as Sir Galahad was buried Sir Perceval
retired to a hermitage out of the city, and took a religious clothing;
and Sir Bohort was always with him, but did not change his secular
clothing, because he purposed to return to the realm of Loegria. Thus a
year and two months lived Sir Perceval in the hermitage a full holy
life, and then passed out of this world, and Sir Bohort buried him by
his sister and Sir Galahad. Then Sir Bohort armed himself and departed
from Sarras, and entered into a ship, and sailed to the kingdom of
Loegria, and in due time arrived safe at Camelot, where the king was.
Then was there great joy made of him in the whole court, for they feared
he had been dead. Then the king made great clerks to come before him,
that they should chronicle of the high adventures of the good knights.
And Sir Bohort told him of the adventures that had befallen him, and his
two fellows, Sir Perceval and Sir Galahad. And Sir Launcelot told the
adventures of the Sangreal that he had seen. All this was made in great
books, and put up in the church at Salisbury.

So King Arthur and Queen Guenever made great joy of the remnant that
were come home, and chiefly of Sir Launcelot and Sir Bohort. Then Sir
Launcelot began to resort unto Queen Guenever again, and forgot the
promise that he made in the quest; so that many in the court spoke of
it, and in especial Sir Agrivain, Sir Gawain’s brother, for he was ever
open-mouthed. So it happened Sir Gawain and all his brothers were in
King Arthur’s chamber, and then Sir Agrivain said thus openly, “I marvel
that we all are not ashamed to see and to know so noble a knight as King
Arthur so to be shamed by the conduct of Sir Launcelot and the queen.”
Then spoke Sir Gawain, and said, “Brother, Sir Agrivain, I pray you and
charge you move not such matters any more before me, for be ye assured I
will not be of your counsel.” “Neither will we,” said Sir Gaheris and
Sir Gareth. “Then will I,” said Sir Modred. “I doubt you not,” said Sir
Gawain, “for to all mischief ever were ye prone; yet I would that ye
left all this, for I know what will come of it.”

                  “Modred’s narrow foxy face,
    Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye:
    Henceforward, too, the Powers that tend the soul
    To help it from the death that cannot die,
    And save it even in extremes, began
    To vex and plague.”
                                —_Guinevere._

“Fall of it what fall may,” said Sir Agrivain, “I will disclose it to
the king.” With that came to them King Arthur. “Now, brothers, hold your
peace,” said Sir Gawain. “We will not,” said Sir Agrivain. Then said Sir
Gawain, “I will not hear your tales nor be of your counsel.” “No more
will I,” said Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris, and therewith they departed,
making great sorrow.

Then Sir Agrivain told the king all that was said in the court of the
conduct of Sir Launcelot and the queen, and it grieved the king very
much. But he would not believe it to be true without proof. So Sir
Agrivain laid a plot to entrap Sir Launcelot and the queen, intending to
take them together unawares. Sir Agrivain and Sir Modred led a party for
this purpose, but Sir Launcelot escaped from them, having slain Sir
Agrivain and wounded Sir Modred. Then Sir Launcelot hastened to his
friends, and told them what had happened, and withdrew with them to the
forest; but he left spies to bring him tidings of whatever might be
done.

So Sir Launcelot escaped, but the queen remained in the king’s power,
and Arthur could no longer doubt of her guilt. And the law was such in
those days that they who committed such crimes, of what estate or
condition soever they were, must be burned to death, and so it was
ordained for Queen Guenever. Then said King Arthur to Sir Gawain, “I
pray you make you ready, in your best armor, with your brethren, Sir
Gaheris and Sir Gareth, to bring my queen to the fire, there to receive
her death.” “Nay, my most noble lord,” said Sir Gawain, “that will I
never do; for know thou well, my heart will never serve me to see her
die, and it shall never be said that I was of your counsel in her
death.” Then the king commanded Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth to be there,
and they said, “We will be there, as ye command us, sire, but in
peaceable wise, and bear no armor upon us.”

So the queen was led forth, and her ghostly father was brought to her to
shrive her, and there was weeping and wailing of many lords and ladies.
And one went and told Sir Launcelot that the queen was led forth to her
death. Then Sir Launcelot and the knights that were with him fell upon
the troop that guarded the queen, and dispersed them, and slew all who
withstood them. And in the confusion Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris were
slain, for they were unarmed and defenceless. And Sir Launcelot carried
away the queen to his castle of La Joyeuse Garde.

Then there came one to Sir Gawain and told him how that Sir Launcelot
had slain the knights and carried away the queen. “O Lord, defend my
brethren!” said Sir Gawain. “Truly,” said the man, “Sir Gareth and Sir
Gaheris are slain.” “Alas!” said Sir Gawain, “now is my joy gone.” And
then he fell down and swooned, and long he lay there as he had been
dead.

When he arose out of his swoon Sir Gawain ran to the king, crying, “O
King Arthur, mine uncle, my brothers are slain.” Then the king wept and
he both. “My king, my lord, and mine uncle,” said Sir Gawain, “bear
witness now that I make you a promise that I shall hold by my
knighthood, and from this day I will never fail Sir Launcelot until the
one of us have slain the other. I will seek Sir Launcelot throughout
seven kings’ realms, but I shall slay him or he shall slay me.” “Ye
shall not need to seek him,” said the king, “for as I hear, Sir
Launcelot will abide me and you in the Joyeuse Garde; and much people
draweth unto him, as I hear say.” “That may I believe,” said Sir Gawain;
“but, my lord, summon your friends, and I will summon mine.” “It shall
be done,” said the king. So then the king sent letters and writs
throughout all England, both in the length and breadth, to summon all
his knights. And unto Arthur drew many knights, dukes, and earls, so
that he had a great host. Thereof heard Sir Launcelot, and collected all
whom he could; and many good knights held with him, both for his sake
and for the queen’s sake. But King Arthur’s host was too great for Sir
Launcelot to abide him in the field; and he was full loath to do battle
against the king. So Sir Launcelot drew him to his strong castle, with
all manner of provisions. Then came King Arthur with Sir Gawain, and
laid siege all about La Joyeuse Garde, both the town and the castle; but
in no wise would Sir Launcelot ride out of his castle, neither suffer
any of his knights to issue out, until many weeks were past.

Then it befell upon a day in harvest-time, Sir Launcelot looked over the
wall, and spoke aloud to King Arthur and Sir Gawain, “My lords both, all
is in vain that ye do at this siege, for here ye shall win no worship,
but only dishonor; for if I list to come out, and my good knights, I
shall soon make an end of this war.” “Come forth,” said Arthur, “if thou
darest, and I promise thee I shall meet thee in the midst of the field.”
“God forbid me,” said Sir Launcelot, “that I should encounter with the
most noble king that made me knight.” “Fie upon thy fair language,” said
the king, “for know thou well I am thy mortal foe, and ever will be to
my dying day.” And Sir Gawain said, “What cause hadst thou to slay my
brother, Sir Gaheris, who bore no arms against thee, and Sir Gareth,
whom thou madest knight, and who loved thee more than all my kin?
Therefore know thou well I shall make war to thee all the while that I
may live.”

When Sir Bohort, and Sir Hector de Marys, and Sir Lionel heard this
outcry, they called to them Sir Palamedes, and Sir Saffire his brother,
and Sir Lawayn, with many more, and all went to Sir Launcelot. And they
said, “My lord, Sir Launcelot, we pray you, if you will have our service
keep us no longer within these walls, for know well all your fair speech
and forbearance will not avail you.” “Alas!” said Sir Launcelot, “to
ride forth and to do battle I am full loath.” Then he spake again unto
the king and Sir Gawain, and willed them to keep out of the battle; but
they despised his words. So then Sir Launcelot’s fellowship came out of
the castle in full good array. And always Sir Launcelot charged all his
knights, in any wise, to save King Arthur and Sir Gawain.

Then came forth Sir Gawain from the king’s host and offered combat, and
Sir Lionel encountered with him, and there Sir Gawain smote Sir Lionel
through the body, that he fell to the earth as if dead. Then there began
a great conflict, and much people were slain; but ever Sir Launcelot did
what he might to save the people on King Arthur’s party, and ever King
Arthur followed Sir Launcelot to slay him; but Sir Launcelot suffered
him, and would not strike again. Then Sir Bohort encountered with King
Arthur, and smote him down; and he alighted and drew his sword, and said
to Sir Launcelot, “Shall I make an end of this war?” for he meant to
have slain King Arthur. “Not so,” said Sir Launcelot, “touch him no
more, for I will never see that most noble king that made me knight
either slain or shamed;” and therewith Sir Launcelot alighted off his
horse, and took up the king, and horsed him again, and said thus: “My
lord Arthur, for God’s love, cease this strife.” And King Arthur looked
upon Sir Launcelot, and the tears burst from his eyes, thinking on the
great courtesy that was in Sir Launcelot more than in any other man; and
therewith the king rode his way. Then anon both parties withdrew to
repose them, and buried the dead.

But the war continued, and it was noised abroad through all Christendom,
and at last it was told afore the pope; and he, considering the great
goodness of King Arthur, and of Sir Launcelot, called unto him a noble
clerk, which was the Bishop of Rochester, who was then in his dominions,
and sent him to King Arthur, charging him that he take his queen, dame
Guenever, unto him again, and make peace with Sir Launcelot.

So, by means of this bishop, peace was made for the space of one year;
and King Arthur received back the queen, and Sir Launcelot departed from
the kingdom with all his knights, and went to his own country. So they
shipped at Cardiff, and sailed unto Benwick, which some men call
Bayonne. And all the people of those lands came to Sir Launcelot, and
received him home right joyfully. And Sir Launcelot stablished and
garnished all his towns and castles, and he greatly advanced all his
noble knights, Sir Lionel and Sir Bohort, and Sir Hector de Marys, Sir
Blamor, Sir Lawayne, and many others, and made them lords of lands and
castles; till he left himself no more than any one of them.

      “Then Arthur made vast banquets, and strange knights
    From the four winds came in: and each one sat,
    Tho’ served with choice from air, land, stream and sea,
    Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes
    His neighbor’s make and might.”
                                   —_Pelleas and Ettarre._

But when the year was passed, King Arthur and Sir Gawain came with a
great host, and landed upon Sir Launcelot’s lands, and burned and wasted
all that they might overrun. Then spake Sir Bohort and said, “My lord,
Sir Launcelot, give us leave to meet them in the field, and we shall
make them rue the time that ever they came to this country.” Then said
Sir Launcelot, “I am full loath to ride out with my knights for shedding
of Christian blood; so we will yet a while keep our walls, and I will
send a messenger unto my lord Arthur, to propose a treaty; for better is
peace than always war.” So Sir Launcelot sent forth a damsel, and a
dwarf with her, requiring King Arthur to leave his warring upon his
lands; and so she started on a palfrey, and the dwarf ran by her side.
And when she came to the pavilion of King Arthur, she alighted, and
there met her a gentle knight, Sir Lucan, the butler, and said, “Fair
damsel, come ye from Sir Launcelot du Lac?” “Yea, sir,” she said, “I
come hither to speak with the king.” “Alas!” said Sir Lucan, “my lord
Arthur would be reconciled to Sir Launcelot, but Sir Gawain will not
suffer him.” And with this Sir Lucan led the damsel to the king, where
he sat with Sir Gawain, to hear what she would say. So when she had told
her tale, the tears ran out of the king’s eyes; and all the lords were
forward to advise the king to be accorded with Sir Launcelot, save only
Sir Gawain; and he said, “My lord, mine uncle, what will ye do? Will you
now turn back, now you are so far advanced upon your journey? If ye do
all the world will speak shame of you.” “Nay,” said King Arthur, “I will
do as ye advise me; but do thou give the damsel her answer, for I may
not speak to her for pity.”

Then said Sir Gawain, “Damsel, say ye to Sir Launcelot, that it is waste
labor to sue to mine uncle for peace, and say that I, Sir Gawain, send
him word that I promise him, by the faith I owe unto God and to
knighthood, I shall never leave him till he have slain me or I him.” So
the damsel returned; and when Sir Launcelot had heard this answer the
tears ran down his cheeks.

Then it befell on a day Sir Gawain came before the gates, armed at all
points, and cried with a loud voice, “Where art thou now, thou false
traitor, Sir Launcelot? Why hidest thou thyself within holes and walls
like a coward? Look out now, thou traitor knight, and I will avenge upon
thy body the death of my three brethren.” All this language heard Sir
Launcelot, and the knights which were about him; and they said to him,
“Sir Launcelot, now must ye defend you like a knight, or else be shamed
for ever, for you have slept overlong and suffered overmuch.” Then Sir
Launcelot spake on high unto King Arthur, and said, “My lord Arthur, now
I have forborne long, and suffered you and Sir Gawain to do what ye
would, and now must I needs defend myself, inasmuch as Sir Gawain hath
appealed me of treason.” Then Sir Launcelot armed him and mounted upon
his horse, and the noble knights came out of the city, and the host
without stood all apart; and so the covenant was made that no man should
come near the two knights, nor deal with them, till one were dead or
yielded.

Then Sir Launcelot and Sir Gawain departed a great way asunder, and then
they came together with all their horses’ might, and each smote the
other in the middle of their shields, but neither of them was unhorsed,
but their horses fell to the earth. And then they leapt from their
horses, and drew their swords, and gave many sad strokes, so that the
blood burst out in many places. Now Sir Gawain had this gift from a holy
man, that every day in the year, from morning to noon, his strength was
increased threefold, and then it fell again to its natural measure. Sir
Launcelot was aware of this, and therefore, during the three hours that
Sir Gawain’s strength was at the height, Sir Launcelot covered himself
with his shield, and kept his might in reserve. And during that time Sir
Gawain gave him many sad brunts, that all the knights that looked on
marvelled how Sir Launcelot might endure them. Then, when it was past
noon, Sir Gawain had only his own might; and when Sir Launcelot felt him
so brought down he stretched himself up, and doubled his strokes, and
gave Sir Gawain such a buffet that he fell down on his side; and Sir
Launcelot drew back and would strike no more. “Why withdrawest thou,
false traitor?” then said Sir Gawain; “now turn again and slay me, for
if thou leave me thus when I am whole again, I shall do battle with thee
again.” “I shall endure you, sir, by God’s grace,” said Sir Launcelot,
“but know thou well Sir Gawain, I will never smite a felled knight.” And
so Sir Launcelot went into the city, and Sir Gawain was borne into King
Arthur’s pavilion, and his wounds were looked to.

Thus the siege endured, and Sir Gawain lay helpless near a month; and
when he was near recovered came tidings unto King Arthur that made him
return with all his host to England.

                                  ————


                             CHAPTER XXIII

                             MORTE D’ARTHUR

SIR MODRED was left ruler of all England, and he caused letters to be
written, as if from beyond sea, that King Arthur was slain in battle. So
he called a Parliament, and made himself be crowned king; and he took
the queen Guenever, and said plainly that he would wed her, but she
escaped from him and took refuge in the Tower of London. And Sir Modred
went and laid siege about the Tower of London, and made great assaults
thereat, but all might not avail him. Then came word to Sir Modred that
King Arthur had raised the siege of Sir Launcelot, and was coming home.
Then Sir Modred summoned all the barony of the land; and much people
drew unto Sir Modred, and said they would abide with him for better and
for worse; and he drew a great host to Dover, for there he heard say
that King Arthur would arrive.

    “I hear the steps of Modred in the west,
    And with him many of thy people, and knights
    Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown
    Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee.”
                              —_The Passing of Arthur._

And as Sir Modred was at Dover with his host, came King Arthur, with a
great number of ships and galleys, and there was Sir Modred awaiting
upon the landing. Then was there launching of great boats and small,
full of noble men of arms, and there was much slaughter of gentle
knights on both parts. But King Arthur was so courageous, there might no
manner of knights prevent him to land, and his knights fiercely followed
him; and so they landed, and put Sir Modred aback so that he fled, and
all his people. And when the battle was done, King Arthur commanded to
bury his people that were dead. And then was noble Sir Gawain found, in
a great boat, lying more than half dead. And King Arthur went to him,
and made sorrow out of measure. “Mine uncle,” said Sir Gawain, “know
thou well my death-day is come, and all is through mine own hastiness
and wilfulness, for I am smitten upon the old wound which Sir Launcelot
gave me, of which I feel I must die. And had Sir Launcelot been with you
as of old, this war had never begun, and of all this I am the cause.”
Then Sir Gawain prayed the king to send for Sir Launcelot, and to
cherish him above all other knights. And so at the hour of noon Sir
Gawain yielded up his spirit, and then the king bade inter him in a
chapel within Dover Castle; and there all men may see the skull of him,
and the same wound is seen that Sir Launcelot gave him in battle.

Then was it told the king that Sir Modred had pitched his camp upon
Barrendown; and the king rode thither, and there was a great battle
betwixt them, and King Arthur’s party stood best, and Sir Modred and his
party fled unto Canterbury.

And there was a day assigned betwixt King Arthur and Sir Modred that
they should meet upon a down beside Salisbury, and not far from the
sea-side, to do battle yet again. And at night, as the king slept, he
dreamed a wonderful dream. It seemed him verily that there came Sir
Gawain unto him, with a number of fair ladies with him. And when King
Arthur saw him, he said, “Welcome, my sister’s son; I weened thou hadst
been dead; and now I see thee alive great is my joy. But, O fair nephew,
what be these ladies that hither be come with you?” “Sir,” said Sir
Gawain, “all these be ladies for whom I have fought when I was a living
man; and because I did battle for them in righteous quarrel they have
given me grace to bring me hither unto you to warn you of your death, if
ye fight to-morrow with Sir Modred. Therefore take ye treaty, and
proffer you largely for a month’s delay; for within a month shall come
Sir Launcelot and all his noble knights, and rescue you worshipfully,
and slay Sir Modred and all that hold with him.” And then Sir Gawain and
all the ladies vanished. And anon the king called to fetch his noble
lords and wise bishops unto him. And when they were come, the king told
them his vision, and what Sir Gawain had told him. Then the king sent
Sir Lucan, the butler, and Sir Bedivere, with two bishops, and charged
them in any wise to take a treaty for a month and a day with Sir Modred.
So they departed, and came to Sir Modred; and so, at the last, Sir
Modred was agreed to have Cornwall and Kent during Arthur’s life, and
all England after his death.

    “Sir Modred; he the nearest to the king,
    His nephew, ever like a subtle beast
    Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne,
    Ready to spring, waiting a chance.”
                               —_Guinevere._

Then was it agreed that King Arthur and Sir Modred should meet betwixt
both their hosts, and each of them should bring fourteen persons, and
then and there they should sign the treaty. And when King Arthur and his
knights were prepared to go forth, he warned all his host, “If so be ye
see any sword drawn, look ye come on fiercely, and slay whomsoever
withstandeth, for I in no wise trust that traitor, Sir Modred.” In like
wise Sir Modred warned his host. So they met, and were agreed and
accorded thoroughly. And wine was brought, and they drank. Right then
came an adder out of a little heath-bush, and stung a knight on the
foot. And when the knight felt him sting, he looked down and saw the
adder, and then he drew his sword to slay the adder, and thought of no
other harm. And when the host on both sides saw that sword drawn, they
blew trumpets and horns, and shouted greatly. And King Arthur took his
horse, and rode to his party, saying, “Alas, this unhappy day!” And Sir
Modred did in like wise. And never was there a more doleful battle in
Christian land. And ever King Arthur rode throughout the battle, and did
full nobly, as a worthy king should, and Sir Modred that day did his
devoir, and put himself in great peril. And thus they fought all the
long day, till the most of all the noble knights lay dead upon the
ground. Then the king looked about him, and saw of all his host were
left alive but two knights, Sir Lucan, the butler, and Sir Bedivere, his
brother, and they were full sore wounded.

Then King Arthur saw where Sir Modred leaned upon his sword among a
great heap of dead men. “Now give me my spear,” said Arthur unto Sir
Lucan; “for yonder I espy the traitor that hast wrought all this woe.”
“Sir, let him be,” said Sir Lucan; “for if ye pass this unhappy day, ye
shall be right well revenged upon him. Remember what the sprite of Sir
Gawain told you, and leave off now, for ye have won the field; and if ye
leave off now this evil day of destiny is past.” “Betide me life, betide
me death,” said King Arthur, “he shall not now escape my hands.” Then
the king took his spear in both hands, and ran toward Sir Modred,
crying, “Traitor, now is thy death-day come.” And there King Arthur
smote Sir Modred under the shield, with a thrust of his spear through
the body. And when Sir Modred felt that he had his death-wound, with the
might that he had he smote King Arthur, with his sword holden in both
his hands, on the side of the head, that the sword pierced the helmet
and the brain-pan; and then Sir Modred fell stark dead upon the earth.
And the noble Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth. And Sir Lucan, the
butler, and Sir Bedivere raised him up, and gently led him betwixt them
both to a little chapel not far from the sea-side. And when the king was
there he thought him well eased. Then heard they people cry in the
field. And Sir Lucan went to see what that cry betokened; and he saw by
the moonlight that pillers and robbers were come to rob the dead. And he
returned, and said to the king, “By my rede, it is best that we bring
you to some town.” “I would it were so,” said the king. And when the
king tried to go he fainted. Then Sir Lucan took up the king on the one
part, and Sir Bedivere on the other part; and in the lifting, Sir Lucan
fell in a swoon to the earth, for he was grievously wounded. And then
the noble knight’s heart burst. And when the king awoke he beheld Sir
Lucan how he lay foaming at the mouth, and speechless. “Alas!” said the
king, “this is to me a full heavy sight, to see this noble duke so die
for my sake; for he would have holpen me that had more need of help than
I, and he would not complain, his heart was so set to help me.” Then Sir
Bedivere wept for his brother. “Leave this mourning and weeping,” said
the king, “for wilt thou well, if I might live myself, the death of Sir
Lucan would grieve me evermore; but my time hieth fast. Therefore,” said
Arthur unto Sir Bedivere, “take thou Excalibar, my good sword, and go
with it to yonder water-side; and when thou comest there I charge thee
throw my sword in that water, and come again and tell me what thou there
seest.” “My lord,” said Sir Bedivere, “your commandment shall be done.”
So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the way he beheld that noble sword,
that the pommel and the haft were all of precious stones; and then he
said to himself, “If I throw this rich sword into the water no good
shall come thereof, but only harm and loss.” And then Sir Bedivere hid
Excalibar under a tree. And so, as soon as he might, he came again to
the king. “What sawest thou there?” said the king. “Sir,” he said, “I
saw nothing.” “Alas! thou hast deceived me,” said the king. “Go thou
lightly again, and as thou love me, spare not to throw it in.” Then Sir
Bedivere went again, and took the sword in his hand to throw it; but
again it beseemed him but sin and shame to throw away that noble sword,
and he hid it away again, and returned, and told the king he had done
his commandment. “What sawest thou there?” said the king. “Sir,” he
said, “I saw nothing but waters deep and waves wan.” “Ah, traitor
untrue!” said King Arthur, “now hast thou betrayed me twice. And yet
thou art named a noble knight, and hast been lief and dear to me. But
now go again, and do as I bid thee, for thy long tarrying putteth me in
jeopardy of my life.” Then Sir Bedivere went to the sword, and lightly
took it up, and went to the water-side, and he bound the girdle about
the hilt, and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might.
And there came an arm and a hand out of the water, and met it, and
caught it, and shook it thrice and brandished it, and then vanished away
the hand with the sword in the water.

Then Sir Bedivere came again to the king, and told him what he saw.
“Help me hence,” said the king, “for I fear I have tarried too long.”
Then Sir Bedivere took the king on his back, and so went with him to
that water-side; and when they came there, even fast by the bank there
rode a little barge with many fair ladies in it, and among them was a
queen; and all had black hoods, and they wept and shrieked when they saw
King Arthur.

“Now put me in the barge,” said the king. And there received him three
queens with great mourning, and in one of their laps King Arthur laid
his head. And the queen said, “Ah, dear brother, why have ye tarried so
long? Alas! this wound on your head hath caught overmuch cold.” And then
they rowed from the land, and Sir Bedivere beheld them go from him. Then
he cried: “Ah, my lord Arthur, will ye leave me here alone among mine
enemies?” “Comfort thyself,” said the king, “for in me is no further
help; for I will to the Isle of Avalon, to heal me of my grievous
wound.” And as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost sight of the barge, he wept
and wailed; then he took the forest, and went all that night, and in the
morning he was ware of a chapel and a hermitage.

Then went Sir Bedivere thither; and when he came into the chapel, he saw
where lay an hermit on the ground, near a tomb that was newly graven.
“Sir,” said Sir Bedivere, “what man is there buried that ye pray so near
unto?” “Fair son,” said the hermit, “I know not verily. But this night
there came a number of ladies, and brought hither one dead, and prayed
me to bury him.” “Alas!” said Sir Bedivere, “that was my lord, King
Arthur.” Then Sir Bedivere swooned; and when he awoke he prayed the
hermit he might abide with him, to live with fasting and prayers. “Ye
are welcome,” said the hermit. So there bode Sir Bedivere with the
hermit; and he put on poor clothes, and served the hermit full lowly in
fasting and in prayers.

Thus of Arthur I find never more written in books that be authorized,
nor more of the very certainty of his death; but thus was he led away in
a ship, wherein were three queens; the one was King Arthur’s sister,
Queen Morgane le Fay; the other was Viviane, the Lady of the Lake; and
the third was the queen of North Galis. And this tale Sir Bedivere,
knight of the Table Round, made to be written.

Yet some men say that King Arthur is not dead, but hid away into another
place, and men say that he shall come again and reign over England. But
many say that there is written on his tomb this verse:

    “_Hie jacet Arthurus, Rex quondam, Rexque futurus._”
    Here Arthur lies, King once and King to be.

And when Queen Guenever understood that King Arthur was slain, and all
the noble knights with him, she stole away, and five ladies with her;
and so she went to Almesbury, and made herself a nun, and ware white
clothes and black, and took great penance as ever did sinful lady, and
lived in fasting, prayers, and alms-deeds. And there she was abbess and
ruler of the nuns.

      “And when she came to Almesbury she spake
    There to the nuns, and said, ‘Mine enemies
    Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood,
    Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask
    Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time
    To tell you:’ and her beauty, grace and power
    Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared
    To ask it.”
                                  —_Guinevere._

Now turn we from her, and speak of Sir Launcelot of the Lake.

When Sir Launcelot heard in his country that Sir Modred was crowned king
of England, and made war against his own uncle, King Arthur, then was
Sir Launcelot wroth out of measure, and said to his kinsmen: “Alas, that
double traitor, Sir Modred! now it repenteth me that ever he escaped out
of my hands.” Then Sir Launcelot and his fellows made ready in all
haste, with ships and galleys, to pass into England; and so he passed
over till he came to Dover, and there he landed with a great army. Then
Sir Launcelot was told that King Arthur was slain. “Alas!” said Sir
Launcelot, “this is the heaviest tidings that ever came to me.” Then he
called the kings, dukes, barons, and knights, and said thus: “My fair
lords, I thank you all for coming into this country with me, but we came
too late, and that shall repent me while I live. But since it is so,”
said Sir Launcelot, “I will myself ride and seek my lady, Queen
Guenever, for I have heard say she hath fled into the west; therefore ye
shall abide me here fifteen days, and if I come not within that time,
then take your ships and your host, and depart into your country.”

So Sir Launcelot departed and rode westerly, and there he sought many
days; and at last he came to a nunnery, and was seen of Queen Guenever
as he walked in the cloister; and when she saw him she swooned away. And
when she might speak she bade him to be called to her. And when Sir
Launcelot was brought to her she said: “Sir Launcelot, I require thee
and beseech thee, for all the love that ever was betwixt us, that thou
never see me more, but return to thy kingdom and take thee a wife, and
live with her with joy and bliss; and pray for me to my Lord, that I may
get my soul’s health.” “Nay, madam,” said Sir Launcelot, “wit you well
that I shall never do; but the same destiny that ye have taken you to
will I take me unto, for to please and serve God.” And so they parted,
with tears and much lamentation; and the ladies bare the queen to her
chamber, and Sir Launcelot took his horse and rode away, weeping.

And at last Sir Launcelot was ware of a hermitage and a chapel, and then
he heard a little bell ring to mass; and thither he rode and alighted,
and tied his horse to the gate, and heard mass. And he that sang the
mass was the hermit with whom Sir Bedivere had taken up his abode; and
Sir Bedivere knew Sir Launcelot, and they spake together after mass. But
when Sir Bedivere had told his tale, Sir Launcelot’s heart almost burst
for sorrow. Then he kneeled down, and prayed the hermit to shrive him,
and besought that he might be his brother. Then the hermit said, “I will
gladly;” and then he put a habit upon Sir Launcelot, and there he served
God day and night, with prayers and fastings.

And the great host abode at Dover till the end of the fifteen days set
by Sir Launcelot, and then Sir Bohort made them to go home again to
their own country; and Sir Bohort, Sir Hector de Marys, Sir Blamor, and
many others, took on them to ride through all England to seek Sir
Launcelot. So Sir Bohort by fortune rode until he came to the same
chapel where Sir Launcelot was; and when he saw Sir Launcelot in that
manner of clothing he prayed the hermit that he might be in that same.
And so there was an habit put upon him, and there he lived in prayers
and fasting. And within half a year came others of the knights, their
fellows, and took such a habit as Sir Launcelot and Sir Bohort had. Thus
they endured in great penance six years.

And upon a night there came a vision to Sir Launcelot, and charged him
to haste toward Almesbury, and “by the time thou come there, thou shalt
find Queen Guenever dead.” Then Sir Launcelot rose up early and told the
hermit thereof. Then said the hermit, “It were well that ye disobey not
this vision.” And Sir Launcelot took his seven companions with him, and
on foot they went from Glastonbury to Almesbury, which is more than
thirty miles. And when they were come to Almesbury, they found that
Queen Guenever died but half an hour before. Then Sir Launcelot saw her
visage, but he wept not greatly, but sighed. And so he did all the
observance of the service himself, both the “dirige” at night, and at
morn he sang mass. And there was prepared an horse-bier, and Sir
Launcelot and his fellows followed the bier on foot from Almesbury until
they came to Glastonbury; and she was wrapped in cered clothes, and laid
in a coffin of marble. And when she was put in the earth Sir Launcelot
swooned, and lay long as one dead.

And Sir Launcelot never after ate but little meat, nor drank; but
continually mourned. And within six weeks Sir Launcelot fell sick; and
he sent for the hermit and all his true fellows, and said, “Sir hermit,
I pray you give me all my rights that a Christian man ought to have.”
“It shall not need,” said the hermit and all his fellows; “it is but
heaviness of your blood, and to-morrow morn you shall be well.” “My fair
lords,” said Sir Launcelot, “my careful body will into the earth; I have
warning more than now I will say; therefore give me my rights.” So when
he was houseled and aneled, and had all that a Christian man ought to
have, he prayed the hermit that his fellows might bear his body to
Joyous Garde. (Some men say it was Alnwick, and some say it was
Bamborough.) “It repenteth me sore,” said Sir Launcelot, “but I made a
vow aforetime that in Joyous Garde I would be buried.” Then there was
weeping and wringing of hands among his fellows. And that night Sir
Launcelot died; and when Sir Bohort and his fellows came to his bedside
the next morning they found him stark dead; and he lay as if he had
smiled, and the sweetest savor all about him that ever they knew.

And they put Sir Launcelot into the same horse-bier that Queen Guenever
was laid in, and the hermit and they altogether went with the body till
they came to Joyous Garde. And there they laid his corpse in the body of
the quire, and sang and read many psalms and prayers over him. And ever
his visage was laid open and naked, that all folks might behold him. And
right thus, as they were at their service, there came Sir Hector de
Maris, that had seven years sought Sir Launcelot, his brother, through
all England, Scotland and Wales. And when Sir Hector heard such sounds
in the chapel of Joyous Garde he alighted and came into the quire. And
all they knew Sir Hector. Then went Sir Bohort, and told him how there
lay Sir Launcelot, his brother, dead. Then Sir Hector threw his shield,
his sword, and helm from him. And when he beheld Sir Launcelot’s visage
it were hard for any tongue to tell the doleful complaints he made for
his brother. “Ah, Sir Launcelot!” he said, “there thou liest. And now I
dare to say thou wert never matched of none earthly knight’s hand. And
thou wert the courteousest knight that ever bare shield; and thou wert
the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrode horse; and thou wert
the truest lover, of a sinful man, that ever loved woman; and thou wert
the kindest man that ever struck with sword. And thou wert the goodliest
person that ever came among press of knights. And thou wert the meekest
man, and the gentlest, that ever ate in hall among ladies. And thou wert
the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest.”
Then there was weeping and dolor out of measure. Thus they kept Sir
Launcelot’s corpse fifteen days, and then they buried it with great
devotion.

Then they went back with the hermit to his hermitage. And Sir Bedivere
was there ever still hermit to his life’s end. And Sir Bohort, Sir
Hector, Sir Blamor, and Sir Bleoberis went into the Holy Land. And these
four knights did many battles upon the miscreants, the Turks; and there
they died upon a Good Friday, as it pleased God.



Thus endeth this noble and joyous book, entitled “La Morte d’Arthur;”
notwithstanding it treateth of the birth, life, and acts of the said
King Arthur, and of his noble Knights of the Round Table, their
marvellous enquests and adventures, the achieving of the Sangreal, and,
in the end, le Morte d’Arthur, with the dolorous death and departing out
of this world of them all. Which book was reduced into English by Sir
Thomas Mallory, Knight, and divided into twenty-one books, chaptered and
imprinted and finished in the Abbey Westmestre, the last day of July,
the year of our Lord MCCCCLXXXV.

Caxton me fieri fecit.




                              [BLANK PAGE]




                             THE MABINOGEON


                           INTRODUCTORY NOTE

IT has been well known to the literati and antiquarians of Europe that
there exist in the great public libraries voluminous manuscripts of
romances and tales once popular, but which on the invention of printing
had already become antiquated, and fallen into neglect. They were
therefore never printed, and seldom perused even by the learned, until
about half a century ago, when attention was again directed to them, and
they were found very curious monuments of ancient manners, habits, and
modes of thinking. Several have since been edited, some by individuals,
as Sir Walter Scott and the poet Southey, others by antiquarian
societies. The class of readers which could be counted on for such
publications was so small that no inducement of profit could be found to
tempt editors and publishers to give them to the world. It was therefore
only a few, and those the most accessible, which were put in print.
There was a class of manuscripts of this kind which were known, or
rather suspected, to be both curious and valuable, but which it seemed
almost hopeless to expect ever to see in fair printed English. These
were the Welsh popular tales called _Mabinogeon_, a plural word, the
singular being _Mabinogi_, a tale. Manuscripts of these were contained
in the Bodleian Library at Oxford and elsewhere, but the difficulty was
to find translators and editors. The Welsh is a spoken language among
the peasantry of Wales, but is entirely neglected by the learned, unless
they are natives of the principality. Of the few Welsh scholars none
were found who took sufficient interest in this branch of learning to
give these productions to the English public. Southey and Scott, and
others, who, like them, loved the old romantic legends of their country,
often urged upon the Welsh literati the duty of reproducing the
Mabinogeon. Southey, in the preface of his edition of “Morte d’Arthur,”
says: “The specimens which I have seen are exceedingly curious; nor is
there a greater desideratum in British literature than an edition of
these tales, with a literal version, and such comments as Mr. Davies of
all men is best qualified to give. Certain it is that many of the round
table fictions originated in Wales, or in Bretagne, and probably might
still be traced there.”

Again, in a letter to Sir Charles W. W. Wynn, dated 1819, he says:

“I begin almost to despair of ever seeing more of the Mabinogeon; and
yet if some competent Welshman could be found to edit it carefully, with
as literal a version as possible, I am sure it might be made worth his
while by a subscription, printing a small edition at a high price,
perhaps two hundred at five guineas. I myself would gladly subscribe at
that price per volume for such an edition of the whole of your genuine
remains in prose and verse. Till some such collection is made, the
‘gentlemen of Wales’ ought to be prohibited from wearing a leek; ay, and
interdicted from toasted cheese also. Your bards would have met with
better usage if they had been Scotchmen.”

Sharon Turner and Sir Walter Scott also expressed a similar wish for the
publication of the Welsh manuscripts. The former took part in an attempt
to effect it, through the instrumentality of a Mr. Owen, a Welshman,
but, we judge, by what Southey says of him, imperfectly acquainted with
English. Southey’s language is “William Owen lent me three parts of the
Mabinogeon, delightfully translated into so Welsh an idiom and syntax
that such a translation is as instructive as an original.” In another
letter he adds, “Let Sharon make his language grammatical, but not alter
their idiom in the slightest point.”

It is probable Mr. Owen did not proceed far in an undertaking which, so
executed, could expect but little popular patronage. It was not till an
individual should appear possessed of the requisite knowledge of the two
languages, of enthusiasm sufficient for the task, and of pecuniary
resources sufficient to be independent of the booksellers and of the
reading public, that such a work could be confidently expected. Such an
individual has, since Southey’s day and Scott’s, appeared in the person
of Lady Charlotte Guest, an English lady united to a gentleman of
property in Wales, who, having acquired the language of the
principality, and become enthusiastically fond of its literary
treasures, has given them to the English reader, in a dress which the
printer’s and the engraver’s arts have done their best to adorn. In four
royal octavo volumes containing the Welsh originals, the translation,
and ample illustrations from French, German, and other contemporary and
affiliated literature, the Mabinogeon is spread before us. To the
antiquarian and the student of language and ethnology an invaluable
treasure, it yet can hardly in such a form win its way to popular
acquaintance. We claim no other merit than that of bringing it to the
knowledge of our readers, of abridging its details, of selecting its
most attractive portions, and of faithfully preserving throughout the
style in which Lady Guest has clothed her legends. For this service we
hope that our readers will confess we have laid them under no light
obligation.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER I

                              THE BRITONS

THE earliest inhabitants of Britain are supposed to have been a branch
of that great family known in history by the designation of Celts.
Cambria, which is a frequent name for Wales, is thought to be derived
from Cymri, the name which the Welsh traditions apply to an immigrant
people who entered the island from the adjacent continent. This name is
thought to be identical with those of Cimmerians and Cimbri, under which
the Greek and Roman historians describe a barbarous people, who spread
themselves from the north of the Euxine over the whole of Northwestern
Europe.

The origin of the names _Wales_ and _Welsh_ has been much canvassed.
Some writers make them a derivation from Gael or Gaul, which names are
said to signify “woodlanders;” others observe that _Walsh_, in the
northern languages, signifies a _stranger_, and that the aboriginal
Britons were so called by those who at a later era invaded the island
and possessed the greater part of it, the Saxons and Angles.

The Romans held Britain from the invasion of Julius Cæsar till their
voluntary withdrawal from the island, A.D. 420,—that is, about five
hundred years. In that time there must have been a wide diffusion of
their arts and institutions among the natives. The remains of roads,
cities, and fortifications show that they did much to develop and
improve the country, while those of their villas and castles prove that
many of the settlers possessed wealth and taste for the ornamental arts.
Yet the Roman sway was sustained chiefly by force, and never extended
over the entire island. The northern portion, now Scotland, remained
independent, and the western portion, constituting Wales and Cornwall,
was only nominally subjected.

Neither did the later invading hordes succeed in subduing the remoter
sections of the island. For ages after the arrival of the Saxons under
Hengist and Horsa, A.D. 449, the whole western coast of Britain was
possessed by the aboriginal inhabitants, engaged in constant warfare
with the invaders.

It has, therefore, been a favorite boast of the people of Wales and
Cornwall that the original British stock flourishes in its unmixed
purity only among them. We see this notion flashing out in poetry
occasionally, as when Gray, in “The Bard,” prophetically describing
Queen Elizabeth, who was of the Tudor, a Welsh race, says:

    “Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line;”

and, contrasting the princes of the Tudor with those of the Norman race,
he exclaims:

    “All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia’s issue, hail!”

                   THE WELSH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE

The Welsh language is one of the oldest in Europe. It possesses poems
the origin of which is referred with probability to the sixth century.
The language of some of these is so antiquated that the best scholars
differ about the interpretation of many passages; but, generally
speaking, the body of poetry which the Welsh possess, from the year 1000
downwards, is intelligible to those who are acquainted with the modern
language.

Till within the last half-century these compositions remained buried in
the libraries of colleges or of individuals, and so difficult of access
that no successful attempt was made to give them to the world. This
reproach was removed after ineffectual appeals to the patriotism of the
gentry of Wales, by Owen Jones, a furrier of London, who at his own
expense collected and published the chief productions of Welsh
literature, under the title of the Myvyrian Archæology of Wales. In this
task he was assisted by Dr. Owen and other Welsh scholars.

After the cessation of Jones’ exertions the old apathy returned, and
continued till within a few years. Dr. Owen exerted himself to obtain
support for the publication of the Mabinogeon or Prose Tales of the
Welsh, but died without accomplishing his purpose, which has since been
carried into execution by Lady Charlotte Guest. The legends which fill
the remainder of this volume are taken from this work, of which we have
already spoken more fully in the introductory chapter to the First Part.

                            THE WELSH BARDS

The authors to whom the oldest Welsh poems are attributed are Aneurin,
who is supposed to have lived A.D. 500 to 550, and Taliesin, Llywarch
Hen (Llywarch the Aged), and Myrddin or Merlin, who were a few years
later. The authenticity of the poems which bear their names has been
assailed, and it is still an open question how many and which of them
are authentic, though it is hardly to be doubted that some are so. The
poem of Aneurin entitled the “Gododin,” bears very strong marks of
authenticity. Aneurin was one of the Northern Britons of Strath-Clyde,
who have left to that part of the district they inhabited the name of
Cumberland, or Land of the Cymri. In this poem he laments the defeat of
his countrymen by the Saxons at the battle of Cattraeth, in consequence
of having partaken too freely of the mead before joining in combat. The
bard himself and two of his fellow-warriors were all who escaped from
the field. A portion of this poem has been translated by Gray, of which
the following is an extract:

    “To Cattraeth’s vale, in glittering row,
    Twice two hundred warriors go;
    Every warrior’s manly neck
    Chains of regal honor deck,
    Wreathed in many a golden link;
    From the golden cup they drink
    Nectar that the bees produce,
    Or the grape’s exalted juice.
    Flushed with mirth and hope they burn,
    But none to Cattraeth’s vale return,
    Save Aëron brave, and Conan strong,
    Bursting through the bloody throng,
    And I, the meanest of them all,
    That live to weep, and sing their fall.”

The works of Taliesin are of much more questionable authenticity. There
is a story of the adventures of Taliesin so strongly marked with
mythical traits as to cast suspicion on the writings attributed to him.
This story will be found in the subsequent pages.

                               THE TRIADS

The Triads are a peculiar species of poetical composition, of which the
Welsh bards have left numerous examples. They are enumerations of a
triad of persons, or events, or observations, strung together in one
short sentence. This form of composition, originally invented, in all
likelihood, to assist the memory, has been raised by the Welsh to a
degree of elegance of which it hardly at first sight appears
susceptible. The Triads are of all ages, some of them probably as old as
anything in the language. Short as they are individually, the collection
in the Myvyrian Archæology occupies more than one hundred and seventy
pages of double columns. We will give some specimens, beginning with
personal triads, and giving the first place to one of King Arthur’s own
composition:

                “I have three heroes in battle:
                Mael the tall, and Llyr, with his army,
                And Caradoc, the pillar of Wales.”

    “The three principal bards of the island of Britain:—
      Merlin Ambrose
      Merlin the son of Morfyn, called also Merlin the Wild,
      And Taliesin, the chief of the bards.”

    “The three golden-tongued knights of the court of Arthur:—
      Gawain, son of Gwyar,
      Drydvas, son of Tryphin,
      And Eliwlod, son of Madag, ap Uther.”

    “The three honorable feasts of the island of Britain:—
    The feast of Caswallaun, after repelling Julius Cæsar from this isle;
    The feast of Aurelius Ambrosius, after he had conquered the Saxons;
    And the feast of King Arthur, at Carleon upon Usk.”

        “Guenever, the daughter of Laodegan the giant,
        Bad when little, worse when great.”

Next follow some moral triads:

    “Hast thou heard what Dremhidydd sung,
    An ancient watchman on the castle walls?
    A refusal is better than a promise unperformed.”

    “Hast thou heard what Llenleawg sung,
    The noble chief wearing the golden torques?
    The grave is better than a life of want.”

    “Hast thou heard what Garselit sung,
    The Irishman whom it is safe to follow?
    Sin is bad, if long pursued.”

    “Hast thou heard what Avaon sung,
    The son of Taliesin, of the recording verse?
    The cheek will not conceal the anguish of the heart.”

    “Didst thou hear what Llywarch sung,
    The intrepid and brave old man?
    Greet kindly, though there be no acquaintance.”

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER II

                        THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN

                           KYNON’S ADVENTURE

KING ARTHUR was at Caerleon upon Usk; and one day he sat in his chamber,
and with him were Owain, the son of Urien, and Kynon, the son of Clydno,
and Kay, the son of Kyner, and Guenever and her handmaidens at
needlework by the window. In the centre of the chamber King Arthur sat,
upon a seat of green rushes,[56] over which was spread a covering of
flame-covered satin, and a cushion of red satin was under his elbow.

Then Arthur spoke. “If I thought you would not disparage me,” said he,
“I would sleep while I wait for my repast; and you can entertain one
another with relating tales, and can obtain a flagon of mead and some
meat from Kay.” And the king went to sleep. And Kynon the son of Clydno
asked Kay for that which Arthur had promised them. “I too will have the
good tale which he promised me,” said Kay. “Nay,” answered Kynon;
“fairer will it be for thee to fulfil Arthur’s behest in the first
place, and then we will tell thee the best tale that we know.” So Kay
went to the kitchen and to the mead-cellar, and returned, bearing a
flagon of mead, and a golden goblet, and a handful of skewers, upon
which were broiled collops of meat. Then they ate the collops, and began
to drink the mead. “Now,” said Kay, “it is time for you to give me my
story.” “Kynon,” said Owain, “do thou pay to Kay the tale that is his
due.” “I will do so,” answered Kynon.

“I was the only son of my mother and father, and I was exceedingly
aspiring, and my daring was very great. I thought there was no
enterprise in the world too mighty for me: and after I had achieved all
the adventures that were in my own country, I equipped myself, and set
forth to journey through deserts and distant regions. And at length it
chanced that I came to the fairest valley in the world, wherein were
trees all of equal growth; and a river ran through the valley, and a
path was by the side of the river. And I followed the path until midday,
and continued my journey along the remainder of the valley until the
evening; and at the extremity of the plain I came to a large and
lustrous castle, at the foot of which was a torrent. And I approached
the castle, and there I beheld two youths with yellow curling hair, each
with a frontlet of gold upon his head, and clad in a garment of yellow
satin; and they had gold clasps upon their insteps. In the hand of each
of them was an ivory bow, strung with the sinews of the stag, and their
arrows and their shafts were of the bone of the whale, and were winged
with peacock’s feathers. The shafts also had golden heads. And they had
daggers with blades of gold, and with hilts of the bone of the whale.
And they were shooting at a mark.

“And a little away from them I saw a man in the prime of life, with his
beard newly shorn, clad in a robe and mantle of yellow satin, and round
the top of his mantle was a band of gold lace. On his feet were shoes of
variegated leather,[57] fastened by two bosses of gold. When I saw him I
went towards him and saluted him; and such was his courtesy, that he no
sooner received my greeting than he returned it. And he went with me
towards the castle. Now there were no dwellers in the castle, except
those who were in one hall. And there I saw four and twenty damsels,
embroidering satin at a window. And this I tell thee, Kay, that the
least fair of them was fairer than the fairest maid thou didst ever
behold in the island of Britain; and the least lovely of them was more
lovely than Guenever, the wife of Arthur, when she appeared loveliest,
at the feast of Easter. They rose up at my coming, and six of them took
my horse, and divested me of my armor, and six others took my arms and
washed them in a vessel till they were perfectly bright. And the third
six spread cloths upon the tables and prepared meat. And the fourth six
took off my soiled garments and placed others upon me, namely, an under
vest and a doublet of fine linen, and a robe and a surcoat, and a mantle
of yellow satin, with a broad gold band upon the mantle. And they placed
cushions both beneath and around me, with coverings of red linen, and I
sat down. Now the six maidens who had taken my horse unharnessed him as
well as if they had been the best squires in the island of Britain.

“Then behold they brought bowls of silver, wherein was water to wash and
towels of linen, some green and some white; and I washed. And in a
little while the man sat down at the table. And I sat next to him, and
below me sat all the maidens, except those who waited on us. And the
table was of silver, and the cloths upon the table were of linen. And no
vessel was served upon the table that was not either of gold or of
silver or of buffalo horn. And our meat was brought to us. And verily,
Kay, I saw there every sort of meat, and every sort of liquor that I
ever saw elsewhere; but the meat and the liquor were better served there
than I ever saw them in any other place.

“Until the repast was half over, neither the man nor any one of the
damsels spoke a single word to me; but when the man perceived that it
would be more agreeable for me to converse than to eat any more, he
began to inquire of me who I was. Then I told the man who I was and what
was the cause of my journey, and said that I was seeking whether any one
was superior to me, or whether I could gain mastery over all. The man
looked upon me, and he smiled and said, ‘If I did not fear to do thee a
mischief, I would show thee that which thou seekest.’ Then I desired him
to speak freely. And he said: ‘Sleep here to-night, and in the morning
arise early, and take the road upwards through the valley, until thou
reachest the wood. A little way within the wood thou wilt come to a
large sheltered glade, with a mound in the centre. And thou wilt see a
black man of great stature on the top of the mound. He has but one foot,
and one eye in the middle of his forehead. He is the wood-ward of that
wood. And thou wilt see a thousand wild animals grazing around him.
Inquire of him the way out of the glade, and he will reply to thee
briefly, and will point out the road by which thou shalt find that which
thou art in quest of.’

“And long seemed that night to me. And the next morning I arose and
equipped myself, and mounted my horse, and proceeded straight through
the valley to the wood, and at length I arrived at the glade. And the
black man was there, sitting upon the top of the mound; and I was three
times more astonished at the number of wild animals that I beheld than
the man had said I should be. Then I inquired of him the way and he
asked me roughly whither I would go. And when I had told him who I was
and what I sought, ‘Take,’ said he, ‘that path that leads toward the
head of the glade, and there thou wilt find an open space like to a
large valley, and in the midst of it a tall tree. Under this tree is a
fountain, and by the side of the fountain a marble slab, and on the
marble slab a silver bowl, attached by a chain of silver, that it may
not be carried away. Take the bowl and throw a bowlful of water on the
slab. And if thou dost not find trouble in that adventure, thou needest
not seek it during the rest of thy life.’

“So I journeyed on until I reached the summit of the steep. And there I
found everything as the black man had described it to me. And I went up
to the tree, and beneath it I saw the fountain, and by its side the
marble slab, and the silver bowl fastened by the chain. Then I took the
bowl, and cast a bowlful of water upon the slab, and immediately I heard
a mighty peal of thunder, so that heaven and earth seemed to tremble
with its fury. And after the thunder came a shower; and of a truth I
tell thee, Kay, that it was such a shower as neither man nor beast could
endure and live. I turned my horse’s flank toward the shower, and placed
the beak of my shield over his head and neck, while I held the upper
part of it over my own neck. And thus I withstood the shower. And
presently the sky became clear, and with that, behold, the birds lighted
upon the tree, and sang. And truly, Kay, I never heard any melody equal
to that, either before or since. And when I was most charmed with
listening to the birds, lo! a chiding voice was heard of one approaching
me and saying: ‘O knight, what has brought thee hither? What evil have I
done to thee that thou shouldst act towards me and my possessions as
thou hast this day? Dost thou not know that the shower to-day has left
in my dominions neither man nor beast alive that was exposed to it?’ And
thereupon, behold, a knight on a black horse appeared, clothed in
jet-black velvet, and with a tabard of black linen about him. And we
charged each other, and, as the onset was furious, it was not long
before I was overthrown. Then the knight passed the shaft of his lance
through the bridle-rein of my horse, and rode off with the two horses,
leaving me where I was. And he did not even bestow so much notice upon
me as to imprison me, nor did he despoil me of my arms. So I returned
along the road by which I had come. And when I reached the glade where
the black man was, I confess to thee, Kay, it is a marvel that I did not
melt down into a liquid pool, through the shame that I felt at the black
man’s derision. And that night I came to the same castle where I had
spent the night preceding. And I was more agreeably entertained that
night than I had been the night before. And I conversed freely with the
inmates of the castle; and none of them alluded to my expedition to the
fountain, neither did I mention it to any. And I remained there that
night. When I arose on the morrow I found ready saddled a dark bay
palfrey, with nostrils as red as scarlet. And after putting on my armor,
and leaving there my blessing, I returned to my own court. And that
horse I still possess, and he is in the stable yonder. And I declare
that I would not part with him for the best palfrey in the island of
Britain.

“Now, of a truth, Kay, no man ever before confessed to an adventure so
much to his own discredit; and verily it seems strange to me that
neither before nor since have I heard of any person who knew of this
adventure, and that the subject of it should exist within King Arthur’s
dominions without any other person lighting upon it.”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER III

                 THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN (_Continued_)

                         OWAIN’S ADVENTURE[58]

“NOW,” quoth Owain, “would it not be well to go and endeavor to discover
that place?”

“By the hand of my friend,” said Kay, “often dost thou utter that with
thy tongue which thou wouldest not make good with thy deeds.”

“In very truth,” said Guenever, “it were better thou wert hanged, Kay,
than to use such uncourteous speech towards a man like Owain.”

“By the hand of my friend, good lady,” said Kay, “thy praise of Owain is
not greater than mine.”

With that Arthur awoke, and asked if he had not been sleeping a little.

“Yes, lord,” answered Owain, “thou hast slept awhile.”

“Is it time for us to go to meat?”

“It is, lord,” said Owain.

Then the horn for washing was sounded, and the king and all his
household sat down to eat. And when the meal was ended Owain withdrew to
his lodging, and made ready his horse and his arms.

On the morrow with the dawn of day he put on his armor, and mounted his
charger, and travelled through distant lands, and over desert mountains.
And at length he arrived at the valley which Kynon had described to him,
and he was certain that it was the same that he sought. And journeying
along the valley, by the side of the river, he followed its course till
he came to the plain, and within sight of the castle. When he approached
the castle he saw the youths shooting with their bows, in the place
where Kynon had seen them, and the yellow man, to whom the castle
belonged, standing hard by. And no sooner had Owain saluted the yellow
man, than he was saluted by him in return.

And he went forward towards the castle, and there he saw the chamber;
and when he had entered the chamber, he beheld the maidens working at
satin embroidery, in chains of gold. And their beauty and their
comeliness seemed to Owain far greater than Kynon had represented to
him. And they arose to wait upon Owain, as they had done to Kynon. And
the meal which they set before him gave even more satisfaction to Owain
than it had done to Kynon.

About the middle of the repast the yellow man asked Owain the object of
his journey. And Owain made it known to him, and said, “I am in quest of
the knight who guards the fountain.” Upon this the yellow man smiled,
and said that he was as loth to point out that adventure to him as he
had been to Kynon. However, he described the whole to Owain, and they
retired to rest.

The next morning Owain found his horse made ready for him by the
damsels, and he set forward and came to the glade where the black man
was. And the stature of the black man seemed more wonderful to Owain
than it had done to Kynon; and Owain asked of him his road, and he
showed it to him. And Owain followed the road till he came to the green
tree; and he beheld the fountain, and the slab beside the fountain, with
the bowl upon it. And Owain took the bowl and threw a bowlful of water
upon the slab. And, lo! the thunder was heard, and after the thunder
came the shower, more violent than Kynon had described, and after the
shower the sky became bright. And immediately the birds came and settled
upon the tree and sang. And when their song was most pleasing to Owain
he beheld a knight coming towards him through the valley; and he
prepared to receive him, and encountered him violently. Having broken
both their lances, they drew their swords and fought blade to blade.
Then Owain struck the knight a blow through his helmet, head-piece, and
visor, and through the skin, and the flesh, and the bone, until it
wounded the very brain. Then the black knight felt that he had received
a mortal wound, upon which he turned his horse’s head and fled. And
Owain pursued him and followed close upon him, although he was not near
enough to strike him with his sword. Then Owain descried a vast and
resplendent castle; and they came to the castle gate. And the black
knight was allowed to enter, and the portcullis was let fall upon Owain;
and it struck his horse behind the saddle, and cut him in two, and
carried away the rowels of the spurs that were upon Owain’s heels. And
the portcullis descended to the floor. And the rowels of the spurs and
part of the horse were without, and Owain with the other part of the
horse remained between the two gates, and the inner gate was closed, so
that Owain could not go thence; and Owain was in a perplexing situation.
And while he was in this state, he could see through an aperture in the
gate a street facing him, with a row of houses on each side. And he
beheld a maiden, with yellow, curling hair, and a frontlet of gold upon
her head; and she was clad in a dress of yellow satin, and on her feet
were shoes of variegated leather. And she approached the gate, and
desired that it should be opened. “Heaven knows, lady,” said Owain, “it
is no more possible for me to open to thee from hence, than it is for
thee to set me free.” And he told her his name, and who he was. “Truly,”
said the damsel, “it is very sad that thou canst not be released; and
every woman ought to succor thee, for I know there is no one more
faithful in the service of ladies than thou. Therefore,” quoth she,
“whatever is in my power to do for thy release, I will do it. Take this
ring and put it on thy finger, with the stone inside thy hand, and close
thy hand upon the stone. And as long as thou concealest it, it will
conceal thee. When they come forth to fetch thee, they will be much
grieved that they cannot find thee. And I will await thee on the
horseblock yonder, and thou wilt be able to see me, though I cannot see
thee. Therefore come and place thy hand upon my shoulder, that I may
know that thou art near me. And by the way that I go hence do thou
accompany me.”

Then the maiden went away from Owain, and he did all that she had told
him. And the people of the castle came to seek Owain to put him to
death; and when they found nothing but the half of his horse, they were
sorely grieved.

And Owain vanished from among them, and went to the maiden, and placed
his hand upon her shoulder; whereupon she set off, and Owain followed
her, until they came to the door of a large and beautiful chamber, and
the maiden opened it, and they went in. And Owain looked around the
chamber, and behold there was not a single nail in it that was not
painted with gorgeous colors, and there was not a single panel that had
not sundry images in gold portrayed upon it.

The maiden kindled a fire, and took water in a silver bowl, and gave
Owain water to wash. Then she placed before him a silver table, inlaid
with gold; upon which was a cloth of yellow linen, and she brought him
food. And, of a truth, Owain never saw any kind of meat that was not
there in abundance, but it was better cooked there than he had ever
found it in any other place. And there was not one vessel from which he
was served that was not of gold or of silver. And Owain ate and drank
until late in the afternoon, when lo! they heard a mighty clamor in the
castle, and Owain asked the maiden what it was. “They are administering
extreme unction,” said she, “to the nobleman who owns the castle.” And
she prepared a couch for Owain which was meet for Arthur himself, and
Owain went to sleep.

And a little after daybreak he heard an exceeding loud clamor and
wailing, and he asked the maiden what was the cause of it. “They are
bearing to the church the body of the nobleman who owned the castle.”

And Owain rose up, and clothed himself, and opened a window of the
chamber, and looked towards the castle; and he could see neither the
bounds nor the extent of the hosts that filled the streets. And they
were fully armed; and a vast number of women were with them, both on
horseback and on foot, and all the ecclesiastics in the city singing. In
the midst of the throng he beheld the bier, over which was a veil of
white linen; and wax tapers were burning beside and around it; and none
that supported the bier was lower in rank than a powerful baron.

Never did Owain see an assemblage so gorgeous with silk[59] and satin.
And, following the train, he beheld a lady with yellow hair falling over
her shoulders, and stained with blood; and about her a dress of yellow
satin, which was torn. Upon her feet were shoes of variegated leather.
And it was a marvel that the ends of her fingers were not bruised from
the violence with which she smote her hands together. Truly she would
have been the fairest lady Owain ever saw, had she been in her usual
guise. And her cry was louder than the shout of the men or the clamor of
the trumpets. No sooner had he beheld the lady than he became inflamed
with her love, so that it took entire possession of him.

Then he inquired of the maiden who the lady was. “Heaven knows,” replied
the maiden, “she is the fairest and the most chaste, and the most
liberal, and the most noble of women. She is my mistress, and she is
called the Countess of the Fountain, the wife of him whom thou didst
slay yesterday.” “Verily,” said Owain, “she is the woman that I love
best.” “Verily,” said the maiden, “she shall also love thee, not a
little.”

Then the maiden prepared a repast for Owain, and truly he thought he had
never before so good a meal, nor was he ever so well served. Then she
left him, and went towards the castle. When she came there, she found
nothing but mourning and sorrow; and the Countess in her chamber could
not bear the sight of any one through grief. Luned, for that was the
name of the maiden, saluted her, but the Countess answered her not. And
the maiden bent down towards her, and said, “What aileth thee, that thou
answereth no one to-day?” “Luned,” said the Countess, “what change hath
befallen thee, that thou hast not come to visit me in my grief. It was
wrong in thee, and I so sorely afflicted.” “Truly,” said Luned, “I
thought thy good sense was greater than I find it to be. Is it well for
thee to mourn after that good man, or for anything else that thou canst
not have?” “I declare to Heaven,” said the Countess, “that in the whole
world there is not a man equal to him.” “Not so,” said Luned, “for an
ugly man would be as good as or better than he.” “I declare to Heaven,”
said the Countess, “that were it not repugnant to me to put to death one
whom I have brought up, I would have thee executed for making such a
comparison to me. As it is, I will banish thee.” “I am glad,” said
Luned, “that thou hast no other cause to do so than that I would have
been of service to thee, where thou didst not know what was to thine
advantage. Henceforth, evil betide whichever of us shall make the first
advance towards reconciliation to the other, whether I should seek an
invitation from thee, or thou of thine own accord should send to
invite.”

With that Luned went forth; and the Countess arose and followed her to
the door of the chamber, and began coughing loudly. And when Luned
looked back, the Countess beckoned to her, and she returned to the
Countess. “In truth,” said the Countess, “evil is thy disposition; but
if thou knowest what is to my advantage, declare it to me.” “I will do
so,” said she.

“Thou knowest that, except by warfare and arms, it is impossible for
thee to preserve thy possessions; delay not, therefore, to seek some one
who can defend them.” “And how can I do that?” said the Countess. “I
will tell thee,” said Luned; “unless thou canst defend the fountain,
thou canst not maintain thy dominions; and no one can defend the
fountain except it be a knight of Arthur’s household. I will go to
Arthur’s court, and ill betide me if I return not thence with a warrior
who can guard the fountain as well as, or even better than, he who
defended it formerly.” “That will be hard to perform,” said the
Countess. “Go, however, and make proof of that which thou hast
promised.”

Luned set out under the pretence of going to Arthur’s court; but she
went back to the mansion where she had left Owain, and she tarried there
as long as it might have taken her to travel to the court of King Arthur
and back. And at the end of that time she apparelled herself, and went
to visit the Countess. And the Countess was much rejoiced when she saw
her, and inquired what news she brought from the court. “I bring thee
the best of news,” said Luned, “for I have compassed the object of my
mission. When wilt thou that I should present to thee the chieftain who
has come with me hither?” “Bring him here to visit me to-morrow,” said
the Countess, “and I will cause the town to be assembled by that time.”

And Luned returned home. And the next day at noon, Owain arrayed himself
in a coat and a surcoat, and a mantle of yellow satin, upon which was a
broad band of gold lace; and on his feet were high shoes of variegated
leather, which were fastened by golden clasps, in the form of lions. And
they proceeded to the chamber of the Countess.

Right glad was the Countess of their coming. And she gazed steadfastly
upon Owain, and said, “Luned, this knight has not the look of a
traveller.” “What harm is there in that, lady?” said Luned. “I am
certain,” said the Countess, “that no other man than this chased the
soul from the body of my lord.” “So much the better for thee, lady,”
said Luned, “for had he not been stronger than thy lord, he could not
have deprived him of life. There is no remedy for that which is past, be
it as it may.” “Go back to thine abode,” said the Countess, “and I will
take counsel.”

The next day the Countess caused all her subjects to assemble, and
showed them that her earldom was left defenceless, and that it could not
be protected but with horse and arms, and military skill. “Therefore,”
said she, “this is what I offer for your choice: either let one of you
take me, or give your consent for me to take a husband from elsewhere,
to defend my dominions.”

So they came to the determination that it was better that she should
have permission to marry some one from elsewhere; and thereupon she sent
for the bishops and archbishops, to celebrate her nuptials with Owain.
And the men of the earldom did Owain homage.

And Owain defended the fountain with lance and sword. And this is the
manner in which he defended it. Whensoever a knight came there, he
overthrew him, and sold him for his full worth. And what he thus gained
he divided among his barons and his knights, and no man in the whole
world could be more beloved than he was by his subjects. And it was thus
for the space of three years.[60]

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER IV

                 THE LADY OF THE FOUNTAIN (_Continued_)

                           GAWAIN’S ADVENTURE

IT befell that, as Gawain went forth one day with King Arthur, he
perceived him to be very sad and sorrowful. And Gawain was much grieved
to see Arthur in his state, and he questioned him, saying, “O my lord,
what has befallen thee?” “In sooth, Gawain,” said Arthur, “I am grieved
concerning Owain, whom I have lost these three years; and I shall
certainly die if the fourth year pass without my seeing him. Now I am
sure that it is through the tale which Kynon, the son of Clydno,
related, that I have lost Owain.” “There is no need for thee,” said
Gawain, “to summon to arms thy whole dominions on this account, for thou
thyself, and the men of thy household, will be able to avenge Owain if
he be slain or to set him free if he be in prison; and, if alive, to
bring him back with thee.” And it was settled according to what Gawain
had said.

Then Arthur and the men of his household prepared to go and seek Owain.
And Kynon, the son of Clydno, acted as their guide. And Arthur came to
the castle where Kynon had been before. And when he came there, the
youths were shooting in the same place, and the yellow man was standing
hard by. When the yellow man saw Arthur, he greeted him, and invited him
to the castle. And Arthur accepted his invitation, and they entered the
castle together. And great as was the number of his retinue, their
presence was scarcely observed in the castle, so vast was its extent.
And the maidens rose up to wait on them. And the service of the maidens
appeared to them all to excel any attendance they had ever met with; and
even the pages, who had charge of the horses, were no worse served that
night than Arthur himself would have been in his own palace.

The next morning Arthur set out thence, with Kynon for his guide, and
came to the place where the black man was. And the stature of the black
man was more surprising to Arthur than it had been represented to him.
And they came to the top of the wooded steep, and traversed the valley,
till they reached the green tree, where they saw the fountain and the
bowl and the slab. And upon that Kay came to Arthur, and spoke to him.
“My lord,” said he, “I know the meaning of all this, and my request is
that thou wilt permit me to throw the water on the slab, and to receive
the first adventure that may befall.” And Arthur gave him leave.

Then Kay threw a bowlful of water upon the slab, and immediately there
came the thunder, and after the thunder the shower. And such a
thunder-storm they had never known before. After the shower had ceased,
the sky became clear, and on looking at the tree, they beheld it
completely leafless. Then the birds descended upon the tree. And the
song of the birds was far sweeter than any strain they had ever heard
before. Then they beheld a knight, on a coal-black horse, clothed in
black satin, coming rapidly towards them. And Kay met him and
encountered him, and it was not long before Kay was overthrown. And the
knight withdrew. And Arthur and his host encamped for the night.

And when they arose in the morning, they perceived the signal of combat
upon the lance of the knight. Then, one by one, all the household of
Arthur went forth to combat the knight, until there was not one that was
not overthrown by him, except Arthur and Gawain. And Arthur armed
himself to encounter the knight. “O my lord,” said Gawain, “permit me to
fight with him first.” And Arthur permitted him. And he went forth to
meet the knight, having over himself and his horse a satin robe of
honor, which had been sent him by the daughter of the Earl of Rhangyr,
and in this dress he was not known by any of the host. And they charged
each other, and fought all that day until the evening. And neither of
them was able to unhorse the other. And so it was the next day; they
broke their lances in the shock, but neither of them could obtain the
mastery.

And the third day they fought with exceeding strong lances. And they
were incensed with rage, and fought furiously, even until noon. And they
gave each other such a shock that the girths of their horses were
broken, so that they fell over their horses’ cruppers to the ground. And
they rose up speedily and drew their swords, and resumed the combat. And
all they that witnessed their encounter felt assured that they had never
before seen two men so valiant or so powerful. And had it been midnight,
it would have been light, from the fire that flashed from their weapons.
And the knight gave Gawain a blow that turned his helmet from off his
face, so that the knight saw that it was Gawain. Then Owain said, “My
lord Gawain, I did not know thee for my cousin, owing to the robe of
honor that enveloped thee; take my sword and my arms.” Said Gawain,
“Thou, Owain, art the victor; take thou my sword.” And with that Arthur
saw that they were conversing, and advanced toward them. “My lord
Arthur,” said Gawain, “here is Owain who has vanquished me, and will not
take my arms.” “My lord,” said Owain, “it is he that has vanquished me,
and he will not take my sword.” “Give me your swords,” said Arthur, “and
then neither of you has vanquished the other.” Then Owain put his arms
around Arthur’s neck, and they embraced. And all the host hurried
forward to see Owain, and to embrace him. And there was nigh being a
loss of life, so great was the press.

And they retired that night, and the next day Arthur prepared to depart.
“My lord,” said Owain, “this is not well of thee. For I have been absent
from thee these three years, and during all that time, up to this very
day, I have been preparing a banquet for thee, knowing that thou wouldst
come to seek me. Tarry with me, therefore, until thou and thy attendants
have recovered the fatigues of the journey, and have been anointed.”

And they all proceeded to the castle of the Countess of the Fountain,
and the banquet which had been three years preparing was consumed in
three months. Never had they a more delicious or agreeable banquet. And
Arthur prepared to depart. Then he sent an embassy to the Countess to
beseech her to permit Owain to go with him, for the space of three
months, that he might show him to the nobles and the fair dames of the
island of Britain. And the Countess gave her consent, although it was
very painful to her. So Owain came with Arthur to the island of Britain.
And when he was once more amongst his kindred and friends, he remained
three years, instead of three months, with them.

                       THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION

And as Owain one day sat at meat, in the city of Caerleon upon Usk,
behold a damsel entered the hall, upon a bay horse,[61] with a curling
mane, and covered with foam; and the bridle, and as much as was seen of
the saddle, were of gold. And the damsel was arrayed in a dress of
yellow satin. And she came up to Owain, and took the ring from off his
hand. “Thus,” said she, “shall be treated the deceiver, the traitor, the
faithless, the disgraced, and the beardless.” And she turned her horse’s
head and departed.

Then his adventure came to Owain’s remembrance, and he was sorrowful.
And having finished eating, he went to his own abode, and made
preparations that night. And the next day he arose, but did not go to
the court, nor did he return to the Countess of the Fountain, but
wandered to the distant parts of the earth and to uncultivated
mountains. And he remained there until all his apparel was worn out, and
his body was wasted away, and his hair was grown long. And he went about
with the wild beasts, and fed with them, until they became familiar with
him. But at length he became so weak that he could no longer bear them
company. Then he descended from the mountains to the valley, and came to
a park, that was the fairest in the world, and belonged to a charitable
lady.

One day the lady and her attendants went forth to walk by a lake that
was in the middle of the park. And they saw the form of a man, lying as
if dead. And they were terrified. Nevertheless they went near him, and
touched him, and they saw that there was life in him. And the lady
returned to the castle, and took a flask full of precious ointment and
gave it to one of her maidens. “Go with this,” said she, “and take with
thee yonder horse, and clothing, and place them near the man we saw just
now; and anoint him with this balsam near his heart; and if there is
life in him, he will revive, through the efficiency of this balsam. Then
watch what he will do.”

And the maiden departed from her, and went and poured of the balsam upon
Owain, and left the horse and the garments hard by, and went a little
way off and hid herself to watch him. In a short time, she saw him begin
to move; and he rose up, and looked at his person, and became ashamed of
the unseemliness of his appearance. Then he perceived the horse and the
garments that were near him. And he clothed himself, and with difficulty
mounted the horse. Then the damsel discovered herself to him, and
saluted him. And he and the maiden proceeded to the castle, and the
maiden conducted him to a pleasant chamber, and kindled a fire, and left
him.

And he stayed at the castle three months, till he was restored to his
former guise, and became even more comely than he had ever been before.
And Owain rendered signal service to the lady, in a controversy with a
powerful neighbor, so that he made ample requital to her for her
hospitality; and he took his departure.

And as he journeyed he heard a loud yelling in a wood. And it was
repeated a second and a third time. And Owain went towards the spot, and
beheld a huge craggy mound, in the middle of the wood, on the side of
which was a gray rock. And there was a cleft in the rock, and a serpent
was within the cleft. And near the rock stood a black lion, and every
time the lion sought to go thence the serpent darted towards him to
attack him. And Owain unsheathed his sword, and drew near to the rock;
and as the serpent sprung out he struck him with his sword and cut him
in two. And he dried his sword, and went on his way as before. But
behold the lion followed him, and played about him, as though it had
been a greyhound that he had reared.

They proceeded thus throughout the day, until the evening. And when it
was time for Owain to take his rest he dismounted, and turned his horse
loose in a flat and wooded meadow. And he struck fire, and when the fire
was kindled, the lion brought him fuel enough to last for three nights.
And the lion disappeared. And presently the lion returned, bearing a
fine large roebuck. And he threw it down before Owain, who went towards
the fire with it.

And Owain took the roebuck, and skinned it, and placed collops of its
flesh upon skewers round the fire. The rest of the buck he gave to the
lion to devour. While he was so employed, he heard a deep groan near
him, and a second, and a third. And the place whence the groans
proceeded was a cave in the rock; and Owain went near, and called out to
know who it was that groaned so piteously. And a voice answered, “I am
Luned, the hand-maiden of the Countess of the Fountain.” “And what dost
thou here?” said he. “I am imprisoned,” said she, “on account of the
knight who came from Arthur’s court, and married the Countess. And he
staid a short time with her, but he afterwards departed for the court of
Arthur, and has not returned since. And two of the Countess’s pages
traduced him, and called him a deceiver. And because I said I would
vouch for it he would come before long and maintain his cause against
both of them, they imprisoned me in this cave, and said that I should be
put to death, unless he came to deliver me, by a certain day; and that
is no further off than to-morrow, and I have no one to send to seek him
for me. His name is Owain, the son of Urien.” “And art thou certain that
if that knight knew all this, he would come to thy rescue?” “I am most
certain of it,” said she.

When the collops were cooked, Owain divided them into two parts, between
himself and the maiden, and then Owain laid himself down to sleep; and
never did sentinel keep stricter watch over his lord than the lion that
night over Owain.

And the next day there came the two pages with a great troop of
attendants to take Luned from her cell, and put her to death. And Owain
asked them what charge they had against her. And they told him of the
compact that was between them; as the maiden had done the night before.
“And,” said they, “Owain has failed her, therefore we are taking her to
be burnt.” “Truly,” said Owain, “he is a good knight; and if he knew
that the maiden was in such peril, I marvel that he came not to her
rescue. But if you will accept me in his stead, I will do battle with
you.” “We will,” said the youth.

And they attacked Owain, and he was hard beset by them. And with that,
the lion came to Owain’s assistance, and they two got the better of the
young men. And they said to him, “Chieftain, it was not agreed that we
should fight save with thyself alone, and it is harder for us to contend
with yonder animal than with thee.” And Owain put the lion in the place
where Luned had been imprisoned, and blocked up the door with stones.
And he went to fight with the young men as before. But Owain had not his
usual strength, and the two youths pressed hard upon him. And the lion
roared incessantly at seeing Owain in trouble. And he brust through the
wall, until he found a way out, and rushed upon the young men and
instantly slew them. So Luned was saved from being burned.

Then Owain returned with Luned to the castle of the Lady of the
Fountain. And when he went thence, he took the Countess with him to
Arthur’s court, and she was his wife as long as she lived.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER V

                       GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN

ARTHUR was accustomed to hold his court at Caerleon upon Usk. And there
he held it seven Easters and five Christmases. And once upon a time he
held his court there at Whitsuntide. For Caerleon was the place most
easy of access in his dominions, both by sea and by land. And there were
assembled nine crowned kings, who were his tributaries, and likewise
earls and barons. For they were his invited guests at all the high
festivals, unless they were prevented by any great hinderance. And when
he was at Caerleon holding his court, thirteen churches were set apart
for mass. And thus they were appointed: one church for Arthur and his
kings, and his guests; and the second for Guenever and her ladies; and
the third for the steward of the household and the suitors; and the
fourth for the Franks and the other officers; and the other nine
churches were for the nine masters of the household, and chiefly for
Gawain, for he, from the eminence of his warlike fame, and from the
nobleness of his birth, was the most exalted of the nine. And there was
no other arrangement respecting the churches than that which we have
here mentioned.

And on Whit-Tuesday, as the king sat at the banquet, lo, there entered a
tall, fair-headed youth, clad in a coat and surcoat of satin, and a
golden-hilted sword about his neck, and low shoes of leather upon his
feet. And he came and stood before Arthur. “Hail to thee, lord,” said
he. “Heaven prosper thee,” he answered, “and be thou welcome. Dost thou
bring any new tidings?” “I do, lord,” he said. “I am one of thy
foresters, lord, in the forest of Dean, and my name is Madoc, son of
Turgadarn. In the forest I saw a stag, the like of which beheld I never
yet.” “What is there about him,” asked Arthur, “that thou never yet
didst see his like?” “He is of pure white, lord, and he does not herd
with any other animal, through stateliness and pride, so royal is his
bearing. And I come to seek thy counsel, lord, and to know thy will
concerning him.” “It seems best to me,” said Arthur, “to go and hunt him
to-morrow at break of day, and to cause general notice thereof to be
given to-night, in all quarters of the court.”

      “For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before
    Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk.
    There on a day, he sitting high in hall,
    Before him came a forester of Dean,
    Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart
    Taller than all his fellows, milky-white,
    First seen that day: these things he told the king.
    Then the good king gave order to let blow
    His horns for hunting on the morrow morn.”
                                               —_Enid._

And Arryfuerys was Arthur’s chief huntsman, and Arelivri his chief page.
And all received notice; and thus it was arranged.

Then Guenever said to Arthur, “Wilt thou permit me, lord, to go
to-morrow to see and hear the hunt of the stag of which the young man
spoke?” “I will gladly,” said Arthur. And Gawain said to Arthur, “Lord,
if it seem well to thee, permit that into whose hunt soever the stag
shall come, that one, be he a knight or one on foot, may cut off his
head, and give it to whom he pleases, whether to his own lady-love, or
to the lady of his friend.” “I grant it gladly,” said Arthur, “and let
the steward of the household be chastised, if all things are not ready
to-morrow for the chase.”

And they passed the night with songs, and diversions, and discourse, and
ample entertainment. And when it was time for them all to go to sleep,
they went. And when the next day came, they arose. And Arthur called the
attendants who guarded his couch. And there were four pages whose names
were Cadyrnerth, the son of Gandwy, and Ambreu, the son of Bedwor and
Amhar, the son of Arthur and Goreu, the son of Custennin. And these men
came to Arthur and saluted him, and arrayed him in his garments. And
Arthur wondered that Guenever did not awake, and the attendants wished
to awaken her. “Disturb her not,” said Arthur, “for she had rather sleep
than go to see the hunting.”

Then Arthur went forth, and he heard two horns sounding, one from near
the lodging of the chief huntsman, and the other from near that of the
chief page. And the whole assembly of the multitudes came to Arthur, and
they took the road to the forest.

And after Arthur had gone forth from the palace, Guenever awoke, and
called to her maidens, and apparalled herself. “Maidens,” said she, “I
had leave last night to go and see the hunt. Go one of you to the
stable, and order hither a horse such as a woman may ride.” And one of
them went, and she found but two horses in the stable; and Guenever and
one of her maidens mounted them, and went through the Usk, and followed
the track of the men and the horses. And as they rode thus, they heard a
loud and rushing sound; and they looked behind them, and beheld a knight
upon a hunter foal of mighty size. And the rider was a fair-haired
youth, bare-legged, and of princely mien; and a golden-hilted sword was
at his side, and a robe and a surcoat of satin were upon him, and two
low shoes of leather upon his feet; and around him was a scarf of blue
purple, at each corner of which was a golden apple.

                        “For Prince Geraint,
    Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress
    Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand,
    Came quickly flashing through the shallow ford.”
                                            —_Enid._

And his horse stepped stately, and swift, and proud; and he overtook
Guenever, and saluted her. “Heaven prosper thee, Geraint,” said she;
“and why didst thou not go with thy lord to hunt?” “Because I knew not
when he went,” said he. “I marvel too,” said she, “how he could go,
unknown to me. But thou, O young man, art the most agreeable companion I
could have in the whole kingdom; and it may be I shall be more amused
with the hunting than they; for we shall hear the horns when they sound
and we shall hear the dogs when they are let loose and begin to cry.”

So they went to the edge of the forest, and there they stood. “From this
place,” said she, “we shall hear when the dogs are let loose.” And
thereupon they heard a loud noise; and they looked towards the spot
whence it came, and they beheld a dwarf riding upon a horse, stately and
foaming and prancing and strong and spirited. And in the hand of the
dwarf was a whip. And near the dwarf they saw a lady upon a beautiful
white horse, of steady and stately pace; and she was clothed in a
garment of gold brocade. And near her was a knight upon a war-horse of
large size, with heavy and bright armor both upon himself and upon his
horse. And truly they never before saw a knight, or a horse, or armor,
of such remarkable size.

“Geraint,” said Guenever, “knowest thou the name of that tall knight
yonder?” “I know him not,” said he, “and the strange armor that he wears
prevents my either seeing his face or his features.” “Go, maiden,” said
Guenever, “and ask the dwarf who that knight is.” Then the maiden went
up to the dwarf; and she inquired of the dwarf who the knight was. “I
will not tell thee,” he answered. “Since thou art so churlish,” said
she, “I will ask him, himself.” “Thou shalt not ask him, by my faith,”
said he. “Wherefore not?” said she. “Because thou art not of honor
sufficient to befit thee to speak to my lord.” Then the maiden turned
her horse’s head towards the knight, upon which the dwarf struck her
with the whip that was in his hand across the face and the eyes, so that
the blood flowed forth. And the maiden returned to Guenever, complaining
of the hurt she had received. “Very rudely has the dwarf treated thee,”
said Geraint, and he put his hand upon the hilt of his sword. But he
took counsel with himself, and considered that it would be no vengeance
for him to slay the dwarf, and to be attacked unarmed by the armed
knight; so he refrained.

“Lady,” said he, “I will follow him, with thy permission, and at last he
will come to some inhabited place, where I may have arms, either as a
loan or for a pledge, so that I may encounter the knight.” “Go,” said
she, “and do not attack him until thou hast good arms; and I shall be
very anxious concerning thee, until I hear tidings of thee.” “If I am
alive,” said he, “thou shalt hear tidings of me by to-morrow afternoon;”
and with that he departed.

And the road they took was below the palace of Caerleon, and across the
ford of the Usk; and they went along a fair and even and lofty ridge of
ground, until they came to a town, and at the extremity of the town they
saw a fortress and a castle. And as the knight passed through the town
all the people arose and saluted him, and bade him welcome. And when
Geraint came into the town, he looked at every house to see if he knew
any of those whom he saw. But he knew none, and none knew him, to do him
the kindness to let him have arms, either as a loan or for a pledge. And
every house he saw was full of men, and arms, and horses. And they were
polishing shields, and burnishing swords, and washing armor, and shoeing
horses. And the knight and the lady and the dwarf rode up to the castle,
that was in the town, and every one was glad in the castle. And from the
battlements and the gates they risked their necks, through their
eagerness to greet them, and to show their joy.

Geraint stood there to see whether the knight would remain in the
castle; and when he was certain that he would do so, he looked around
him. And at a little distance from the town he saw an old palace in
ruins, wherein was a hall that was falling to decay.

    “And high above a piece of turret-stair,
    Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound
    Bare to the sun.”
                                    —_Enid._

And as he knew not any one in the town, he went towards the old palace.
And when he came near to the palace, he saw a hoary-headed man, standing
by it, in tattered garments. And Geraint gazed steadfastly upon him.
Then the hoary-headed man said to him, “Young man, wherefore art thou
thoughtful?” “I am thoughtful,” said he, “because I know not where to
pass the night.” “Wilt thou come forward this way, chieftain,” said he,
“and thou shalt have of the best that can be procured for thee.” So
Geraint went forward. And the hoary-headed man led the way into the
hall. And in the hall he dismounted, and he left there his horse. Then
he went on to the upper chamber with the hoary-headed man. And in the
chamber he beheld an old woman, sitting on a cushion, with old, worn-out
garments upon her; yet it seemed to him that she must have been comely
when in the bloom of youth. And beside her was a maiden, upon whom were
a vest and a veil that were old and beginning to be worn out. And truly
he never saw a maiden more full of comeliness and grace and beauty than
she. And the hoary-headed man said to the maiden, “There is no attendant
for the horse of this youth but thyself.” “I will render the best
service I am able,” said she, “both to him and to his horse.” And the
maiden disarrayed the youth, and then she furnished his horse with straw
and corn; and then she returned to the chamber. And the hoary-headed man
said to the maiden, “Go to the town and bring hither the best that thou
canst find, both of food and of liquor.” “I will gladly, lord,” said
she. And to the town went the maiden. And they conversed together while
the maiden was at the town. And, behold, the maiden came back, and a
youth with her, bearing on his back a costrel full of good purchased
mead, and a quarter of a young bullock. And in the hands of the maiden
was a quantity of white bread, and she had some manchet bread in her
veil, and she came into the chamber. “I would not obtain better than
this,” said she, “nor with better should I have been trusted.” “It is
good enough,” said Geraint. And they caused the meat to be boiled; and
when their food was ready, they sat down. And it was in this wise.
Geraint sat between the hoary-headed man and his wife, and the maiden
served them. And they ate and drank.

And when they had finished eating, Geraint talked with the hoary-headed
man, and he asked him in the first place to whom belonged the palace
that he was in. “Truly,” said he, “it was I that built it, and to me
also belonged the city and the castle which thou sawest.” “Alas!” said
Geraint, “how is it that thou hast lost them now?” “I lost a great
earldom as well as these,” said he, “and this is how I lost them. I had
a nephew, the son of my brother, and I took care of his possessions; but
he was impatient to enter upon them, so he made war upon me, and wrested
from me not only his own, but also my estates, except this castle.”
“Good sir,” said Geraint, “wilt thou tell me wherefore came the knight
and the lady and the dwarf just now into the town, and what is the
preparation which I saw, and the putting of arms in order?” “I will do
so,” said he. “The preparations are for the game that is to be held
to-morrow by the young earl, which will be on this wise. In the midst of
a meadow which is here, two forks will be set up, and upon the two forks
a silver rod, and upon the silver rod a sparrow-hawk, and for the
sparrow-hawk there will be a tournament. And to the tournament will go
all the array thou didst see in the city, of men and of horses and of
arms. And with each man will go the lady he loves best; and no man can
joust for the sparrow-hawk, except the lady he loves best be with him.
And the knight that thou sawest has gained the sparrow-hawk these two
years; and if he gains it the third year, he will be called the Knight
of the Sparrow-hawk from that time forth.” “Sir,” said Geraint, “what is
thy counsel to me concerning this knight, on account of the insult which
the maiden of Guenever received from the dwarf?” And Geraint told the
hoary-headed man what the insult was that the maiden had received. “It
is not easy to counsel thee, inasmuch as thou hast neither dame nor
maiden belonging to thee, for whom thou canst joust. Yet I have arms
here, which thou couldst have, and there is my horse also, if he seem to
thee better than thine own.” “Ah, sir,” said he, “Heaven reward thee!
But my own horse to which I am accustomed, together with thine arms,
will suffice me. And if, when the appointed time shall come to-morrow
thou wilt permit me, sir, to challenge for yonder maiden that is thy
daughter, I will engage, if I escape from the tournament, to love the
maiden as long as I live.” “Gladly will I permit thee,” said the
hoary-headed man; “and since thou dost thus resolve, it is necessary
that thy horse and arms should be ready to-morrow at break of day. For
then the Knight of the Sparrow-hawk will make proclamation, and ask the
lady he loves best to take the sparrow-hawk; and if any deny it to her,
by force will he defend her claim. And therefore,” said the hoary-headed
man, “it is needful for thee to be there at daybreak, and we three will
be with thee.” And thus was it settled.

And at night they went to sleep. And before the dawn they arose and
arrayed themselves; and by the time that it was day, they were all four
in the meadow. And there was the Knight of the Sparrow-hawk making the
proclamation, and asking his lady-love to take the sparrow-hawk. “Take
it not,” said Geraint, “for here is a maiden who is fairer, and more
noble, and more comely, and who has a better claim to it than thou.”
Then said the knight, “If thou maintainest the sparrow-hawk to be due to
her, come forward and do battle with me.” And Geraint went forward to
the top of the meadow, having upon himself and upon his horse armor
which was heavy and rusty, and of uncouth shape. Then they encountered
each other, and they broke a set of lances; and they broke a second set,
and a third. And when the earl and his company saw the Knight of the
Sparrow-hawk gaining the mastery, there was shouting and joy and mirth
amongst them; and the hoary-headed man and his wife and his daughter
were sorrowful. And the hoary-headed man served Geraint with lances as
often as he broke them, and the dwarf served the Knight of the
Sparrow-hawk. Then the hoary-headed man said to Geraint, “O chieftain,
since no other will hold with thee, behold, here is the lance which was
in my hand on the day when I received the honor of knighthood, and from
that time to this I never broke it, and it has an excellent point.” Then
Geraint took the lance, thanking the hoary-headed man. And thereupon the
dwarf also brought a lance to his lord. “Behold, here is a lance for
thee, not less good than his,” said the dwarf. “And bethink thee that no
knight ever withstood thee so long as this one has done.” “I declare to
Heaven,” said Geraint, “that unless death takes me quickly hence, he
shall fare never the better for thy service.” And Geraint pricked his
horse towards him from afar, and, warning him, he rushed upon him, and
gave him a blow so severe, and furious, and fierce, upon the face of his
shield, that he cleft it in two, and broke his armor, and burst his
girths, so that both he and his saddle were borne to the ground over the
horse’s crupper. And Geraint dismounted quickly. And he was wroth, and
he drew his sword, and rushed fiercely upon him. Then the knight also
arose, and drew his sword against Geraint. And they fought on foot with
their swords until their arms struck sparks of fire like stars from one
another; and thus they continued fighting until the blood and sweat
obscured the light from their eyes. At length Geraint called to him all
his strength, and struck the knight upon the crown of his head, so that
he broke all his head-armor, and cut through all the flesh and the skin,
even to the skull, until he wounded the bone.

Then the knight fell upon his knees, and cast his sword from his hand,
and besought mercy from Geraint. “Of a truth,” said he, “I relinquish my
overdaring and my pride, and crave thy mercy; and unless I have time to
commit myself to Heaven for my sins, and to talk with a priest, thy
mercy will avail me little.” “I will grant thee grace upon this
condition,” said Geraint, “that thou go to Guenever, the wife of Arthur,
to do her satisfaction for the insult which her maiden received from thy
dwarf. Dismount not from the time thou goest hence until thou comest
into the presence of Guenever, to make her what atonement shall be
adjudged at the court of Arthur.” “This will I do gladly; and who art
thou?” “I am Geraint, the son of Erbin; and declare thou also who thou
art.” “I am Edeyrn, the son of Nudd.” Then he threw himself upon his
horse, and went forward to Arthur’s court; and the lady he loved best
went before him, and the dwarf, with much lamentation.

Then came the young earl and his hosts to Geraint, and saluted him, and
bade him to his castle. “I may not go,” said Geraint; “but where I was
last night, there will I be to-night also.” “Since thou wilt none of my
inviting, thou shalt have abundance of all that I can command for thee;
and I will order ointment for thee, to recover thee from thy fatigues,
and from the weariness that is upon thee.” “Heaven reward thee,” said
Geraint, “and I will go to my lodging.” And thus went Geraint and Earl
Ynywl, and his wife and his daughter. And when they reached the old
mansion, the household servants and attendants of the young earl had
arrived, and had arranged all the apartments, dressing them with straw
and with fire; and in a short time the ointment was ready, and Geraint
came there, and they washed his head. Then came the young earl, with
forty honorable knights from among his attendants, and those who were
bidden to the tournament. And Geraint came from the anointing. And the
earl asked him to go to the hall to eat. “Where is the Earl Ynywl,” said
Geraint, “and his wife and his daughter?” “They are in the chamber
yonder,” said the earl’s chamberlain, “arraying themselves in garments
which the earl has caused to be brought for them.” “Let not the damsel
array herself,” said he, “except in her vest and her veil, until she
come to the court of Arthur, to be clad by Guenever in such garments as
she may choose.” So the maiden did not array herself.

Then they all entered the hall, and they washed, and sat down to meat.
And thus were they seated. On one side of Geraint sat the young earl,
and Earl Ynywl beyond him, and on the other side of Geraint was the
maiden and her mother. And after these all sat according to their
precedence in honor. And they ate. And they were served abundantly, and
they received a profusion of divers kinds of gifts. Then they conversed
together. And the young earl invited Geraint to visit him next day. “I
will not, by Heaven,” said Geraint. “To the court of Arthur will I go
with this maiden to-morrow. And it is enough for me, as long as Earl
Ynywl is in poverty and trouble; and I go chiefly to seek to add to his
maintenance.” “Ah, chieftain,” said the young earl, “it is not by my
fault that Earl Ynywl is without his possessions.” “By my faith,” said
Geraint, “he shall not remain without them, unless death quickly takes
me hence.” “O chieftain,” said he, “with regard to the disagreement
between me and Ynywl, I will gladly abide by thy counsel, and agree to
what thou mayest judge right between us.” “I but ask thee,” said
Geraint, “to restore to him what is his, and what he should have
received from the time he lost his possessions even until this day.”
“That will I do, gladly, for thee,” answered he. “Then,” said Geraint,
“whosoever is here who owes homage to Ynywl, let him come forward, and
perform it on the spot.” And all the men did so; and by that treaty they
abided. And his castle and his town, and all his possessions, were
restored to Ynywl. And he received back all that he had lost, even to
the smallest jewel.

Then spoke Earl Ynywl to Geraint. “Chieftain,” said he, “behold the
maiden for whom thou didst challenge at the tournament; I bestow her
upon thee.” “She shall go with me,” said Geraint, “to the court of
Arthur, and Arthur and Guenever, they shall dispose of her as they
will.” And the next day they proceeded to Arthur’s court. So far
concerning Geraint.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER VI

                GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN (_Continued_)

NOW this is how Arthur hunted the stag. The men and the dogs were
divided into hunting-parties, and the dogs were let loose upon the stag.
And the last dog that was let loose was the favorite dog of Arthur;
Cavall was his name. And he left all the other dogs behind him and
turned the stag. And at the second turn the stag came toward the
hunting-party of Arthur. And Arthur set upon him; and before he could be
slain by any other, Arthur cut off his head. Then they sounded the
death-horn for slaying and they all gathered round.

Then came Kadyriath to Arthur and spoke to him. “Lord,” said he,
“behold, yonder is Guenever, and none with her save only one maiden.”
“Command Gildas, the son of Caw, and all the scholars of the court,”
said Arthur, “to attend Guenever to the palace.” And they did so.

Then they all set forth, holding converse together concerning the head
of the stag, to whom it should be given. One wished that it should be
given to the lady best beloved by him, and another to the lady whom he
loved best. And so they came to the palace. And when Arthur and Guenever
heard them disputing about the head of the stag, Guenever said to
Arthur: “My lord, this is my counsel concerning the stag’s head; let it
not be given away until Geraint, the son of Erbin, shall return from the
errand he is upon.” And Guenever told Arthur what that errand was.
“Right gladly shall it be so,” said Arthur. And Guenever caused a watch
to be set upon the ramparts for Geraint’s coming. And after midday they
beheld an unshapely little man upon a horse, and after him a dame or a
damsel, also on horseback, and after her a knight of large stature,
bowed down, and hanging his head low and sorrowfully, and clad in broken
and worthless armor.

And before they came near to the gate one of the watch went to Guenever,
and told her what kind of people they saw, and what aspect they bore. “I
know not who they are,” said he, “But _I_ know,” said Guenever; “this is
the knight whom Geraint pursued, and methinks that he comes not here by
his own free will. But Geraint has overtaken him, and avenged the insult
to the maiden to the uttermost.” And thereupon, behold, a porter came to
the spot where Guenever was. “Lady,” said he, “at the gate there is a
knight, and I saw never a man of so pitiful an aspect to look upon as
he. Miserable and broken is the armor that he wears, and the hue of
blood is more conspicuous upon it than its own color.” “Knowest thou his
name?” said she. “I do,” said he; “he tells me that he is Edeyrn, the
son of Nudd.” Then she replied, “I know him not.”

So Guenever went to the gate to meet him and he entered. And Guenever
was sorry when she saw the condition he was in, even though he was
accompanied by the churlish dwarf. Then Edeyrn saluted Guenever. “Heaven
protect thee,” said she. “Lady,” said he, “Geraint, the son of Erbin,
thy best and most valiant servant, greets thee.” “Did he meet with
thee?” she asked. “Yes,” said he, “and it was not to my advantage; and
that was not his fault, but mine, lady. And Geraint greets thee well;
and in greeting thee he compelled me to come hither to do thy pleasure
for the insult which thy maiden received from the dwarf.” “Now where did
he overtake thee?” “At the place where we were jousting and contending
for the sparrow-hawk, in the town which is now called Cardiff. And it
was for the avouchment of the love of the maiden, the daughter of Earl
Ynywl, that Geraint jousted at the tournament. And thereupon we
encountered each other, and he left me, lady, as thou seest.” “Sir,”
said she, “when thinkest thou that Geraint will be here?” “To-morrow,
lady, I think he will be here with the maiden.”

Then Arthur came to them. And he saluted Arthur, and Arthur gazed a long
time upon him and was amazed to see him thus. And thinking that he knew
him, he inquired of him, “Art thou Edeyrn, the son of Nudd?” “I am,
lord,” said he, “and I have met with much trouble and received wounds
unsupportable.” Then he told Arthur all his adventure. “Well,” said
Arthur, “from what I hear it behooves Guenever to be merciful towards
thee.” “The mercy which thou desirest, lord,” said she, “will I grant to
him, since it is as insulting to thee that an insult should be offered
to me as to thyself.” “Thus will it be best to do,” said Arthur; “let
this man have medical care until it be known whether he may live. And if
he live, he shall do such satisfaction as shall be judged best by the
men of the court. And if he die, too much will be the death of such a
youth as Edeyrn for an insult to a maiden.” “This pleases me,” said
Guenever. And Arthur caused Morgan Tud to be called to him. He was the
chief physician. “Take with thee Edeyrn, the son of Nudd, and cause a
chamber to be prepared for him, and let him have the aid of medicine as
thou wouldst do unto myself, if I were wounded; and let none into his
chamber to molest him, but thyself and thy disciples, to administer to
him remedies.” “I will do so, gladly, lord,” said Morgan Tud. Then said
the steward of the household, “Whither is it right, lord, to order the
maiden?” “To Guenever and her handmaidens,” said he. And the steward of
the household so ordered her.

    “And rising up, he rode to Arthur’s court,
    And there the queen forgave him easily.
    And being young, he changed himself, and grew
    To hate the sin that seem’d so like his own
    Of Modred, Arthur’s nephew, and fell at last
    In the great battle fighting for the king.”
                                      —_Enid._

The next day came Geraint towards the court; and there was a watch set
on the ramparts by Guenever, lest he should arrive unawares. And one of
the watch came to Guenever. “Lady,” said he, “methinks that I see
Geraint, and a maiden with him. He is on horseback, but he has his
walking gear upon him, and the maiden appears to be in white, seeming to
be clad in a garment of linen.” “Assemble all the women,” said Guenever,
“and come to meet Geraint, to welcome him, and wish him joy.” And
Guenever went to meet Geraint and the maiden. And when Geraint came to
the place where Guenever was, he saluted her. “Heaven prosper thee,”
said she, “and welcome to thee.” “Lady,” said he, “I earnestly desired
to obtain thee satisfaction, according to thy will; and, behold, here is
the maiden through whom thou hadst thy revenge.” “Verily,” said
Guenever, “the welcome of Heaven be unto her; and it is fitting that we
should receive her joyfully.” Then they went in and dismounted. And
Geraint came to where Arthur was, and saluted him. “Heaven protect
thee,” said Arthur, “and the welcome of Heaven be unto thee. And
inasmuch as thou hast vanquished Edeyrn, the son of Nudd, thou hast had
a prosperous career.” “Not upon me be the blame,” said Geraint; “it was
through the arrogance of Edeyrn, the son of Nudd, himself, that we were
not friends.” “Now,” said Arthur, “where is the maiden for whom I heard
thou didst give challenge?” “She is gone with Guenever to her chamber.”
Then went Arthur to see the maiden. And Arthur, and all his companions,
and his whole court, were glad concerning the maiden. And certain were
they all, that, had her array been suitable to her beauty, they had
never seen a maid fairer than she. And Arthur gave away the maiden to
Geraint. And the usual bond made between two persons was made between
Geraint and the maiden, and the choicest of all Guenever’s apparel was
given to the maiden; and thus arrayed, she appeared comely and graceful
to all who beheld her. And that day and the night were spent in
abundance of minstrelsy, and ample gifts of liquor, and a multitude of
games. And when it was time for them to go to sleep they went. And in
the chamber where the couch of Arthur and Guenever was, the couch of
Geraint and Enid was prepared. And from that time she became his wife.
And the next day Arthur satisfied all the claimants upon Geraint with
bountiful gifts. And the maiden took up her abode in the palace, and she
had many companions, both men and women, and there was no maiden more
esteemed than she in the island of Britain.

Then spake Guenever. “Rightly did I judge,” said she, “concerning the
head of the stag, that it should not be given to any until Geraint’s
return; and behold, here is a fit occasion for bestowing it. Let it be
given to Enid, the daughter of Ynywl, the most illustrious maiden. And
_I_ do not believe that any will begrudge it her, for between her and
every one here there exists nothing but love and friendship.” Much
applauded was this by them all, and by Arthur also. And the head of the
stag was given to Enid. And thereupon her fame increased, and her
friends became more in number than before. And Geraint from that time
forth loved the hunt, and the tournament, and hard encounters; and he
came victorious from them all. And a year, and a second, and a third, he
proceeded thus, until his fame had flown over the face of the kingdom.

And, once upon a time, Arthur was holding his court at Caerleon upon
Usk; and behold, there came to him ambassadors, wise and prudent, full
of knowledge and eloquent of speech, and they saluted Arthur. “Heaven
prosper you!” said Arthur; “and whence do you come?” “We come, lord,”
said they, “from Cornwall; and we are ambassadors from Erbin, the son of
Custennin, thy uncle, and our mission is unto thee. And he greets thee
well, as an uncle should greet his nephew, and as a vassal should greet
his lord. And he represents unto thee that he waxes heavy and feeble,
and is advancing in years. And the neighboring chiefs, knowing this,
grow insolent towards him, and covet his land and possessions. And he
earnestly beseeches thee, lord, to permit Geraint, his son, to return to
him, to protect his possessions, and to become acquainted with his
boundaries. And unto him he represents that it were better for him to
spend the flower of his youth and the prime of his age in preserving his
own boundaries, than in tournaments which are productive of no profit,
although he obtains glory in them.”

“Well,” said Arthur, “go and divest yourselves of your accoutrements,
and take food, and refresh yourselves after your fatigues; and before
you go from hence you shall have an answer.” And they went to eat. And
Arthur considered that it would go hard with him to let Geraint depart
from him, and from his court; neither did he think it fair that his
cousin should be restrained from going to protect his dominions and his
boundaries, seeing that his father was unable to do so. No less was the
grief and regret of Guenever, and all her women, and all her damsels,
through fear that the maiden would leave them. And that day and that
night were spent in abundance of feasting. And Arthur told Geraint the
cause of the mission, and of the coming of the ambassadors to him out of
Cornwall. “Truly,” said Geraint, “be it to my advantage or disadvantage,
lord, I will do according to thy will concerning this embassy.”
“Behold,” said Arthur, “though it grieves me to part with thee, it is my
counsel that thou go to dwell in thine own dominions, and to defend thy
boundaries, and take with thee to accompany thee as many as thou wilt of
those thou lovest best among my faithful ones, and among thy friends,
and among thy companions in arms.” “Heaven reward thee! and this will I
do,” said Geraint. “What discourse,” said Guenever, “do I hear between
you? Is it of those who are to conduct Geraint to his country?” “It is,”
said Arthur. “Then is it needful for me to consider,” said she,
“concerning companions and a provision for the lady that is with me.”
“Thou wilt do well,” said Arthur.

And that night they went to sleep. And the next day the ambassadors were
permitted to depart, and they were told that Geraint should follow them.
And on the third day Geraint set forth, and many went with him—Gawain,
the son of Gwyar, and Riogoned, the son of the king of Ireland, and
Ondyaw, the son of the Duke of Burgundy, Gwilim, the son of the ruler of
the Franks, Howel, the son of the Earl of Brittany, Perceval, the son of
Evrawk, Gwyr, a judge in the court of Arthur, Bedwyr, the son of
Bedrawd, Kai, the son of Kyner, Odyar, the Frank, and Ederyn, the son of
Nudd. Said Geraint, “I think I shall have enough of knighthood with me.”
And they set forth. And never was there seen a fairer host journeying
towards the Severn. And on the other side of the Severn were the nobles
of Erbin, the son of Custennin, and his foster-father at their head, to
welcome Geraint with gladness; and many of the women of the court, with
his mother, came to receive Enid, the daughter of Ynywl, his wife. And
there was great rejoicing and gladness throughout the whole court, and
through all the country, concerning Geraint, because of the greatness of
their love to him, and of the greatness of the fame which he had gained
since he went from amongst them, and because he was come to take
possession of his dominions, and to preserve his boundaries. And they
came to the court. And in the court they had ample entertainment, and a
multitude of gifts, and abundance of liquor, and a sufficiency of
service, and a variety of games. And to do honor to Geraint, all the
chief men of the country were invited that night to visit him. And they
passed that day and that night in the utmost enjoyment. And at dawn next
day Erbin arose and summoned to him Geraint, and the noble persons who
had borne him company. And he said to Geraint: “I am a feeble and an
aged man, and whilst I was able to maintain the dominion for thee and
for myself, I did so. But thou art young, and in the flower of thy vigor
and of thy youth. Henceforth do thou preserve thy possessions.” “Truly,”
said Geraint, “with my consent thou shalt not give the power over thy
dominions at this time into my hands, and thou shalt not take me from
Arthur’s court.” “Into thy hands will I give them,” said Erbin, “and
this day also shalt thou receive the homage of thy subjects.”

Then said Gawain, “It were better for thee to satisfy those who have
boons to ask, to-day, and to-morrow thou canst receive the homage of thy
dominions.” So all that had boons to ask were summoned into one place.
And Kadyriath came to them to know what were their requests. And every
one asked that which he desired. And the followers of Arthur began to
make gifts, and immediately the men of Cornwall came, and gave also. And
they were not long in giving, so eager was every one to bestow gifts,
and of those who came to ask gifts, none departed unsatisfied. And that
day and that night were spent in the utmost enjoyment.

And the next day at dawn, Erbin desired Geraint to send messengers to
the men to ask them whether it was displeasing to them that he should
come to receive their homage, and whether they had anything to object to
him. Then Geraint sent ambassadors to the men of Cornwall to ask them
this. And they all said that it would be the fulness of joy and honor to
them for Geraint to come and receive their homage. So he received the
homage of such as were there. And the day after the followers of Arthur
intended to go away. “It is too soon for you to go away yet,” said he;
“stay with me until I have finished receiving the homage of my chief
men, who have agreed to come to me.” And they remained with him until he
had done so. Then they set forth towards the court of Arthur. And
Geraint went to bear them company, and Enid also, as far as Diganwy;
there they parted. And Ondyaw, the son of the Duke of Burgundy, said to
Geraint, “Go, now, and visit the uttermost parts of thy dominions, and
see well to the boundaries of thy territories; and if thou hast any
trouble respecting them, send unto thy companions.” “Heaven reward
thee!” said Geraint; “and this will I do.” And Geraint journeyed to the
uttermost parts of his dominions. And experienced guides, and the chief
men of his country, went with him. And the furthermost point that they
showed him he kept possession of.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER VII

                GERAINT, THE SON OF ERBIN (_Continued_)

GERAINT, as he had been used to do when he was at Arthur’s court,
frequented tournaments. And he became acquainted with valiant and mighty
men, until he had gained as much fame there as he had formerly done
elsewhere. And he enriched his court, and his companions, and his
nobles, with the best horses and the best arms, and with the best and
most valuable jewels, and he ceased not until his fame had flown over
the face of the whole kingdom.

    “Before Geraint, the scourge of the enemy,
    I saw steeds white with foam,
    And after the shout of battle a fearful torrent.”
                                       —_Hen._

When he knew that it was thus, he began to love ease and pleasure, for
there was no one who was worth his opposing. And he loved his wife, and
liked to continue in the palace with minstrelsy and diversions. So he
began to shut himself up in the chamber of his wife, and he took no
delight in anything besides, insomuch that he gave up the friendship of
his nobles, together with his hunting and his amusements, and lost the
hearts of all the host in his court. And there was murmuring and
scoffing concerning him among the inhabitants of the palace, on account
of his relinquishing so completely their companionship for the love of
his wife.

                                      “They
    Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him
    As of a prince whose manhood was all gone,
    And molten down in mere uxoriousness.”

These tidings came to Erbin. And when Erbin had heard these things, he
spoke unto Enid, and inquired of her whether it was she that had caused
Geraint to act thus, and to forsake his people and his hosts. “Not I, by
my confession unto Heaven,” said she; “there is nothing more hateful
unto me than this.” And she knew not what she should do, for, although
it was hard for her to own this to Geraint, yet was it not more easy for
her to listen to what she heard, without warning Geraint concerning it.
And she was very sorrowful.

One morning in the summer-time they were upon their couch, and Geraint
lay upon the edge of it. And Enid was without sleep in the apartment,
which had windows of glass;[62] and the sun shone upon the couch. And
the clothes had slipped from off his arms and his breast, and he was
asleep. Then she gazed upon the marvellous beauty of his appearance, and
she said, “Alas! and am I the cause that these arms and this breast have
lost their glory, and the warlike fame which they once so richly
enjoyed!” As she said this the tears dropped from her eyes, and they
fell upon his breast. And the tears she shed and the words she had
spoken, awoke him. And another thing contributed to awaken him, and that
was the idea that it was not in thinking of him that she spoke thus, but
that it was because she loved some other man more than him, and that she
wished for other society. Thereupon Geraint was troubled in his mind,
and he called his squire; and when he came to him, “Go quickly,” said
he, “and prepare my horse and my arms, and make them ready. And do thou
rise,” said he to Enid, “and apparel thyself; and cause thy horse to be
accoutred, and clothe thee in the worst riding-dress that thou hast in
thy possession. And evil betide me,” said he, “if thou returnest here
until thou knowest whether I have lost my strength so completely as thou
didst say. And if it be so, it will then be easy for thee to seek the
society thou didst wish for of him of whom thou wast thinking.” So she
arose, and clothed herself in her meanest garments. “I know nothing,
lord,” said she, “of thy meaning.” “Neither wilt thou know at this
time,” said he.

Then Geraint went to see Erbin. “Sir,” said he, “I am going upon a
quest, and I am not certain when I may come back. Take heed, therefore,
unto thy possessions until my return.” “I will do so,” said he; “but it
is strange to me that thou shouldst go so suddenly. And who will proceed
with thee, since thou art not strong enough to traverse the land of
Loegyr alone?” “But one person only will go with me.” “Heaven counsel
thee, my son,” said Erbin, “and may many attach themselves to thee in
Loegyr.” Then went Geraint to the place where his horse was, and it was
equipped with foreign armor, heavy and shining. And he desired Enid to
mount her horse, and to ride forward, and to keep a long way before him.
“And whatever thou mayst see, and whatever thou mayst hear concerning
me,” said he, “do thou not turn back. And unless I speak unto thee, say
not thou one word, either.” So they set forward. And he did not choose
the pleasantest and most frequented road, but that which was the wildest
and most beset by thieves and robbers and venomous animals.

And they came to a high road, which they followed till they saw a vast
forest; and they saw four armed horsemen come forth from the forest.
When the armed men saw them, they said one to another. “Here is a good
occasion for us to capture two horses and armor, and a lady likewise;
for this we shall have no difficulty in doing against yonder single
knight who hangs his head so pensively and heavily.” Enid heard this
discourse, and she knew not what she should do through fear of Geraint,
who had told her to be silent. “The vengeance of Heaven be upon me,”
said she, “if I would not rather receive my death from his hand than
from the hand of any other; and though he should slay me, yet will I
speak to him, lest I should have the misery to witness his death.” So
she waited for Geraint until he came near to her. “Lord,” said she,
“didst thou hear the words of those men concerning thee?” Then he lifted
up his eyes, and looked at her angrily. “Thou hadst only,” said he, “to
hold thy peace as I bade thee. I wish but for silence, and not for
warning. And though thou shouldst desire to see my defeat and my death
by the hands of those men, yet do I feel no dread.” Then the foremost of
them couched his lance, and rushed upon Geraint. And he received him,
and that not feebly. But he let the thrust go by him, while he struck
the horseman upon the centre of his shield, in such a manner that his
shield was split, and his armor broken, so that a cubit’s length of the
shaft of Geraint’s lance passed through his body, and sent him to the
earth, the length of the lance over his horse’s crupper. Then the second
horseman attacked him furiously, being wroth at the death of his
companion. But with one thrust Geraint overthrew him also, and killed
him as he had done the other. Then the third set upon him, and he killed
him in like manner. And thus also he slew the fourth. Sad and sorrowful
was the maiden as she saw all this. Geraint dismounted his horse, and
took the arms of the men he had slain, and placed them upon their
saddles, and tied together the reins of their horses; and he mounted his
horse again. “Behold what thou must do,” said he; “take the four horses
and drive them before thee, and proceed forward as I bade thee just now.
And say not one word unto me, unless I speak first unto thee. And I
declare unto Heaven,” said he, “if thou doest not thus, it will be to
thy cost.” “I will do as far as I can, lord,” said she, “according to
thy desire.”

So the maiden went forward, keeping in advance of Geraint, as he had
desired her; and it grieved him as much as his wrath would permit, to
see a maiden so illustrious as she having so much trouble with the care
of the horses. Then they reached a wood, and it was both deep and vast,
and in the wood night overtook them. “Ah, maiden,” said he, “it is vain
to attempt proceeding forward.” “Well, lord,” said she, “whatever thou
wishest, we will do.” “It will be best for us,” he answered, “to rest
and wait for the day, in order to pursue our journey.” “That we will,
gladly,” said she. And they did so. Having dismounted himself, he took
her down from her horse. “I cannot by any means refrain from sleep,
through weariness,” said he; “do thou therefore watch the horses, and
sleep not.” “I will, lord,” said she. Then he went to sleep in his
armor, and thus passed the night, which was not long at that season. And
when she saw the dawn of day appear, she looked around her to see if he
were waking, and thereupon he woke. Then he arose, and said unto her,
“Take the horses and ride on, and keep straight on as thou didst
yesterday.” And they left the wood, and they came to an open country,
with meadows on one hand, and mowers mowing the meadows. And there was a
river before them, and the horses bent down and drank of the water. And
they went up out of the river by a lofty steep; and there they met a
slender stripling with a satchel about his neck, and they saw that there
was something in the satchel, but they knew not what it was. And he had
a small blue pitcher in his hand, and a bowl on the mouth of the
pitcher. And the youth saluted Geraint. “Heaven prosper thee!” said
Geraint; “and whence dost thou come?” “I come,” said he, “from the city
that lies before thee. My lord,” he added, “will it be displeasing to
thee if I ask whence thou comest also?” “By no means; through yonder
wood did I come.” “Thou camest not through the wood to-day.” “No,” he
replied, “we were in the wood last night.” “I warrant,” said the youth,
“that thy condition there last night was not the most pleasant, and that
thou hadst neither meat nor drink.” “No, by my faith,” said he. “Wilt
thou follow my counsel,” said the youth, “and take thy meal from me?”
“What sort of meal?” he inquired. “The breakfast which is sent for
yonder mowers, nothing less than bread and meat and wine, and if thou
wilt, sir, they shall have none of it.” “I will,” said he, “and Heaven
reward thee for it.”

So Geraint alighted, and the youth took the maiden from off her horse.
Then they washed, and took their repast. And the youth cut the bread in
slices, and gave them drink, and served them withal. And when they had
finished, the youth arose and said to Geraint, “My lord, with thy
permission, I will now go and fetch some food for the mowers.” “Go first
to the town,” said Geraint, “and take a lodging for me in the best place
that thou knowest, and the most commodious one for the horses; and take
thou whichever horse and arms thou choosest, in payment for thy service
and thy gift.” “Heaven reward thee, lord!” said the youth; “and this
would be ample to repay services much greater than those I have rendered
unto thee.” And to the town went the youth, and he took the best and the
most pleasant lodgings that he knew; and after that he went to the
palace, having the horse and armor with him, and proceeded to the place
where the earl was, and told him all his adventure. “I go now, lord,”
said he, “to meet the knight, and to conduct him to his lodging.” “Go,
gladly,” said the earl; “and right joyfully shall he be received here,
if he so come.” And the youth went to meet Geraint, and told him that he
would be received gladly by the earl in his own palace; but he would go
only to his lodgings. And he had a goodly chamber, in which was plenty
of straw and drapery, and a spacious and commodious place he had for the
horses; and the youth prepared for them plenty of provender. After they
had disarrayed themselves, Geraint spoke thus to Enid: “Go,” said he,
“to the other side of the chamber, and come not to this side of the
house; and thou mayst call to thee the woman of the house, if thou
wilt.” “I will do, lord,” said she, “as thou sayest.” Thereupon the man
of the house came to Geraint and welcomed him. And after they had eaten
and drank, Geraint went to sleep, and so did Enid also.

In the evening, behold, the earl came to visit Geraint, and his twelve
honorable knights with him. And Geraint rose up and welcomed him. Then
they all sat down according to their precedence in honor. And the earl
conversed with Geraint, and inquired of him the object of his journey.
“I have none,” he replied, “but to seek adventures and to follow mine
own inclination.” Then the earl cast his eye upon Enid, and he looked at
her steadfastly. And he thought he had never seen a maiden fairer or
more comely than she. And he set all his thoughts and his affections
upon her. Then he asked of Geraint, “Have I thy permission to go and
converse with yonder maiden, for I see that she is apart from thee?”
“Thou hast it gladly,” said he. So the earl went to the place where the
maiden was, and spake with her. “Ah! maiden,” said he, “it cannot be
pleasant to thee to journey with yonder man.” “It is not unpleasant to
me,” said she. “Thou hast neither youths nor maidens to serve thee,”
said he. “Truly,” she replied, “it is more pleasant for me to follow
yonder man, than to be served by youths and maidens.” “I will give thee
good counsel,” said he: “all my earldom will I place in thy possession,
if thou wilt dwell with me.”

    “Enid, the pilot star of my lone life,
    Enid, my early and my only love.”
                                  —_Enid._

“That will I not, by Heaven,” she said; “yonder man was the first to
whom my faith was ever pledged; and shall I prove inconstant to him?”
“Thou art in the wrong,” said the earl; “if I slay the man yonder, I can
keep thee with me as long as I choose; and when thou no longer pleasest
me, I can turn thee away. But if thou goest with me by thy own
good-will, I protest that our union shall continue as long as I remain
alive.” Then she pondered those words of his, and she considered that it
was advisable to encourage him in his request. “Behold then, chieftain,
this is most expedient for thee to do to save me from all reproach; come
here to-morrow and take me away as though I knew nothing thereof.” “I
will do so,” said he. So he arose and took his leave, and went forth
with his attendants. And she told not then to Geraint any of the
conversation which she had had with the earl, lest it should rouse his
anger, and cause him uneasiness and care.

And at the usual hour they went to sleep. And at the beginning of the
night Enid slept a little; and at midnight she arose, and placed all
Geraint’s armor together so that it might be ready to put on. And
although fearful of her errand, she came to the side of Geraint’s bed;
and she spoke to him softly and gently, saying, “My lord, arise, and
clothe thyself, for these were the words of the earl to me and his
intention concerning me.” So she told Geraint all that had passed. And
although he was wroth with her, he took warning, and clothed himself.
And she lighted a candle, that he might have light to do so. “Leave
there the candle,” said he, “and desire the man of the house to come
here.” Then she went, and the man of the house came to him. “Dost thou
know how much I owe thee?” asked Geraint. “I think thou owest but
little.” “Take the three horses and the three suits of armor.” “Heaven
reward thee, lord,” said he, “but I spent not the value of one suit of
armor upon thee.” “For that reason,” said he, “thou wilt be the richer.
And now, wilt thou come to guide me out of the town?” “I will gladly,”
said he; “and in which direction dost thou intend to go?” “I wish to
leave the town by a different way from that by which I entered it.” So
the man of the lodgings accompanied him as far as he desired. Then he
bade the maiden to go on before him, and she did so, and went straight
forward, and his host returned home.

And Geraint and the maiden went forward along the high-road. And as they
journeyed thus, they heard an exceeding loud wailing near to them. “Stay
thou here,” said he, “and I will go and see what is the cause of this
wailing.” “I will,” said she. Then he went forward into an open glade
that was near the road. And in the glade he saw two horses, one having a
man’s saddle, and the other a woman’s saddle upon it. And behold there
was a knight lying dead in his armor, and a young damsel in a
riding-dress standing over him lamenting. “Ah, lady,” said Geraint,
“what hath befallen thee?” “Behold,” she answered, “I journeyed here
with my beloved husband, when lo! three giants came upon us, and without
any cause in the world, they slew him.” “Which way went they hence?”
said Geraint. “Yonder by the high-road,” she replied. So he returned to
Enid. “Go,” said he, “to the lady that is below yonder, and await me
there till I come.” She was sad when he ordered her to do thus, but
nevertheless she went to the damsel, whom it was ruth to hear, and she
felt certain that Geraint would never return.

Meanwhile Geraint followed the giants, and overtook them. And each of
them was greater in stature than three other men, and a huge club was on
the shoulder of each. Then he rushed upon one of them, and thrust his
lance through his body. And having drawn it forth again, he pierced
another of them through likewise. But the third turned upon him and
struck him with his club so that he split his shield and crushed his
shoulder. But Geraint drew his sword and gave the giant a blow on the
crown of his head, so severe, and fierce, and violent, that his head and
his neck were split down to his shoulders, and he fell dead. So Geraint
left him thus and returned to Enid. And when he reached the place where
she was he fell down lifeless from his horse. Piercing and loud and
thrilling was the cry that Enid uttered. And she came and stood over him
where he had fallen. And at the sound of her cries came the Earl of
Limours, and they who journeyed with him, whom her lamentations brought
out of their road. And the earl said to Enid, “Alas, lady, what hath
befallen thee?” “Ah, good sir,” said she, “the only man I have loved, or
ever shall love, is slain.” Then he said to the other, “And what is the
cause of thy grief?” “They have slain my beloved husband also,” said
she. “And who was it that slew them?” “Some giants,” she answered, “slew
my best-beloved, and the other knight went in pursuit of them, and came
back in the state thou seest.” The earl caused the knight that was dead
to be buried, but he thought that there still remained some life in
Geraint; and to see if he yet would live, he had him carried with him in
the hollow of his shield, and upon a bier. And the two damsels went to
the court; and when they arrived there, Geraint was placed upon a little
couch in front of the table that was in the hall. Then they all took off
their traveling-gear, and the earl besought Enid to do the same, and to
clothe herself in other garments. “I will not, by Heaven,” said she.
“Ah, lady,” said he, “be not so sorrowful for this matter.” “It were
hard to persuade me to be otherwise,” said she. “I will act towards thee
in such wise that thou needest not be sorrowful, whether yonder knight
live or die. Behold, a good earldom, together with myself, will I bestow
upon thee; be therefore happy and joyful.” “I declare to Heaven,” said
she, “that henceforth I shall never be joyful while I live.” “Come,”
said he, “and eat.” “No, by Heaven, I will not.” “But, by Heaven, thou
shalt,” said he. So he took her with him to the table against her will,
and many times desired her to eat. “I call Heaven to witness,” said she,
“that I will not until the man that is upon yonder bier shall eat
likewise.” “Thou canst not fulfil that,” said the earl, “yonder man is
dead already.” “I will prove that I can,” said she. Then he offered her
a goblet of liquor. “Drink this goblet,” he said, “and it will cause
thee to change thy mind.” “Evil betide me,” she answered, “if I drink
aught until he drink also.” “Truly,” said the earl, “it is of no more
avail for me to be gentle with thee than ungentle.” And he gave her a
box in the ear. Thereupon she raised a loud and piercing shriek, and her
lamentations were much greater than they had been before; for she
considered in her mind, that, had Geraint been alive, he durst not have
struck her thus. But, behold, at the sound of her cry, Geraint revived
from his swoon, and he sat upon the bier; and finding his sword in the
hollow of his shield, he rushed to the place where the earl was, and
struck him a fiercely-wounding, severely-venomous, and sternly-smiting
blow upon the crown of his head, so that he clove him in twain, until
his sword was staid by the table. Then all left the board and fled away.
And this was not so much through fear of the living, as through the
dread they felt at seeing the dead man rise up to slay them. And Geraint
looked upon Enid, and he was grieved for two causes; one was to see that
Enid had lost her color and her wonted aspect; and the other, to know
that she was in the right. “Lady,” said he, “knowest thou where our
horses are?” “I know, lord, where thy horse is,” she replied, “but I
know not where is the other. Thy horse is in the house yonder.” So he
went to the house, and brought forth his horse, and mounted him, and
took up Enid, and placed her upon the horse with him. And he rode
forward. And their road lay between two hedges; and the night was
gaining on the day. And lo! they saw behind them the shafts of spears
betwixt them and the sky, and they heard the tramping of horses, and the
noise of a host approaching. “I hear something following us,” said he,
“and I will put thee on the other side of the hedge.” And thus he did.
And thereupon, behold a knight pricked towards him, and couched his
lance. When Enid saw this, she cried out, saying, “O chieftain, whoever
thou art, what renown wilt thou gain by slaying a dead man?” “O Heaven!”
said he, “is it Geraint?” “Yes, in truth,” said she; “and who art thou?”
“I am Gwiffert Petit,” said he, “thy husband’s ally, coming to thy
assistance, for I heard that thou wast in trouble. Come with me to the
court of a son-in-law of my sister, which is near here, and thou shalt
have the best medical assistance in the kingdom.” “I will do so gladly,”
said Geraint. And Enid was placed upon the horse of one of Gwiffert’s
squires, and they went forward to the baron’s palace. And they were
received there with gladness, and they met with hospitality and
attention. The next morning they went to seek physicians; and it was not
long before they came, and they attended Geraint until he was perfectly
well. And while Geraint was under medical care Gwiffert caused his armor
to be repaired, until it was as good as it had ever been. And they
remained there a month and a fortnight. Then they separated, and Geraint
went towards his own dominions, and thenceforth he reigned prosperously,
and his warlike fame and splendor lasted with renown and honor, both to
him and to Enid,[63] from that time forward.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER VIII

                         PWYLL, PRINCE OF DYVED

ONCE upon a time Pwyll was at Narberth, his chief palace, where a feast
had been prepared for him, and with him was a great host of men. And
after the first meal Pwyll arose to walk; and he went to the top of a
mound that was above the palace, and was called Gorsedd Arberth. “Lord,”
said one of the court, “it is peculiar to the mound that whosoever sits
upon it cannot go thence without either receiving wounds or blows, or
else seeing a wonder.” “I fear not to receive wounds or blows,” said
Pwyll; “but as to the wonder, gladly would I see it. I will therefore go
and sit upon the mound.”

And upon the mound he sat. And while he sat there, they saw a lady, on a
pure white horse of large size, with a garment of shining gold around
her, coming along the highway that led from the mound. “My men,” said
Pwyll, “is there any among you who knows yonder lady?” “There is not,
lord,” said they. “Go one of you and meet her, that we may know who she
is.” And one of them arose, and as he came upon the road to meet her,
she passed by; and he followed as fast as he could, being on foot, and
the greater was his speed, the further was she from him. And when he saw
that it profited him nothing to follow her, he returned to Pwyll, and
said unto him, “Lord, it is idle for any one in the world to follow her
on foot.” “Verily,” said Pwyll, “go unto the palace, and take the
fleetest horse that thou seest, and go after her.”

And he took a horse and went forward. And he came to an open, level
plain, and put spurs to his horse; and the more he urged his horse, the
further was she from him. And he returned to the place where Pwyll was,
and said, “Lord, it will avail nothing for any one to follow yonder
lady. I know of no horse in these realms swifter than this, and it
availed me not to pursue her.” “Of a truth,” said Pwyll, “there must be
some illusion here; let us go towards the palace.” So to the palace they
went, and spent the day.

And the next day they amused themselves until it was time to go to meat.
And when meat was ended, Pwyll said, “Where are the hosts that went
yesterday to the top of the mound?” “Behold, lord, we are here,” said
they. “Let us go,” said he, “to the mound, and sit there. And do thou,”
said he to the page who tended his horse, “saddle my horse well, and
hasten with him to the road, and bring also my spurs with thee.” And the
youth did thus. And they went and sat upon the mound; and ere they had
been there but a short time, they beheld the lady coming by the same
road, and in the same manner, and at the same pace. “Young man,” said
Pwyll, “I see the lady coming; give me my horse.” And before he had
mounted his horse she passed him. And he turned after her and followed
her. And he let his horse go bounding playfully, and thought that he
should soon come up with her. But he came no nearer to her than at
first. Then he urged his horse to his utmost speed, yet he found that it
availed not. Then said Pwyll, “O maiden, for the sake of him whom thou
best lovest, stay for me.” “I will stay gladly,” said she; “and it were
better for thy horse hadst thou asked it long since.” So the maiden
stopped; and she threw back that part of her head-dress which covered
her face. Then he thought that the beauty of all the maidens and all the
ladies that he had ever seen was as nothing compared to her beauty.
“Lady,” he said, “wilt thou tell me aught concerning thy purpose?” “I
will tell thee,” said she; “my chief quest was to see thee.” “Truly,”
said Pwyll, “this is to me the most pleasing quest on which thou couldst
have come; and wilt thou tell me who thou art?” “I will tell thee,
lord,” said she. “I am Rhiannon, the daughter of Heveydd, and they
sought to give me a husband against my will. But no husband would I
have, and that because of my love for thee; neither will I yet have one,
unless thou reject me; and hither have I come to hear thy answer.” “By
Heaven,” said Pwyll, “behold this is my answer. If I might choose among
all the ladies and damsels in the world, thee would I choose.” “Verily,”
said she, “if thou art thus minded, make a pledge to meet me ere I am
given to another.” “The sooner I may do so, the more pleasing will it be
to me,” said Pwyll; “and wheresoever thou wilt, there will I meet with
thee.” “I will that thou meet me this day twelvemonth at the palace of
Heveydd.” “Gladly,” said he, “will I keep this tryst.” So they parted,
and he went back to his hosts, and to them of his household. And
whatsoever questions they asked him respecting the damsel, he always
turned the discourse upon other matters.

And when a year from that time was gone, he caused a hundred knights to
equip themselves, and to go with him to the palace of Heveydd. And he
came to the palace, and there was great joy concerning him, with much
concourse of people, and great rejoicing, and vast preparations for his
coming. And the whole court was placed under his orders.

And the hall was garnished, and they went to meat, and thus did they
sit: Heveydd was on one side of Pwyll, and Rhiannon on the other; and
all the rest according to their rank. And they ate and feasted, and
talked one with another. And at the beginning of the carousal after the
meat, there entered a tall, auburn-haired youth, of royal bearing,
clothed in a garment of satin. And when he came into the hall, he
saluted Pwyll and his companions. “The greeting of Heaven be unto thee,”
said Pwyll; “come thou and sit down.” “Nay,” said he, “a suitor am I,
and I will do my errand.” “Do so willingly,” said Pwyll. “Lord,” said
he, “my errand is unto thee, and it is to crave a boon of thee that I
come.” “What boon soever thou mayest ask of me, so far as I am able,
thou shalt have.” “Ah!” said Rhiannon, “wherefore didst thou give that
answer?” “Has he not given it before the presence of these nobles?”
asked the youth. “My soul,” said Pwyll, “what is the boon thou askest?”
“The lady whom best I love is to be thy bride this night; I come to ask
her of thee, with the feast and the banquet that are in this place.” And
Pwyll was silent, because of the promise which he had given. “Be silent
as long as thou wilt,” said Rhiannon, “never did man make worse use of
his wits than thou hast done.” “Lady,” said he, “I knew not who he was.”
“Behold, this is the man to whom they would have given me against my
will,” said she; “and he is Gawl, the son of Clud, a man of great power
and wealth, and because of the word thou hast spoken, bestow me upon
him, lest shame befall thee.” “Lady,” said he, “I understand not thy
answer; never can I do as thou sayest.” “Bestow me upon him,” said she,
“and I will cause that I shall never be his.” “By what means will that
be?” asked Pwyll. Then she told him the thought that was in her mind.
And they talked long together. Then Gawl said, “Lord, it is meet that I
have an answer to my request.” “As much of that thou hast asked as it is
in my power to give, thou shalt have,” replied Pwyll. “My soul,” said
Rhiannon unto Gawl, “as for the feast and the banquet that are here, I
have bestowed them upon the men of Dyved, and the household and the
warriors that are with us. These can I not suffer to be given to any. In
a year from to-night, a banquet shall be prepared for thee in this
palace, that I may become thy bride.”

So Gawl went forth to his possessions, and Pwyll went also back to
Dyved. And they both spent that year until it was the time for the feast
at the palace of Heveydd. Then Gawl, the son of Clud, set out to the
feast that was prepared for him; and he came to the palace, and was
received there with rejoicing. Pwyll, also, the chief of Dyved, came to
the orchard with a hundred knights, as Rhiannon had commanded him. And
Pwyll was clad in coarse and ragged garments, and wore large, clumsy old
shoes upon his feet. And when he knew that the carousal after the meat
had begun, he went toward the hall; and when he came into the hall he
saluted Gawl, the son of Clud, and his company, both men and women.
“Heaven prosper thee,” said Gawl, “and friendly greeting be unto thee!”
“Lord,” said he, “may Heaven reward thee! I have an errand unto thee.”
“Welcome be thine errand, and if thou ask of me that which is right,
thou shalt have it gladly.” “It is fitting,” answered he; “I crave but
from want, and the boon I ask is to have this small bag that thou seest
filled with meat.” “A request within reason is this,” said he, “and
gladly shalt thou have it. Bring him food.” A great number of attendants
arose and began to fill the bag; but for all they put into it, it was no
fuller than at first. “My soul,” said Gawl, “will thy bag ever be full?”
“It will not, I declare to Heaven,” said he, “for all that may be put
into it, unless one possessed of lands, and domains, and treasure, shall
arise and tread down with both his feet the food that is within the bag,
and shall say, ‘Enough has been put therein.’” Then said Rhiannon unto
Gawl, the son of Clud, “Rise up quickly.” “I will willingly arise,” said
he. So he rose up, and put his two feet into the bag. And Pwyll turned
up the sides of the bag, so that Gawl was over his head in it. And he
shut it up quickly, and slipped a knot upon the thongs, and blew his
horn. And thereupon, behold, his knights came down upon the palace. And
they seized all the host that had come with Gawl, and cast them into his
own prison. And Pwyll threw off his rags, and his old shoes, and his
tattered array. And as they came in, every one of Pwyll’s knights struck
a blow upon the bag, and asked, “What is here?” “A badger,” said they.
And in this manner they played, each of them striking the bag, either
with his foot or with a staff. And thus played they with the bag. And
then was the game of Badger in the Bag first played.

“Lord,” said the man in the bag, “if thou wouldst but hear me, I merit
not to be slain in a bag.” Said Heveydd, “Lord, he speaks truth; it were
fitting that thou listen to him, for he deserves not this.” “Verily,”
said Pwyll, “I will do thy counsel concerning him.” “Behold, this is my
counsel then,” said Rhiannon. “Thou art now in a position in which it
behooves thee to satisfy suitors and minstrels. Let him give unto them
in thy stead, and take a pledge from him that he will never seek to
revenge that which has been done to him. And this will be punishment
enough.” “I will do this gladly,” said the man in the bag. “And gladly
will I accept it,” said Pwyll, “since it is the counsel of Heveydd and
Rhiannon. Seek thyself sureties.” “We will be for him,” said Heveydd,
“until his men be free to answer for him.” And upon this he was let out
of the bag, and his liegemen were liberated. “Verily, lord,” said Gawl,
“I am greatly hurt, and I have many bruises. With thy leave, I will go
forth. I will leave nobles in my stead to answer for me in all that thou
shalt require.” “Willingly,” said Pwyll, “mayest thou do this.” So Gawl
went to his own possessions.

And the hall was set in order for Pwyll and the men of his host, and for
them also of the palace, and they went to the tables and sat down. And
as they had sat that time twelvemonth, so sat they that night. And they
ate and feasted, and spent the night in mirth and tranquility. And the
time came that they should sleep, and Pwyll and Rhiannon went to their
chamber.

And next morning at break of day, “My lord,” said Rhiannon, “arise and
begin to give thy gifts unto the minstrels. Refuse no one to-day that
may claim thy bounty.” “Thus shall it be gladly,” said Pwyll, “both
to-day and every day while the feast shall last.” So Pwyll arose, and he
caused silence to be proclaimed, and desired all the suitors and
minstrels to show and to point out what gifts they desired. And this
being done, the feast went on, and he denied no one while it lasted. And
when the feast was ended, Pwyll said unto Heveydd, “My lord, with thy
permission, I will set out for Dyved to-morrow.” “Certainly,” said
Heveydd; “may Heaven prosper thee! Fix also a time when Rhiannon shall
follow thee.” “By Heaven,” said Pwyll, “we will go hence together.”
“Willest thou this, lord?” said Heveydd. “Yes, lord,” answered Pwyll.

And the next day they set forward towards Dyved, and journeyed to the
palace of Narberth, where a feast was made ready for them. And there
came to them great numbers of the chief men and the most noble ladies of
the land, and of these there were none to whom Rhiannon did not give
some rich gift, either a bracelet, or a ring, or a precious stone. And
they ruled the land prosperously that year and the next.

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER IX

                     BRANWEN, THE DAUGHTER OF LLYR

BENDIGEID VRAN, the son of Llyr, was the crowned king of this island,
and he was exalted from the crown of London. And one afternoon he was at
Harlech, in Ardudwy, at his court; and he sat upon the rock of Harlech,
looking over the sea. And with him were his brother, Manawyddan, the son
of Llyr, and his brothers by the mother’s side, Nissyen and Evnissyen,
and many nobles likewise, as was fitting to see around a king. His two
brothers by the mother’s side were the sons of Euroswydd, and one of
these youths was a good youth, and of gentle nature, and would make
peace between his kindred, and cause his family to be friends when their
wrath was at the highest, and this one was Nissyen; but the other would
cause strife between his two brothers when they were most at peace. And
as they sat thus they beheld thirteen ships coming from the south of
Ireland, and making towards them; and they came with a swift motion, the
wind being behind them; and they neared them rapidly. “I see ships
afar,” said the king, “coming swiftly towards the land. Command the men
of the court that they equip themselves, and go and learn their intent.”
So the men equipped themselves, and went down towards them. And when
they saw the ships near, certain were they that they had never seen
ships better furnished. Beautiful flags of satin were upon them. And,
behold, one of the ships outstripped the others, and they saw a shield
lifted up above the side of the ship, and the point of the shield was
upwards, in token of peace. And the men drew near, that they might hold
converse. Then they put out boats, and came toward the land. And they
saluted the king. Now the king could hear them from the place where he
was upon the rock above their heads. “Heaven prosper you,” said he, “and
be ye welcome! To whom do these ships belong, and who is the chief
amongst you?” “Lord,” said they, “Matholch, king of Ireland, is here,
and these ships belong to him.” “Wherefore comes he?” asked the king,
“and will he come to the land?” “He is a suitor unto thee, lord,” said
they, “and he will not land unless he have his boon.” “And what may that
be?” inquired the king. “He desires to ally himself, lord, with thee,”
said they, “and he comes to ask Branwen, the daughter of Llyr, that, if
it seem well to thee, the Island of the Mighty[64] may be leagued with
Ireland, and both become more powerful.” “Verily,” said he, “let him
come to land, and we will take counsel thereupon.” And this answer was
brought to Matholch. “I will go willingly,” said he. So he landed, and
they received him joyfully; and great was the throng in the palace that
night, between his hosts and those of the court; and next day they took
counsel, and they resolved to bestow Branwen upon Matholch. Now she was
one of the three chief ladies of this island, and she was the fairest
damsel in the world.

And they fixed upon Aberfraw as the place where she should become his
bride. And they went thence, and towards Aberfraw the hosts proceeded,
Matholch and his host in their ships, Bendigeid Vran and his host by
land, until they came to Aberfraw. And at Aberfraw they began the feast,
and sat down. And thus sat they: the king of the Island of the Mighty
and Manawyddan, the son of Llyr, on one side, and Matholch on the other
side, and Branwen, the daughter of Llyr, beside him. And they were not
within a house, but under tents. No house could ever contain Bendigeid
Vran. And they began the banquet, and caroused and discoursed. And when
it was more pleasing to them to sleep than to carouse, they went to
rest, and Branwen became Matholch’s bride.

And next day they arose, and all they of the court, and the officers
began to equip, and to range the horses and the attendants, and they
ranged them in order as far as the sea.

And, behold, one day Evnissyen, the quarrelsome man, of whom it is
spoken above, came by chance into the place where the horses of Matholch
were, and asked whose horses they might be. “They are the horses of
Matholch, king of Ireland, who is married to Branwen, thy sister; his
horses are they.” “And is it thus they have done with a maiden such as
she, and moreover my sister, bestowing her without my consent? They
could have offered no greater insult to me than this,” said he. And
thereupon he rushed under the horses, and cut off their lips at the
teeth, and their ears close to their heads, and their tails close to
their backs; and he disfigured the horses, and rendered them useless.

And they came with these tidings unto Matholch, saying that the horses
were disfigured and injured, so that not one of them could ever be of
any use again. “Verily, lord,” said one, “it was an insult unto thee,
and as such was it meant.” “Of a truth, it is a marvel to me that, if
they desire to insult me, they should have given me a maiden of such
high rank, and so much beloved of her kindred, as they have done.”
“Lord,” said another, “thou seest that thus it is, and there is nothing
for thee to do but to go to thy ships.” And thereupon towards his ships
he set out.

And tidings came to Bendigeid Vran that Matholch was quitting the court
without asking leave, and messengers were sent to inquire of him
wherefore he did so. And the messengers that went were Iddic, the son of
Anarawd, and Heveyd Hir. And these overtook him, and asked of him what
he designed to do, and wherefore he went forth. “Of a truth,” said he,
“if I had known, I had not come hither. I have been altogether insulted;
no one had ever worse treatment than I have had here.” “Truly, lord, it
was not the will of any that are of the court,” said they, “nor of any
that are of the council, that thou shouldst have received this insult;
and as thou hast been insulted, the dishonor is greater unto Bendigeid
Vran than unto thee.” “Verily,” said he, “I think so. Nevertheless, he
cannot recall the insult.” These men returned with that answer to the
place where Bendigeid Vran was, and they told him what reply Matholch
had given them. “Truly,” said he, “there are no means by which we may
prevent his going away at enmity with us that we will not take.” “Well,
lord,” said they, “send after him another embassy.” “I will do so,” said
he. “Arise, Manawyddan, son of Llyr, and Heveyd Hir, and go after him,
and tell him that he shall have a sound horse for every one that has
been injured. And beside that, as an atonement for the insult, he shall
have a staff of silver as large and as tall as himself, and a plate of
gold of the breadth of his face. And show unto him who it was that did
this, and that it was done against my will; but that he who did it is my
brother, and therefore it would be hard for me to put him to death. And
let him come and meet me,” said he, “and we will make peace in any way
he may desire.”

The embassy went after Matholch, and told him all these sayings in a
friendly manner; and he listened thereunto. “Men,” said he, “I will take
counsel.” So to the council he went. And in the council they considered
that, if they should refuse this, they were likely to have more shame
rather than to obtain so great an atonement. They resolved, therefore,
to accept it, and they returned to the court in peace.

Then the pavilions and the tents were set in order, after the fashion of
a hall; and they went to meat, and as they had sat at the beginning of
the feast so sat they there. And Matholch and Bendigeid Vran began to
discourse; and, behold, it seemed to Bendigeid Vran, while they talked,
that Matholch was not so cheerful as he had been before. And he thought
that the chieftain might be sad because of the smallness of the
atonement which he had for the wrong that had been done him. “O man,”
said Bendigeid Vran, “thou dost not discourse to-night so cheerfully as
thou wast wont. And if it be because of the smallness of the atonement,
thou shalt add thereunto whatsoever thou mayest choose, and to-morrow I
will pay thee for the horses.” “Lord,” said he, “Heaven reward thee!”
“And I will enhance the atonement,” said Bendigeid Vran, “for I will
give unto thee a caldron, the property of which is, that if one of thy
men be slain to-day, and be cast therein, to-morrow he will be as well
as ever he was at the best, except that he will not regain his speech.”
And thereupon he gave him great thanks, and very joyful was he for that
cause.

That night they continued to discourse as much as they would, and had
minstrelsy and carousing; and when it was more pleasant to them to sleep
than to sit longer, they went to rest. And thus was the banquet carried
on with joyousness; and when it was finished, Matholch journeyed towards
Ireland, and Branwen with him; and they went from Aber Menei with
thirteen ships, and came to Ireland. And in Ireland was there great joy
because of their coming. And not one great man nor noble lady visited
Branwen unto whom she gave not either a clasp or a ring, or a royal
jewel to keep, such as it was honorable to be seen departing with. And
in these things she spent that year in much renown, and she passed her
time pleasantly, enjoying honor and friendship. And in due time a son
was born unto her, and the name that they gave him was Gwern, the son of
Matholch, and they put the boy out to be nursed in a place where were
the best men of Ireland.

And, behold, in the second year a tumult arose in Ireland, on account of
the insult which Matholch had received in Wales, and the payment made
him for his horses. And his foster-brothers, and such as were nearest to
him, blamed him openly for that matter. And he might have no peace by
reason of the tumult, until they should revenge upon him this disgrace.
And the vengeance which they took was to drive away Branwen from the
same chamber with him, and to make her cook for the court; and they
caused the butcher, after he had cut up the meat, to come to her and
give her every day a blow on the ear; and such they made her punishment.

“Verily, lord,” said his men to Matholch, “forbid now the ships and the
ferry-boats, and the coracles, that they go not into Wales, and such as
come over from Wales hither, imprison them, that they go not back for
this thing to be known there.” And he did so; and it was thus for no
less than three years.

And Branwen reared a starling in the cover of the kneading-trough, and
she taught it to speak, and she taught the bird what manner of man her
brother was. And she wrote a letter of her woes, and the despite with
which she was treated, and she bound the letter to the root of the
bird’s wing, and sent it toward Wales. And the bird came to that island;
and one day it found Bendigeid Vran at Caer Seiont in Arvon, conferring
there, and it alighted upon his shoulder, and ruffled its feathers, so
that the letter was seen, and they knew that the bird had been reared in
a domestic manner.

Then Bendigeid Vran took the letter and looked upon it. And when he had
read the letter, he grieved exceedingly at the tidings of Branwen’s
woes. And immediately he began sending messengers to summon the island
together. And he caused seven-score and four of his chief men to come
unto him, and he complained to them of the grief that his sister
endured. So they took counsel. And in the counsel they resolved to go to
Ireland, and to leave seven men as princes at home, and Caradoc,[65] the
son of Bran, as the chief of them.

Bendigeid Vran, with the host of which we spoke, sailed towards Ireland;
and it was not far across the sea, and he came to shoal water. Now the
swine-herds of Matholch were upon the sea-shore, and they came to
Matholch. “Lord,” said they, “greeting be unto thee.” “Heaven protect
you!” said he; “have you any news?” “Lord,” said they, “we have
marvellous news. A wood have we seen upon the sea, in a place where we
never yet saw a single tree.” “This is indeed a marvel,” said he; “saw
you aught else?” “We saw, lord,” said they, “a vast mountain beside the
wood, which moved, and there was a lofty ridge on the top of the
mountain, and a lake on each side of the ridge. And the wood and the
mountain, and all these things, moved.” “Verily,” said he, “there is
none who can know aught concerning this unless it be Branwen.”

Messengers then went unto Branwen. “Lady,” said they, “what thinkest
thou that this is?” “The men of the Island of the Mighty, who have come
hither on hearing of my ill-treatment and of my woes.” “What is the
forest that is seen upon the sea?” asked they. “The yards and the masts
of ships,” she answered. “Alas!” said they; “what is the mountain that
is seen by the side of the ships?” “Bendigeid Vran, my brother,” she
replied, “coming to shoal water, and he is wading to the land.” “What is
the lofty ridge, with the lake on each side thereof?” “On looking
towards this island he is wroth, and his two eyes on each side of his
nose are the two lakes on each side of the ridge.”

The warriors and chief men of Ireland were brought together in haste,
and they took counsel. “Lord,” said the neighbors unto Matholch, “there
is no other counsel than this alone. Thou shalt give the kingdom to
Gwern, the son of Branwen his sister, as a compensation for the wrong
and despite that have been done unto Branwen. And he will make peace
with thee.” And in the council it was resolved that this message should
be sent to Bendigeid Vran, lest the country should be destroyed. And
this peace was made. And Matholch caused a great house to be built for
Bendigeid Vran, and his host. Thereupon came the hosts into the house.
The men of the island of Ireland entered the house on the one side, and
the men of the Island of the Mighty on the other. And as soon as they
had sat down, there was concord between them; and the sovereignty was
conferred upon the boy. When the peace was concluded, Bendigeid Vran
called the boy unto him, and from Bendigeid Vran the boy went unto
Manawyddan; and he was beloved by all that beheld him. And from
Manawyddan the boy was called by Nissyen, the son of Euroswydd, and the
boy went unto him lovingly. “Wherefore,” said Evnissyen, “comes not my
nephew, the son of my sister, unto me? Though he were not king of
Ireland, yet willingly would I fondle the boy.” “Cheerfully let him go
to thee,” said Bendigeid Vran; and the boy went unto him cheerfully. “By
my confession to Heaven,” said Evnissyen in his heart, “unthought of is
the slaughter that I will this instant commit.”

Then he arose and took up the boy, and before any one in the house could
seize hold of him he thrust the boy headlong into the blazing fire. And
when Branwen saw her son burning in the fire, she strove to leap into
the fire also, from the place where she sat between her two brothers.
But Bendigeid Vran grasped her with one hand, and his shield with the
other. Then they all hurried about the house, and never was there made
so great a tumult by any host in one house as was made by them, as each
man armed himself. And while they all sought their arms Bendigeid Vran
supported Branwen between his shield and his shoulder. And they fought.

Then the Irish kindled a fire under the caldron of renovation, and they
cast the dead bodies into the caldron until it was full; and the next
day they came forth fighting men, as good as before, except that they
were not able to speak. Then when Evnissyen saw the dead bodies of the
men of the Island of the Mighty nowhere resuscitated, he said in his
heart, “Alas! woe is me, that I should have been the cause of bringing
the men of the Island of the Mighty into so great a strait. Evil betide
me if I find not a deliverance therefrom.” And he cast himself among the
dead bodies of the Irish; and two unshod Irishmen came to him, and,
taking him to be one of the Irish, flung him into the caldron. And he
stretched himself out in the caldron, so that he rent the caldron into
four pieces, and burst his own heart also.

In consequence of this, the men of the Island of the Mighty obtained
such success as they had; but they were not victorious, for only seven
men of them all escaped, and Bendigeid Vran himself was wounded in the
foot with a poisoned dart. Now the men that escaped were Pryderi,
Manawyddan, Taliesin, and four others.

And Bendigeid Vran commanded them that they should cut off his head.
“And take you my head,” said he, “and bear it even unto the White Mount
in London, and bury it there with the face towards France. And so long
as it lies there, no enemy shall ever land on the island.” So they cut
off his head, and these seven went forward therewith. And Branwen was
the eighth with them. And they came to land on Aber Alaw, and they sat
down to rest. And Branwen looked towards Ireland, and towards the Island
of the Mighty, to see if she could descry them. “Alas!” said she, “woe
is me that I was ever born; two islands have been destroyed because of
me.” Then she uttered a groan, and there broke her heart. And they made
her a four-sided grave, and buried her upon the banks of the Alaw.

Then the seven men journeyed forward, bearing the head with them; and as
they went, behold there met them a multitude of men and women. “Have you
any tidings?” said Manawyddan. “We have none,” said they, “save that
Caswallawn,[66] the son of Beli, has conquered the Island of the Mighty,
and is crowned king in London.” “What has become,” said they, “of
Caradoc, the son of Bran, and the seven men who were left with him in
this island?” “Caswallawn came upon them, and slew six of the men, and
Caradoc’s heart broke for grief thereof.” And the seven men journeyed on
towards London, and they buried the head in the White Mount, as
Bendigeid Vran had directed them.[67]

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER X

                               MANAWYDDAN

PWYLL and Rhiannon had a son, whom they named Pryderi. And when he was
grown up, Pwyll, his father, died. And Pryderi married Kicva, the
daughter of Gwynn Gloy.

Now Manawyddan returned from the war in Ireland, and he found that his
cousin had seized all his possessions, and much grief and heaviness came
upon him. “Alas! woe is me!” he exclaimed; “there is none save myself
without a home and a resting-place.” “Lord,” said Pryderi, “be not so
sorrowful. Thy cousin is king of the Island of the Mighty, and though he
has done thee wrong, thou hast never been a claimant of land or
possessions.” “Yea,” answered he, “but although this man is my cousin,
it grieveth me to see any one in the place of my brother, Bendigeid
Vran; neither can I be happy in the same dwelling with him.” “Wilt thou
follow the counsel of another?” said Pryderi. “I stand in need of
counsel,” he answered, “and what may that counsel be?” “Seven cantrevs
belong unto me,” said Pryderi, “wherein Rhiannon, my mother, dwells. I
will bestow her upon thee, and the seven cantrevs with her; and though
thou hadst no possessions but those cantrevs only, thou couldst not have
any fairer than they. Do thou and Rhiannon enjoy them, and if thou
desire any possessions thou wilt not despise these.” “I do not,
chieftain,” said he. “Heaven reward thee for the friendship! I will go
with thee to seek Rhiannon, and to look at thy possessions.” “Thou wilt
do well,” he answered; “and I believe that thou didst never hear a lady
discourse better than she, and when she was in her prime, none was ever
fairer. Even now her aspect is not uncomely.”

They set forth, and, however long the journey, they came at last to
Dyved; and a feast was prepared for them by Rhiannon and Kicva. Then
began Manawyddan and Rhiannon to sit and to talk together; and his mind
and his thoughts became warmed towards her, and he thought in his heart
he had never beheld any lady more fulfilled of grace and beauty than
she. “Pryderi,” said he, “I will that it be as thou didst say.” “What
saying was that?” asked Rhiannon. “Lady,” said Pryderi, “I did offer
thee as a wife to Manawyddan, the son of Llyr.” “By that will I gladly
abide,” said Rhiannon. “Right glad am I also,” said Manawyddan, “may
Heaven reward him who hath shown unto me friendship so perfect as this!”

And before the feast was over she became his bride. Said Pryderi, “Tarry
ye here the rest of the feast, and I will go into England to tender my
homage unto Caswallawn, the son of Beli.” “Lord,” said Rhiannon,
“Caswallawn is in Kent; thou mayest therefore tarry at the feast, and
wait until he shall be nearer.” “We will wait,” he answered. So they
finished the feast. And they began to make the circuit of Dyved, and to
hunt, and to take their pleasure. And as they went through the country,
they had never seen lands more pleasant to live in, nor better hunting
grounds, nor greater plenty of honey and fish. And such was the
friendship between these four, that they would not be parted from each
other by night nor by day.

And in the midst of all this he went to Caswallawn at Oxford, and
tendered his homage; and honorable was his reception there, and highly
was he praised for offering his homage.

And after his return Pryderi and Manawyddan feasted and took their ease
and pleasure. And they began a feast at Narberth, for it was the chief
palace. And when they had ended the first meal, while those who served
them ate, they arose and went forth, and proceeded to the Gorsedd, that
is, the Mount of Narberth, and their retinue with them. And as they sat
thus, behold a peal of thunder, and with the violence of the
thunder-storm, lo! there came a fall of mist, so thick that not one of
them could see the other. And after the mist it became light all around.
And when they looked towards the place where they were wont to see the
cattle and herds and dwellings, they saw nothing now, neither house, nor
beast, nor smoke, nor fire, nor man, nor dwelling, but the buildings of
the court empty, and desert, and uninhabited, without either man or
beast within them. And truly all their companions were lost to them,
without their knowing aught of what had befallen them, save those four
only.

“In the name of Heaven,” said Manawyddan, “where are they of the court,
and all my host beside? Let us go and see.”

So they came to the castle, and saw no man, and into the hall, and to
the sleeping-place, and there was none; and in the mead-cellar and in
the kitchen there was naught but desolation. Then they began to go
through the land, and all the possessions that they had; and they
visited the houses and dwellings, and found nothing but wild beasts. And
when they had consumed their feast and all their provisions, they fed
upon the prey they killed in hunting, and the honey of the wild swans.

And one morning Pryderi and Manawyddan rose up to hunt, and they ranged
their dogs and went forth. And some of the dogs ran before them, and
came to a bush which was near at hand; but as soon as they were come to
the bush, they hastily drew back, and returned to the men, their hair
bristling up greatly. “Let us go near to the bush,” said Pryderi, “and
see what is in it.” And as they came near, behold, a wild boar of a pure
white color rose up from the bush. Then the dogs, being set on by the
men, rushed towards him; but he left the bush, and fell back a little
way from the men, and made a stand against the dogs, without retreating
from them, until the men had come near. And when the men came up, he
fell back a second time, and betook him to flight. Then they pursued the
boar until they beheld a vast and lofty castle, all newly built, in a
place where they had never before seen either stone or building. And the
boar ran swiftly into the castle, and the dogs after him. Now when the
boar and the dogs had gone into the castle, the men began to wonder at
finding a castle in a place where they had never before seen any
building whatsoever. And from the top of the Gorsedd they looked and
listened for the dogs. But so long as they were there, they heard not
one of the dogs, nor aught concerning them.

“Lord,” said Pryderi, “I will go into the castle to get tidings of the
dogs.” “Truly,” he replied, “thou wouldst be unwise to go into this
castle, which thou hast never seen till now. If thou wouldst follow my
counsel, thou wouldst not enter therein. Whosoever has cast a spell over
this land, has caused this castle to be here.” “Of a truth,” answered
Pryderi, “I cannot thus give up my dogs.” And for all the counsel that
Manawyddan gave him, yet to the castle he went.

When he came within the castle, neither man nor beast, nor boar, nor
dogs, nor house, nor dwelling, saw he within it. But in the centre of
the castle-floor he beheld a fountain with marble-work around it, and on
the margin of the fountain a golden bowl upon a marble slab, and chains
hanging from the air, to which he saw no end.

And he was greatly pleased with the beauty of the gold, and with the
rich workmanship of the bowl; and he went up to the bowl, and laid hold
of it. And when he had taken hold of it, his hands stuck to the bowl,
and his feet to the slab on which the bowl was placed; and all his
joyousness forsook him, so that he could not utter a word. And thus he
stood.

And Manawyddan waited for him till near the close of the day. And late
in the evening, being certain that he should have no tidings of Pryderi
or the dogs, he went back to the palace. And as he entered, Rhiannon
looked at him. “Where,” said she, “are thy companion and thy dogs?”
“Behold,” he answered, “the adventure that has befallen me.” And he
related it all unto her. “An evil companion hast thou been,” said
Rhiannon, “and a good companion hast thou lost.” And with that word she
went out, and proceeded towards the castle, according to the direction
which he gave her. The gate of the castle she found open. She was
nothing daunted, and she went in. And as she went in, she perceived
Pryderi laying hold of the bowl, and she went towards him. “O my lord,”
said she, “what dost thou here?” And she took hold of the bowl with him;
and as she did so, her hands also became fast to the bowl, and her feet
to the slab, and she was not able to utter a word. And with that, as it
became night, lo! there came thunder upon them, and a fall of mist; and
thereupon the castle vanished, and they with it.

When Kicva, the daughter of Gwynn Gloy, saw that there was no one in the
palace but herself and Manawyddan, she sorrowed so that she cared not
whether she lived or died. And Manawyddan saw this. “Thou art in the
wrong,” said he, “if through fear of me thou grievest thus. I call
Heaven to witness that thou hast never seen friendship more pure than
that which I will bear thee, as long as Heaven will that thou shouldst
be thus. I declare to thee, that, were I in the dawn of youth, I would
keep my faith unto Pryderi, and unto thee also will I keep it. Be there
no fear upon thee, therefore.” “Heaven reward thee!” she said; “and that
is what I deemed of thee.” And the damsel thereupon took courage, and
was glad.

“Truly, lady,” said Manawyddan, “it is not fitting for us to stay here;
we have lost our dogs, and cannot get food. Let us go into England; it
is easiest for us to find support there.” “Gladly, lord,” said she, “we
will do so.” And they set forth together to England.

“Lord,” said she, “what craft wilt thou follow? Take up one that is
seemly.” “None other will I take,” answered he, “but that of making
shoes.” “Lord,” said she, “such a craft becomes not a man so nobly born
as thou.” “By that however will I abide,” said he. “I know nothing
thereof,” said Kicva. “But I know,” answered Manawyddan, “and I will
teach thee to stitch. We will not attempt to dress the leather, but we
will buy it ready dressed, and will make the shoes from it.”

So they went into England, and went as far as Hereford; and they betook
themselves to making shoes. And he began by buying the best cordwain
that could be had in the town, and none other would buy. And he
associated himself with the best goldsmith in the town, and caused him
to make clasps for the shoes, and to gild the clasps; and he marked how
it was done until he learned the method. And therefore is he called one
of the three makers of gold shoes. And when they could be had from him,
not a shoe nor hose was bought of any of the cordwainers in the town.
But when the cordwainers perceived that their gains were failing (for as
Manawyddan shaped the work, so Kicva stitched it), they came together
and took counsel, and agreed that they would slay them. And he had
warning thereof, and it was told him how the cordwainers had agreed
together to slay him.

“Lord,” said Kicva, “wherefore should this be borne from these boors?”
“Nay,” said he, “we will go back unto Dyved.” So towards Dyved they set
forth.

Now Manawyddan, when he set out to return to Dyved, took with him a
burden of wheat. And he proceeded towards Narberth, and there he dwelt.
And never was he better pleased than when he saw Narberth again, and the
lands where he had been wont to hunt with Pryderi and with Rhiannon. And
he accustomed himself to fish, and to hunt the deer in their covert. And
then he began to prepare some ground, and he sowed a croft, and a
second, and a third. And no wheat in the world ever sprung up better.
And the three crofts prospered with perfect growth, and no man ever saw
fairer wheat than it.

And thus passed the seasons of the year until the harvest came. And he
went to look at one of his crofts, and, behold, it was ripe. “I will
reap this to-morrow,” said he. And that night he went back to Narberth,
and on the morrow, in the gray dawn, he went to reap the croft; and when
he came there, he found nothing but the bare straw. Every one of the
ears of the wheat was cut off from the stalk, and all the ears carried
entirely away, and nothing but the straw left. And at this he marvelled
greatly.

Then he went to look at another croft, and, behold, that also was ripe.
“Verily,” said he, “this will I reap to-morrow.” And on the morrow he
came with the intent to reap it; and when he came there, he found
nothing but the bare straw. “O gracious Heaven!” he exclaimed. “I know
that whosoever has begun my ruin is completing it, and has also
destroyed the country with me.”

Then he went to look at the third croft; and when he came there, finer
wheat had there never been seen, and this also was ripe. “Evil betide
me,” said he, “if I watch not here to-night. Whoever carried off the
other corn will come in like manner to take this, and I will know who it
is.” And he told Kicva all that had befallen. “Verily,” said she, “what
thinkest thou to do?” “I will watch the croft to-night,” said he. And he
went to watch the croft.

And at midnight he heard something stirring among the wheat; and he
looked, and behold, the mightiest host of mice in the world, which could
neither be numbered nor measured. And he knew not what it was until the
mice had made their way into the croft, and each of them, climbing up
the straw, and bending it down with its weight, had cut off one of the
ears of wheat, and had carried it away, leaving there the stalk; and he
saw not a single straw there that had not a mouse to it. And they all
took their way, carrying the ears with them.

In wrath and anger did he rush upon the mice; but he could no more come
up with them than if they had been gnats or birds of the air, except one
only, which, though it was but sluggish, went so fast that a man on foot
could scarce overtake it. And after this one he went, and he caught it,
and put it in his glove, and tied up the opening of the glove with a
string, and kept it with him, and returned to the palace. Then he came
to the hall where Kicva was, and he lighted a fire, and hung the glove
by the string upon a peg. “What hast thou there, lord?” said Kicva. “A
thief,” said he, “that I found robbing me.” “What kind of a thief may it
be, lord, that thou couldst put into thy glove?” said she. Then he told
her how the mice came to the last of the fields in his sight. “And one
of them was less nimble than the rest, and is now in my glove; to-morrow
I will hang it.” “My lord,” said she, “this is marvellous; but yet it
would be unseemly for a man of dignity like thee to be hanging such a
reptile as this.” “Woe betide me,” said he, “if I would not hang them
all, could I catch them, and such as I have I will hang.” “Verily,
lord,” said she, “there is no reason that I should succor this reptile,
except to prevent discredit unto thee. Do therefore, lord, as thou
wilt.”

Then he went to the Mound of Narberth, taking the mouse with him. And he
set up two forks on the highest part of the mound. And while he was
doing this, behold, he saw a scholar coming towards him, in old and poor
and tattered garments. And it was now seven years since he had seen in
that place either man or beast, except those four persons who had
remained together until two of them were lost.

“My lord,” said the scholar, “good-day to thee.” “Heaven prosper thee,
and my greeting be unto thee! And whence dost thou come, scholar?” asked
he. “I come, lord, from singing in England; and wherefore dost thou
inquire?” “Because for the last seven years,” answered he, “I have seen
no man here save four secluded persons, and thyself this moment.”
“Truly, lord,” said he, “I go through this land unto mine own. And what
work art thou upon, lord?” “I am hanging a thief that I caught robbing
me,” said he. “What manner of thief is that?” asked the scholar. “I see
a creature in thy hand like unto a mouse, and ill does it become a man
of rank equal to thine to touch a reptile such as this. Let it go forth
free.” “I will not let it go free, by Heaven,” said he; “I caught it
robbing me, and the doom of a thief will I inflict upon it, and I will
hang it.” “Lord,” said he, “rather than see a man of rank equal to thine
at such a work as this, I would give thee a pound, which I have received
as alms, to let the reptile go forth free.” “I will not let it go free,”
said he, “neither will I sell it.” “As thou wilt, lord,” he answered; “I
care naught.” And the scholar went his way.

And as he was placing the cross-beam upon the two forks, behold, a
priest came towards him, upon a horse covered with trappings. “Good day
to thee, lord,” said he. “Heaven prosper thee!” said Manawyddan; “thy
blessing.” “The blessing of Heaven be upon thee! And what, lord, art
thou doing?” “I am hanging a thief that I caught robbing me,” said he.
“What manner of thief, lord?” asked he. “A creature,” he answered, “in
form of a mouse. It has been robbing me, and I am inflicting upon it the
doom of a thief.” “Lord,” said he, “rather than see thee touch this
reptile, I would purchase its freedom.” “By my confession to Heaven,
neither will I sell it nor set it free.” “It is true, lord, that it is
worth nothing to buy; but rather than see thee defile thyself by
touching such a reptile as this, I will give thee three pounds to let it
go.” “I will not, by Heaven,” said he, “take any price for it. As it
ought, so shall it be hanged.” And the priest went his way.

Then he noosed the string around the mouse’s neck, and as he was about
to draw it up, behold, he saw a bishop’s retinue, with his
sumpter-horses and his attendants. And the bishop himself came towards
him. And he stayed his work. “Lord Bishop,” said he, “thy blessing.”
“Heaven’s blessing be unto thee!” said he. “What work art thou upon?”
“Hanging a thief that I caught robbing me,” said he. “Is not that a
mouse that I see in thy hand?” “Yes,” answered he, “and she has robbed
me.” “Ay,” said he, “since I have come at the doom of this reptile I
will ransom it of thee. I will give thee seven pounds for it, and that
rather than see a man of rank equal to thine destroying so vile a
reptile as this. Let it loose, and thou shalt have the money.” “I
declare to Heaven that I will not let it loose.” “If thou wilt not loose
it for this, I will give thee four and twenty pounds of ready money to
set it free.” “I will not set it free, by Heaven, for as much again,”
said he. “If thou wilt not set it free for this, I will give thee all
the horses that thou seest in this plain, and the seven loads of
baggage, and the seven horses that they are upon.” “By Heaven, I will
not,” he replied. “Since for this thou wilt not set it free, do so at
what price soever thou wilt.” “I will that Rhiannon and Pryderi be
free,” said he. “That thou shalt have,” he answered. “Not yet will I
loose the mouse, by Heaven.” “What then wouldst thou?” “That the charm
and the illusion be removed from the seven cantrevs of Dyved.” “This
shalt thou have also; set therefore the mouse free.” “I will not set it
free, by Heaven,” said he, “till I know who the mouse may be.” “She is
my wife.” “Wherefore came she to me?” “To despoil thee,” he answered. “I
am Lloyd, the son of Kilwed, and I cast the charm over the seven
cantrevs of Dyved. And it was to avenge Gawl, the son of Clud, from the
friendship I had towards him, that I cast the charm. And upon Pryderi
did I avenge Gawl, the son of Clud, for the game of Badger in the Bag,
that Pwyll, the son of Auwyn, played upon him. And when it was known
that thou wast come to dwell in the land, my household came and besought
me to transform them into mice, that they might destroy thy corn. And
they went the first and the second night, and destroyed thy two crops.
And the third night came unto me my wife and the ladies of the court,
and besought me to transform them. And I transformed them. Now she is
not in her usual health. And had she been in her usual health, thou
wouldst not have been able to overtake her; but since this has taken
place, and she has been caught, I will restore to thee Pryderi and
Rhiannon, and I will take the charm and illusion from off Dyved. Set her
therefore free.” “I will not set her free yet.” “What wilt thou more?”
he asked. “I will that there be no more charm upon the seven cantrevs of
Dyved, and that none shall be put upon it henceforth; moreover, that
vengeance be never taken for this, either upon Pryderi or Rhiannon, or
upon me.” “All this shalt thou have. And truly thou hast done wisely in
asking this. Upon thy head would have lit all this trouble.” “Yea,” said
he, “for fear thereof was it that I required this.” “Set now my wife at
liberty.” “I will not,” said he, “until I see Pryderi and Rhiannon with
me free.” “Behold, here they come,” he answered.

And thereupon behold Pryderi and Rhiannon. And he rose up to meet them,
and greeted them, and sat down beside them. “Ah, chieftain, set now my
wife at liberty,” said the bishop. “Hast thou not received all thou
didst ask?” “I will release her, gladly,” said he. And thereupon he set
her free.

Then he struck her with a magic wand, and she was changed back into a
young woman, the fairest ever seen.

“Look round upon thy land,” said he, “and thou wilt see it all tilled
and peopled as it was in its best estate.” And he rose up and looked
forth. And when he looked he saw all the lands tilled, and full of herds
and dwellings.

And thus ends this portion of the Mabinogi.

                                  ————

The following allusions to the preceding story are found in a letter of
the poet Southey to John Rickman, Esq., dated June 6th, 1802:

“You will read the Mabinogeon, concerning which I ought to have talked
to you. In the last, that most odd and Arabian-like story of the mouse,
mention is made of a begging scholar, that helps to the date; but where
did the Cymri get the imagination that could produce such a tale? That
enchantment of the basin hanging by the chain from heaven is in the
wildest spirit of the Arabian Nights. I am perfectly astonished that
such fictions should exist in Welsh. They throw no light on the origin
of romance, everything being utterly dissimilar to what we mean by that
term, but they do open a new world of fiction; and if the date of their
language be fixed about the twelfth or thirteenth century, I cannot but
think the mythological substance is of far earlier date; very probably
brought from the East by some of the first settlers or conquerors.”

                                  ————


                               CHAPTER XI

                           KILWICH AND OLWEN

KILYDD, a son of Prince Kelyddon, desired a wife as a helpmate, and the
wife that he chose was Goleudid, the daughter of Prince Anlawd. And
after their union the people put up prayers that they might have an
heir. And they had a son through the prayers of the people; and called
his name Kilwich.

After this the boy’s mother, Goleudid, the daughter of Prince Anlawd,
fell sick. Then she called her husband to her, and said to him, “Of this
sickness I shall die, and thou wilt take another wife. Now wives are the
gift of the Lord, but it would be wrong for thee to harm thy son.
Therefore I charge thee that thou take not a wife until thou see a briar
with two blossoms upon my grave.” And this he promised her. Then she
besought him to dress her grave every year, that no weeds might grow
thereon. So the queen died. Now the king sent an attendant every morning
to see if anything were growing upon the grave. And at the end of the
seventh year they neglected that which they had promised to the queen.

One day the king went to hunt; and he rode to the place of burial, to
see the grave, and to know if it were time that he should take a wife:
and the king saw the briar. And when he saw it, the king took counsel
where he should find a wife. Said one of his counsellors, “I know a wife
that will suit thee well; and she is the wife of King Doged.” And they
resolved to go to seek her; and they slew the king, and brought away his
wife. And they conquered the kings’ lands. And he married the widow of
King Doged, the sister of Yspadaden Penkawr.

And one day his stepmother said to Kilwich, “It were well for thee to
have a wife.” “I am not yet of an age to wed,” answered the youth. Then
said she unto him, “I declare to thee that it is thy destiny not to be
suited with a wife until thou obtain Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden
Penkawr.” And the youth blushed, and the love of the maiden diffused
itself through all his frame, although he had never seen her. And his
father inquired of him, “What has come over thee, my son, and what
aileth thee?” “My stepmother has declared to me that I shall never have
a wife until I obtain Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr.” “That
will be easy for thee,” answered his father. “Arthur is thy cousin. Go,
therefore, unto Arthur, to cut thy hair, and ask this of him as a boon.”

And the youth pricked forth upon a steed with head dappled gray, four
winters old, firm of limb, with shell-formed hoofs, having a bridle of
linked gold on his head, and upon him a saddle of costly gold. And in
the youth’s hand were two spears of silver, sharp, well-tempered, headed
with steel, three ells in length, of an edge to wound the wind, and
cause blood to flow, and swifter than the fall of the dew-drop from the
blade of reed-grass, when the dew of June is at the heaviest. A
gold-hilted sword was upon his thigh, the blade of which was gilded,
bearing a cross of inlaid gold of the hue of the lightning of heaven.
His war-horn was of ivory. Before him were two brindled, white-breasted
greyhounds, having strong collars of rubies about their necks, reaching
from the shoulder to the ear. And the one that was upon the left side
bounded across to the right side, and the one on the right to the left,
and, like two sea-swallows, sported around him. And his courser cast up
four sods, with his four hoofs, like four swallows in the air, about his
head, now above, now below. About him was a four-cornered cloth of
purple, and an apple of gold was at each corner, and every one of the
apples was of the value of an hundred kine. And there was precious gold
of the value of three hundred kine upon his shoes, and upon his
stirrups, from his knee to the tip of his toe. And the blade of grass
bent not beneath him, so light was his courser’s tread, as he journeyed
toward the gate of Arthur’s palace.

Spoke the youth: “Is there a porter?” “There is; and if thou holdest not
thy peace, small will be thy welcome. I am Arthur’s porter every first
day of January.” “Open the portal.” “I will not open it.” “Wherefore
not?” “The knife is in the meat, and the drink is in the horn, and there
is revelry in Arthur’s hall; and none may enter therein but the son of a
king of a privileged country, or a craftsman bringing his craft. But
there will be refreshment for thy dogs and for thy horse; and for thee
there will be collops cooked and peppered, and luscious wine, and
mirthful songs; and food for fifty men shall be brought unto thee in the
guest-chamber, where the stranger and the sons of other countries eat,
who come not into the precincts of the palace of Arthur. Thou wilt fare
no worse there than thou wouldst with Arthur in the court. A lady shall
smooth thy couch, and shall lull thee with songs; and early to-morrow
morning, when the gate is open for the multitude that came hither
to-day, for thee shall it be opened first, and thou mayest sit in the
place that thou shalt choose in Arthur’s hall, from the upper end to the
lower.” Said the youth: “That will I not do. If thou openest the gate,
it is well. If thou dost not open it, I will bring disgrace upon thy
lord, and evil report upon thee. And I will set up three shouts at this
very gate, than which none were ever heard more deadly.” “What clamor
soever thou mayest make,” said Glewlwyd, the porter, “against the laws
of Arthur’s palace, shalt thou not enter therein, until I first go and
speak with Arthur.”

Then Glewlwyd went into the hall. And Arthur said to him, “Hast thou
news from the gate?” “Half of my life is passed,” said Glewlwyd, “and
half of thine. I was heretofore in Kaer Se and Asse, in Sach and Salach,
in Lotor and Fotor, and I have been in India the Great and India the
Lesser, and I have also been in Europe and Africa, and in the islands of
Corsica, and I was present when thou didst conquer Greece in the East.
Nine supreme sovereigns, handsome men, saw we there, but never did I
behold a man of equal dignity with him who is now at the door of the
portal.” Then said Arthur: “If walking thou didst enter here, return
thou running. It is unbecoming to keep such a man as thou sayest he is
in the wind and the rain.” Said Kay: “By the hand of my friend, if thou
wouldst follow my counsel, thou wouldst not break through the laws of
the court because of him.” “Not so, blessed Kay,” said Arthur; “it is an
honor to us to be resorted to, and the greater our courtesy, the greater
will be our renown and our fame and our glory.”

And Glewlwyd came to the gate, and opened the gate before Kilwich; and
although all dismounted upon the horse-block at the gate, yet did he not
dismount, but he rode in upon his charger. Then said he, “Greeting be
unto thee, sovereign ruler of this island, and be this greeting no less
unto the lowest than unto the highest, and be it equally unto thy
guests, and thy warriors, and thy chieftains; let all partake of it as
completely as thyself. And complete be thy favor, and thy fame, and thy
glory, throughout all this island.” “Greeting unto thee also,” said
Arthur; “sit thou between two of my warriors, and thou shalt have
minstrels before thee, and thou shalt enjoy the privileges of a king
born to a throne, as long as thou remainest here. And when I disperse my
presents to the visitors and strangers in this court, they shall be in
thy hand at my commencing.” Said the youth, “I came not here to consume
meat and drink; but if I obtain the boon that I seek, I will requite it
thee, and extol thee; but if I have it not, I will bear forth thy
dispraise to the four quarters of the world, as far as thy renown has
extended.” Then said Arthur, “Since thou wilt not remain here,
chieftain, thou shalt receive the boon, whatsoever thy tongue may name,
as far as the wind dries, and the rain moistens, and the sun revolves,
and the sea encircles, and the earth extends; save only my ship Prydwen,
and my mantle, and Caliburn, my sword, and Rhongomyant, my lance, and
Guenever, my wife. By the truth of Heaven, thou shalt have it
cheerfully, name what thou wilt.” “I would that thou bless my hair,”
said he. “That shall be granted thee.”

And Arthur took a golden comb, and scissors whereof the loops were of
silver, and he combed his hair. And Arthur inquired of him who he was;
“for my heart warms unto thee, and I know that thou art come of my
blood. Tell me, therefore, who thou art.” “I will tell thee,” said the
youth. “I am Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, the son of Prince Kelyddon, by
Goleudyd, my mother, the daughter of Prince Anlawd.” “That is true,”
said Arthur; “thou art my cousin. Whatsoever boon thou mayest ask, thou
shalt receive, be it what it may that thy tongue shall name.” “Pledge
the truth of Heaven and the faith of thy kingdom thereof.” “I pledge it
thee gladly.” “I crave of thee, then, that thou obtain for me Olwen, the
daughter of Yspadaden Penkawr, to wife; and this boon I likewise seek at
the hands of thy warriors. I seek it from Kay and from Bedwyr; and from
Gwynn, the son of Nudd, and Gadwy, the son of Geraint, and Prince
Flewddur Flam, and Iona, king of France, and Sel, the son of Selgi, and
Taliesin, the chief of the bards, and Geraint, the son of Erbin,
Garanwyn, the son of Kay, and Amren, the son of Bedwyr, Ol, the son of
Olwyd, Bedwin, the bishop, Guenever, the chief lady, and Guenhywach, her
sister, Morved, the daughter of Urien, and Gwenlian Deg, the majestic
maiden, Creiddylad,[68] the daughter of Lludd, the constant maiden, and
Ewaedah, the daughter of Kynvelyn,[69] the half-man.” All these did
Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, adjure to obtain his boon.

Then said Arthur, “O chieftain, I have never heard of the maiden of whom
thou speakest, nor of her kindred, but I will gladly send messengers in
search of her. Give me time to seek her.” And the youth said, “I will
willingly grant from this night to that at the end of the year to do
so.” Then Arthur sent messengers to every land within his dominions to
seek for the maiden, and at the end of the year Arthur’s messengers
returned without having gained any knowledge or intelligence concerning
Olwen, more than on the first day. Then said Kilwich, “Every one has
received his boon, and I yet lack mine. I will depart, and bear away thy
honor with me.” Then said Kay, “Rash chieftain! dost thou reproach
Arthur? Go with us, and we will not part until thou dost either confess
that the maiden exists not in the world, or until we obtain her.”
Thereupon Kay rose up. And Arthur called Bedwyr, who never shrank from
any enterprise upon which Kay was bound. None were equal to him in
swiftness throughout this island except Arthur alone; and although he
was one handed, three warriors could not shed blood faster than he on
the field of battle.

And Arthur called to Kyndelig, the guide, “Go thou upon this expedition
with the chieftain.” For as good a guide was he in a land which he had
never seen as he was in his own.

He called Gurhyr Gwalstat, because he knew all tongues.

He called Gawain, the son of Gwyar, because he never returned home
without achieving the adventure of which he went in quest.

And Arthur called Meneu, the son of Teirgwed, in order that, if they
went into a savage country, he might cast a charm and an illusion over
them, so that none might see them, whilst they could see every one.

They journeyed until they came to a vast open plain, wherein they saw a
great castle, which was the fairest of the castles of the world. And
when they came before the castle, they beheld a vast flock of sheep. And
upon the top of a mound there was a herdsman keeping the sheep. And a
rug made of skins was upon him, and by his side was a shaggy mastiff,
larger than a steed nine winters old.

Then said Kay, “Gurhyr Gwalstat, go thou and salute yonder man.” “Kay,”
said he, “I engaged not to go further than thou thyself.” “Let us go
then together,” answered Kay. Said Meneu, “Fear not to go thither, for I
will cast a spell upon the dog, so that he shall injure no one.” And
they went up to the mound whereon the herdsman was, and they said to
him, “How dost thou fare, herdsman?” “Not less fair be it to you than to
me.” “Whose are the sheep that thou dost keep, and to whom does yonder
castle belong?” “Stupid are ye, truly! not to know that this is the
castle of Yspadaden Penkawr. And ye also, who are ye?” “We are an
embassy from Arthur, come to seek Olwen, the daughter of Yspadaden
Penkawr.” “O men! the mercy of Heaven be upon you; do not that for all
the world. None who ever came hither on this quest has returned alive.”
And the herdsman rose up. And as he rose Kilwich gave unto him a ring of
gold. And he went home and gave the ring to his spouse to keep. And she
took the ring when it was given her, and she said, “Whence came this
ring, for thou art not wont to have good fortune.” “O wife, him to whom
this ring belonged thou shalt see here this evening.” “And who is he?”
asked the woman. “Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, by Goleudid, the daughter
of Prince Anlawd, who is come to seek Olwen as his wife.” And when she
heard that, she had joy that her nephew, the son of her sister, was
coming to her, and sorrow, because she had never known any one depart
alive who had come on that quest.

And the men went forward to the gate of the herdsman’s dwelling. And
when she heard their footsteps approaching, she ran out with joy to meet
them. And Kay snatched a billet out of the pile. And when she met them,
she sought to throw her arms about their necks. And Kay placed the log
between her two hands, and she squeezed it so that if became a twisted
coil. “O woman,” said Kay, “if thou hadst squeezed me thus, none could
ever again have set their affections on me. Evil love were this.” They
entered into the house and were served; and soon after, they all went
forth to amuse themselves. Then the woman opened a stone chest that was
before the chimney-corner, and out of it arose a youth with yellow,
curling hair. Said Gurhyr, “It is a pity to hide this youth. I know that
it is not his own crime that is thus visited upon him.” “This is but a
remnant,” said the woman. “Three and twenty of my sons has Yspadaden
Penkawr slain, and I have no more hope of this one than of the others.”
Then said Kay, “Let him come and be a companion with me, and he shall
not be slain unless I also am slain with him.” And they ate. And the
woman asked them, “Upon what errand come you here?” “We come to seek
Olwen for this youth.” Then said the woman, “In the name of Heaven,
since no one from the castle hath yet seen you, return again whence you
came.” “Heaven is our witness, that we will not return until we have
seen the maiden. Does she ever come hither, so that she may be seen?”
“She comes here every Saturday to wash her head, and in the vessel where
she washes she leaves all her rings, and she never either comes herself
or sends any messengers to fetch them.” “Will she come here if she is
sent to?” “Heaven knows that I will not destroy my soul, nor will I
betray those that trust me; unless you will pledge me your faith that
you will not harm her, I will not send to her.” “We pledge it,” said
they. So a message was sent, and she came.

The maiden was clothed in a robe of flame- silk, and about her
neck was a collar of ruddy gold, on which were precious emeralds and
rubies. More yellow was her head than the flower of the broom,[70] and
her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands
and her fingers than the blossoms of the wood-anemone amidst the spray
of the meadow fountain. The eye of the trained hawk was not brighter
than hers. Her bosom was more snowy than the breast of the white swan,
her cheek was redder than the reddest roses. Whoso beheld her was filled
with her love. Four white trefoils sprung up wherever she trod. And
therefore was she called Olwen.

She entered the house and sat beside Kilwich upon the foremost bench;
and as soon as he saw her, he knew her. And Kilwich said unto her, “Ah!
maiden, thou art she whom I have loved; come away with me, lest they
speak evil of thee and of me. Many a day have I loved thee.” “I cannot
do this, for I have pledged my faith to my father not to go without his
counsel, for his life will last only until the time of my espousals.
Whatever is to be, must be. But I will give thee advice, if thou wilt
take it. Go, ask me of my father, and that which he shall require of
thee, grant it, and thou wilt obtain me; but if thou deny him anything,
thou wilt not obtain me, and it will be well for thee if thou escape
with thy life.” “I promise all this, if occasion offer,” said he.

She returned to her chamber, and they all rose up, and followed her to
the castle. And they slew the nine porters, that were at the nine gates,
in silence. And they slew the nine watch-dogs without one of them
barking. And they went forward to the hall.

“The greeting of Heaven and of man be unto thee, Yspadaden Penkawr,”
said they. “And you, wherefore come you?” “We come to ask thy daughter
Olwen for Kilwich, the son of Kilydd, the son of Prince Kelyddon.”
“Where are my pages and my servants? Raise up the forks beneath my two
eyebrows, which have fallen over my eyes, that I may see the fashion of
my son-in-law.” And they did so. “Come hither to-morrow, and you shall
have an answer.”

They rose to go forth, and Yspadaden Penkawr seized one of the three
poisoned darts that lay beside him, and threw it after them. And Bedwyr
caught it, and flung it, and pierced Yspadaden Penkawr grievously with
it through the knee. Then he said, “A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly!
I shall ever walk the worse for his rudeness, and shall ever be without
a cure. This poisoned iron pains me like the bite of a gad-fly. Cursed
be the smith who forged it, and the anvil on which it was wrought! So
sharp is it!”

That night also they took up their abode in the house of the herdsman.
The next day, with the dawn, they arrayed themselves and proceeded to
the castle, and entered the hall; and they said, “Yspadaden Penkawr,
give us thy daughter in consideration of her dower and her maiden fee,
which we will pay to thee, and to her two kinswomen likewise.” Then he
said, “Her four great-grandmothers and her four great-grandsires are yet
alive; it is needful that I take counsel of them.” “Be it so,” they
answered, “we will go to meat.” As they rose up he took the second dart
that was beside him, and cast it after them. And Meneu, the son of
Gawedd, caught it, and flung it back at him, and wounded him in the
centre of the breast. “A cursed ungentle son-in-law, truly!” said he;
“the hard iron pains me like the bite of a horse-leech. Cursed be the
hearth whereon it was heated, and the smith who formed it! So sharp is
it! Henceforth, whenever I go up hill, I shall have a scant in my
breath, and a pain in my chest, and I shall often loathe my food.” And
they went to meat.

And the third day they returned to the palace. And Yspadaden Penkawr
said to them, “Shoot not at me again unless you desire death. Where are
my attendants? Lift up the forks of my eyebrows, which have fallen over
my eyeballs, that I may see the fashion of my son-in-law.” Then they
arose, and, as they did so, Yspadaden Penkawr took the third poisoned
dart and cast it at them. And Kilwich caught it, and threw it
vigorously, and wounded him through the eyeball. “A cursed ungentle
son-in-law, truly! As long as I remain alive, my eyesight will be the
worse. Whenever I go against the wind, my eyes will water; and
peradventure my head will burn, and I shall have a giddiness every new
moon. Like the bite of a mad dog is the stroke of this poisoned iron.
Cursed be the fire in which it was forged!” And they went to meat.

And the next day they came again to the palace, and they said, “Shoot
not at us any more, unless thou desirest such hurt and harm and torture
as thou now hast, and even more.” Said Kilwich, “Give me thy daughter;
and if thou wilt not give her, thou shalt receive thy death because of
her.” “Where is he that seeks my daughter? Come hither where I may see
thee.” And they placed him a chair face to face with him.

Said Yspadaden Penkawr, “Is it thou that seekest my daughter?”

“It is I,” answered Kilwich.

“I must have thy pledge that thou wilt not do toward me otherwise than
is just; and when I have gotten that which I shall name, my daughter
thou shalt have.”

“I promise thee that willingly,” said Kilwich; “name what thou wilt.”

“I will do so,” said he. “Seest thou yonder red tilled ground?”

“I see it.”

“When first I met the mother of this maiden, nine bushels of flax were
sown therein, and none has yet sprung up, white nor black. I require to
have the flax to sow in the new land yonder, that when it grows up it
may make a white wimple for my daughter’s head on the day of thy
wedding.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it
will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get—the
harp of Teirtu, to play to us that night. When a man desires that it
should play, it does so of itself; and when he desires that it should
cease, it ceases. And this he will not give of his own free will, and
thou wilt not be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it
will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get. I
require thee to get me for my huntsman Mabon, the son of Modron. He was
taken from his mother when three nights old, and it is not known where
he now is, nor whether he is living or dead.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it
will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get—the
two cubs of the wolf Gast Rhymhi; no leash in the world will hold them,
but a leash made from the beard of Dillus Varwawc, the robber. And the
leash will be of no avail unless it be plucked from his beard while he
is alive. While he lives he will not suffer this to be done to him, and
the leash will be of no use should he be dead, because it will be
brittle.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it
will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get—the
sword of Gwernach the Giant; of his own free will he will not give it,
and thou wilt never be able to compel him.”

“It will be easy for me to compass this, although thou mayest think it
will not be easy.”

“Though thou get this, there is yet that which thou wilt not get.
Difficulties shalt thou meet with, and nights without sleep, in seeking
this, and if thou obtain it not, neither shalt thou obtain my daughter.”

“Horses shall I have, and chivalry; and my lord and kinsman, Arthur,
will obtain for me all these things. And I shall gain thy daughter, and
thou shalt lose thy life.”

“Go forward. And thou shalt not be chargeable for food or raiment for my
daughter while thou art seeking these things; and when thou hast
compassed all these marvels, thou shalt have my daughter for thy wife.”

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XII

                    KILWICH AND OLWEN (_Continued_)

ALL that day they journeyed until the evening, and then they beheld a
vast castle, which was the largest in the world. And lo! a black man,
larger than three of the men of this world, came out from the castle.
And they spoke unto him, and said, “O man, whose castle is that?”
“Stupid are ye, truly, O men! There is no one in the world that does not
know that this is the castle of Gwernach the Giant.” “What treatment is
there for guests and strangers that alight in that castle?” “O
chieftain, Heaven protect thee! No guests ever returned thence alive,
and no one may enter therein unless he brings with him his craft.”

Then they proceeded towards the gate. Said Gurhyr Gwalstat, “Is there a
porter?” “There is; wherefore dost thou call?” “Open the gate.” “I will
not open it.” “Wherefore wilt thou not?” “The knife is in the meat, and
the drink is in the horn, and there is revelry in the hall of Gwernach
the Giant; and except for a craftsman who brings his craft, the gate
will not be opened to-night.” “Verily, porter,” then said Kay, “my craft
bring I with me.” “What is thy craft?” “The best burnisher of swords am
I in the world.” “I will go and tell this unto Gwernach the Giant, and I
will bring thee an answer.”

So the porter went in, and Gwernach said to him, “Hast thou news from
the gate?” “I have. There is a party at the door of the gate who desire
to come in.” “Didst thou inquire of them if they possessed any art?” “I
did inquire,” said he, “and one told me that he was well skilled in the
burnishing of swords.” “We have need of him then. For some time have I
sought for some one to polish my sword, and could find no one. Let this
man enter, since he brings with him his craft.”

The porter thereupon returned and opened the gate. And Kay went in by
himself, and he saluted Gwernach the Giant. And a chair was placed for
him opposite to Gwernach. And Gwernach said to him, “O man, is it true
that is reported of thee, that thou knowest how to burnish swords?” “I
know full well how to do so,” answered Kay. Then was the sword of
Gwernach brought to him. And Kay took a blue whetstone from under his
arm, and asked whether he would have it burnished white or blue. “Do
with it as it seems good to thee, or as thou wouldst if it were thine
own.” Then Kay polished one half of the blade, and put it in his hand.
“Will this please thee?” asked he. “I would rather than all that is in
my dominions that the whole of it were like this. It is a marvel to me
that such a man as thou should be without a companion.” “O noble sir, I
have a companion, albeit he is not skilled in this art.” “Who may he
be?” “Let the porter go forth, and I will tell him whereby he may know
him. The head of the lance will leave its shaft, and draw blood from the
wind, and will descend upon its shaft again.” Then the gate was opened,
and Bedwyr entered. And Kay said, “Bedwyr is very skilful, though he
knows not this art.”

And there was much discourse among those who were without, because that
Kay and Bedwyr had gone in. And a young man who was with them, the only
son of the herdsman, got in also; and he contrived to admit all the
rest, but they kept themselves concealed.

The sword was now polished, and Kay gave it unto the hand of Gwernach
the Giant, to see if he were pleased with his work. And the giant said,
“The work is good; I am content therewith.” Said Kay, “It is thy
scabbard that hath rusted thy sword; give it to me, that I may take out
the wooden sides of it, and put in new ones.” And he took the scabbard
from him, and the sword in the other hand. And he came and stood over
against the giant, as if he would have put the sword into the scabbard;
and with it he struck at the head of the giant, and cut off his head at
one blow. Then they despoiled the castle, and took from it what goods
and jewels they would. And they returned to Arthur’s court, bearing with
them the sword of Gwernach the Giant.

And when they told Arthur how they had sped, Arthur said, “It is a good
beginning.” Then they took counsel, and said, “Which of these marvels
will it be best for us to seek next?” “It will be best,” said one, “to
seek Mabon, the son of Modron; and he will not be found unless we first
find Eidoel, the son of Aer, his kinsman.” Then Arthur rose up, and the
warriors of the island of Britain with him, to seek for Eidoel; and they
proceeded until they came to the castle of Glivi, where Eidoel was
imprisoned. Glivi stood on the summit of his castle, and he said,
“Arthur, what requirest thou of me, since nothing remains to me in this
fortress, and I have neither joy nor pleasure in it, neither wheat nor
oats? Seek not, therefore, to do me harm.” Said Arthur, “Not to injure
thee came I hither, but to seek for the prisoner that is with thee.” “I
will give thee my prisoner, though I had not thought to give him up to
any one, and therewith shalt thou have my support and my aid.”

His followers said unto Arthur, “Lord, go thou home, thou canst not
proceed with thy host in quest of such small adventures as these.” Then
said Arthur, “It were well for thee, Gurhyr Gwalstat, to go upon this
quest, for thou knowest all languages, and art familiar with those of
the birds and the beasts. Thou, Eidoel, oughtest likewise to go with thy
men in search of thy cousin. And as for you, Kay and Bedwyr, I have hope
of whatever adventure ye are in quest of, that ye will achieve it.
Achieve ye this adventure for me.”

They went forward until they came to the Ousel of Cilgwri. And Gurhyr
adjured her, saying, “Tell me if thou knowest aught of Mabon, the son of
Modron, who was taken when three nights old from between his mother and
the wall?” And the Ousel answered, “When I first came here, there was a
smith’s anvil in this place, and I was then a young bird; and from that
time no work has been done upon it, save the pecking of my beak every
evening; and now there is not so much as the size of a nut remaining
thereof; yet during all that time I have never heard of the man for whom
you inquire. Nevertheless, I will do that which it is fitting that I
should for an embassy from Arthur. There is a race of animals who were
formed before me, and I will be your guide to them.”

So they proceeded to the place where was the Stag of Redynvre. “Stag of
Redynvre, behold, we are come to thee, an embassy from Arthur, for we
have not heard of any animal older than thou. Say, knowest thou aught of
Mabon, the son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when three
nights old?” The Stag said, “When first I came hither there was a plain
all around me, without any trees save one oak sapling, which grew up to
be an oak with an hundred branches; and that oak has since perished, so
that now nothing remains of it but the withered stump; and from that day
to this I have been here, yet have I never heard of the man for whom you
inquire. Nevertheless, being an embassy from Arthur, I will be your
guide to the place where there is an animal which was formed before I
was, and the oldest animal in the world, and the one that has travelled
most, the Eagle of Gwern Abwy.”

Gurhyr said, “Eagle of Gwern Abwy, we have come to thee, an embassy from
Arthur, to ask thee if thou knowest aught of Mabon, the son of Modron,
who was taken from his mother when he was three nights old?” The Eagle
said, “I have been here for a great space of time, and when I first came
hither, there was a rock here from the top of which I pecked at the
stars every evening; and it has crumbled away, and now it is not so much
as a span high. All that time I have been here, and I have never heard
of the man for whom you inquire, except once when I went in search of
food as far as Llyn Llyw. And when I came there, I struck my talons into
a salmon, thinking he would serve me as food for a long time. But he
drew me into the water, and I was scarcely able to escape from him.
After that I made peace with him. And I drew fifty fish-spears out of
his back, and relieved him. Unless he know something of him whom you
seek, I cannot tell who may. However, I will guide you to the place
where he is.”

So they went thither; and the Eagle said, “Salmon of Llyn Llyw, I have
come to thee with an embassy from Arthur, to ask thee if thou knowest
aught of Mabon, the son of Modron, who was taken away at three nights
old from his mother.” “As much as I know I will tell thee. With every
tide I go along the river upward, until I come near to the walls of
Gloucester, and there have I found such wrong as I never found
elsewhere; and to the end that ye may give credence thereto, let one of
you go thither upon each of my two shoulders.” So Kay and Gurhyr
Gwalstat went upon the two shoulders of the Salmon, and they proceeded
until they came unto the wall of the prison; and they heard a great
wailing and lamenting from the dungeon. Said Gurhyr, “Who is it that
laments in this house of stone?” “Alas! it is Mabon, the son of Modron,
who is here imprisoned; and no imprisonment was ever so grievous as
mine.” “Hast thou hope of being released for gold or for silver, or for
any gifts of wealth, or through battle and fighting?” “By fighting will
what ever I may gain be obtained.”

Then they went thence, and returned to Arthur, and they told him where
Mabon, the son of Modron, was imprisoned. And Arthur summoned the
warriors of the island, and they journeyed as far as Gloucester, to the
place where Mabon was in prison. Kay and Bedwyr went upon the shoulders
of the fish, whilst the warriors of Arthur attacked the castle. And Kay
broke through the wall into the dungeon, and brought away the prisoner
upon his back, whilst the fight was going on between the warriors. And
Arthur returned home, and Mabon with him at liberty.

On a certain day as Gurhyr Gwalstat was walking over a mountain, he
heard a wailing and a grievous cry. And when he heard it, he sprang
forward and went towards it. And when he came there, he saw a fire
burning among the turf, and an ant-hill nearly surrounded with the fire.
And he drew his sword, and smote off the ant-hill close to the earth, so
that it escaped being burned in the fire. And the ants said to him,
“Receive from us the blessing of Heaven, and that which no man can give,
we give thee.” Then they fetched the nine bushels of flax-seed which
Yspadaden Penkawr had required of Kilwich, and they brought the full
measure, without lacking any, except one flax-seed, and that the lame
pismire brought in before night.

Then said Arthur, “Which of the marvels will it be best for us to seek
next?” “It will be best to seek for the two cubs of the wolf Gast
Rhymhi.”

“Is it known,” said Arthur, “where she is?” “She is in Aber Cleddyf,”
said one. Then Arthur went to the house of Tringad, in Aber Cleddyf, and
he inquired of him whether he had heard of her there. “She has often
slain my herds, and she is there below in a cave in Aber Cleddyf.”

Then Arthur went in his ship Prydwen by sea, and the others went by land
to hunt her. And they surrounded her and her two cubs, and took them and
carried them away.

As Kay and Bedwyr sat on a beacon-cairn on the summit of Plinlimmon, in
the highest wind that ever was, they looked around them and saw a great
smoke, afar off. Then said Kay, “By the hand of my friend, yonder is the
fire of a robber.” Then they hastened towards the smoke, and they came
so near to it that they could see Dillus Varwawc scorching a wild boar.
“Behold, yonder is the greatest robber that ever fled from Arthur,” said
Bedwyr to Kay. “Dost thou know him?” “I do know him,” answered Kay; “he
is Dillus Varwarc, and no leash in the world will be able to hold the
cubs of Gast Rhymi, save a leash made from the beard of him thou seest
yonder. And even that will be useless unless his beard be plucked out
alive, with wooden tweezers; for if dead it will be brittle.” “What
thinkest thou that we should do concerning this?” said Bedwyr. “Let us
suffer him,” said Kay, “to eat as much as he will of the meat, and after
that he will fall asleep.” And during that time they employed themselves
in making the wooden tweezers. And when Kay knew certainly that he was
asleep, he made a pit under his feet, and he struck him a violent blow,
and squeezed him into the pit. And there they twitched out his beard
completely with the wooden tweezers, and after that they slew him
altogether. And from thence they went, and took the leash made of Dillus
Varwawc’s beard, and they gave it into Arthur’s hand.

Thus they got all the marvels that Yspadaden Penkawr had required of
Kilwich; and they set forward, and took the marvels to his court. And
Kilwich said to Yspadaden Penkawr, “Is thy daughter mine now?” “She is
thine,” said he, “but therefore needest thou not thank me, but Arthur,
who hath accomplished this for thee.” Then Goreu, the son of Custennin,
the herdsman, whose brothers Yspadaden Penkawr had slain, seized him by
the hair of his head, and dragged him after him to the keep, and cut off
his head, and placed it on a stake on the citadel. Then they took
possession of his castle, and of his treasures. And that night Olwen
became Kilwich’s bride, and she continued to be his wife as long as she
lived.

                                  ————


                              CHAPTER XIII

                                TALIESIN

GWYDDNO GARANHIR was sovereign of Gwaelod, a territory bordering on the
sea. And he possessed a weir upon the strand between Dyvi and
Aberystwyth, near to his own castle, and the value of an hundred pounds
was taken in that weir every May eve. And Gwyddno had an only son named
Elphin, the most hapless of youths, and the most needy. And it grieved
his father sore, for he thought that he was born in an evil hour. By the
advice of his council, his father had granted him the drawing of the
weir that year, to see if good luck would ever befall him, and to give
him something wherewith to begin the world. And this was on the
twenty-ninth of April.

The next day, when Elphin went to look, there was nothing in the weir
but a leathern bag upon a pole of the weir. Then said the weir-ward unto
Elphin, “All thy ill-luck aforetime was nothing to this; and now thou
hast destroyed the virtues of the weir, which always yielded the value
of an hundred pounds every May eve; and to-night there is nothing but
this leathern skin within it.” “How now,” said Elphin, “there may be
therein the value of a hundred pounds.” Well! they took up the leathern
bag, and he who opened it saw the forehead of an infant, the fairest
that ever was seen; and he said, “Behold a radiant brow?” (In the Welsh
language, _taliesin_.) “Taliesin be he called,” said Elphin. And he
lifted the bag in his arms, and, lamenting his bad luck, placed the boy
sorrowfully behind him. And he made his horse amble gently, that before
had been trotting, and he carried him as softly as if he had been siting
in the easiest chair in the world. And presently the boy made a
Consolation, and praise to Elphin; and the Consolation was as you may
here see:

    “Fair Elphin, cease to lament!
    Never in Gwyddno’s weir
    Was there such good luck as this night.
    Being sad will not avail;
    Better to trust in God than to forbode ill;
    Weak and small as I am,
    On the foaming beach of the ocean,
    In the day of trouble I shall be
    Of more service to thee than three hundred salmon.”

This was the first poem that Taliesin ever sung, being to console Elphin
in his grief for that the produce of the weir was lost, and what was
worse, that all the world would consider that it was through his fault
and ill-luck. Then Elphin asked him what he was, whether man or spirit.
And he sung thus:

    “I have been formed a comely person;
    Although I am but little, I am highly gifted;
    Into a dark leathern bag I was thrown,
    And on a boundless sea I was sent adrift.
    From seas and from mountains
    God brings wealth to the fortunate man.”

Then came Elphin to the house of Gwyddno, his father, and Taliesin with
him. Gwyddno asked him if he had had a good haul at the weir, and he
told him that he had got that which was better than fish. “What was
that?” said Gwyddno. “A bard,” said Elphin. Then said Gwyddno, “Alas!
what will he profit thee?” And Taliesin himself replied and said, “He
will profit him more than the weir ever profited thee.” Asked Gwyddno,
“Art thou able to speak, and thou so little?” And Taliesin answered him,
“I am better able to speak than thou to question me.” “Let me hear what
thou canst say,” quoth Gwyddno. Then Taliesin sang:

    “Three times have I been born, I know by meditation;
    All the sciences of the world are collected in my breast,
    For I know what has been, and what hereafter will occur.”

Elphin gave his haul to his wife, and she nursed him tenderly and
lovingly. Thenceforward Elphin increased in riches more and more, day
after day, and in love and favor with the king; and there abode Taliesin
until he was thirteen years old, when Elphin, son of Gwyddno, went by a
Christmas invitation to his uncle, Maelgan Gwynedd, who held open court
at Christmas-tide in the castle of Dyganwy, for all the number of his
lords of both degrees, both spiritual and temporal, with a vast and
thronged host of knights and squires. And one arose and said, “Is there
in the whole world a king so great as Maelgan, or one on whom Heaven has
bestowed so many gifts as upon him;—form, and beauty, and meekness, and
strength, besides all the powers of the soul?” And together with these
they said that Heaven had given one gift that exceeded all the others,
which was the beauty, and grace, and wisdom, and modesty of his queen,
whose virtues surpassed those of all the ladies and noble maidens
throughout the whole kingdom. And with this they put questions one to
another, Who had braver men? Who had fairer or swifter horses or
greyhounds? Who had more skilful or wiser bards than Maelgan?

When they had all made an end of their praising the king and his gifts,
it befell that Elphin spoke on this wise. “Of a truth, none but a king
may vie with a king; but were he not a king, I would say that my wife
was as virtuous as any lady in the kingdom, and also that I have a bard
who is more skilful than all the king’s bards.” In a short space some of
his fellows told the king all the boastings of Elphin; and the king
ordered him to be thrown into a strong prison, until he might show the
truth as to the virtues of his wife, and the wisdom of his bard.

Now when Elphin had been put in a tower of the castle, with a thick
chain about his feet (it is said that it was a silver chain, because he
was of royal blood), the king, as the story relates, sent his son Rhun
to inquire into the demeanor of Elphin’s wife. Now Rhun was the most
graceless man in the world, and there was neither wife nor maiden with
whom he held converse but was evil spoken of. While Rhun went in haste
towards Elphin’s dwelling, being fully minded to bring disgrace upon his
wife, Taliesin told his mistress how that the king had placed his master
in durance in prison, and how that Rhun was coming in haste to strive to
bring disgrace upon her. Wherefore he caused his mistress to array one
of the maids of her kitchen in her apparel; which the noble lady gladly
did, and she loaded her hands with the best rings that she and her
husband possessed.

In this guise Taliesin caused his mistress to put the maiden to sit at
the board in her room at supper; and he made her to seem as her
mistress, and the mistress to seem as the maid. And when they were in
due time seated at their supper, in the manner that has been said, Rhun
suddenly arrived at Elphin’s dwelling, and was received with joy, for
the servants knew him; and they brought him to the room of their
mistress, in the semblance of whom the maid rose up from supper and
welcomed him gladly. And afterwards she sat down to supper again, and
Rhun with her. Then Rhun began jesting with the maid, who still kept the
semblance of her mistress. And verily this story shows that the maiden
became so intoxicated that she fell asleep; and the story relates that
it was a powder that Rhun put into the drink, that made her sleep so
soundly that she never felt it when he cut off from her hand her little
finger, whereon was the signet ring of Elphin, which he had sent to his
wife as a token a short time before. And Rhun returned to the king with
the finger and the ring as a proof, to show that he had cut it off from
her hand without her awaking from her sleep of intemperance.

The king rejoiced greatly at these tidings, and he sent for his
councillors, to whom he told the whole story from the beginning. And he
caused Elphin to be brought out of prison, and he chided him because of
his boast. And he spake on this wise: “Elphin, be it known to thee
beyond a doubt, that it is but folly for a man to trust in the virtues
of his wife further than he can see her; and that thou mayest be certain
of thy wife’s vileness, behold her finger, with thy signet ring upon it,
which was cut from her hand last night, while she slept the sleep of
intoxication.” Then thus spake Elphin: “With thy leave, mighty king, I
cannot deny my ring, for it is known of many; but verily I assert that
the finger around which it is was never attached to the hand of my wife;
for in truth and certainty there are three notable things pertaining to
it, none of which ever belonged to any of my wife’s fingers. The first
of the three is, that it is certainly known to me that this ring would
never remain upon her thumb, whereas you can plainly see that it is hard
to draw it over the joint of the little finger of the hand whence this
was cut. The second thing is, that my wife has never let pass one
Saturday since I have known her, without paring her nails before going
to bed, and you can see fully that the nail of this little finger has
not been pared for a month. The third is, truly, that the hand whence
this finger came was kneading rye dough within three days before the
finger was cut therefrom, and I can assure your highness that my wife
has never kneaded rye dough since my wife she has been.”

The king was mightily wroth with Elphin for so stoutly withstanding him,
respecting the goodness of his wife; wherefore he ordered him to his
prison a second time, saying that he should not be loosed thence until
he had proved the truth of his boast, as well concerning the wisdom of
his bard as the virtues of his wife.

In the meantime his wife and Taliesin remained joyful at Elphin’s
dwelling. And Taliesin showed his mistress how that Elphin was in prison
because of them; but he bade her be glad, for that he would go to
Maelgan’s court to free his master. So he took leave of his mistress,
and came to the court of Maelgan, who was going to sit in his hall, and
dine in his royal state, as it was the custom in those days for kings
and princes to do at every chief feast. As soon as Taliesin entered the
hall he placed himself in a quiet corner, near the place where the bards
and the minstrels were wont to come, in doing their service and duty to
the king, as is the custom at the high festivals, when the bounty is
proclaimed. So, when the bards and the heralds came to cry largess, and
to proclaim the power of the king, and his strength, at the moment when
they passed by the corner wherein he was crouching, Taliesin pouted out
his lips after them, and played “Blerwm, blerwm!” with his finger upon
his lips. Neither took they much notice of him as they went by but
proceeded forward till they came before the king, unto whom they made
their obeisance with their bodies, as they were wont, without speaking a
single word, but pouting out their lips, and making mouths at the king,
playing, “Blerwm, blerwm!” upon their lips with their fingers, as they
had seen the boy do. This sight caused the king to wonder, and to deem
within himself that they were drunk with many liquors. Wherefore he
commanded one of his lords, who served at the board, to go to them and
desire them to collect their wits, and to consider where they stood, and
what it was fitting for them to do. And this lord did so gladly. But
they ceased not from their folly any more than before. Whereupon he sent
to them a second time, and a third, desiring them to go forth from the
hall. At the last the king ordered one of his squires to give a blow to
the chief of them, named Heinin Vardd; and the squire took a broom and
struck him on the head, so that he fell back in his seat. Then he arose,
and went on his knees, and besought leave of the king’s grace to show
that this their fault was not through want of knowledge, neither through
drunkenness, but by the influence of some spirit that was in the hall.
And he spoke on this wise: “O honorable king, be it known to your grace
that not from the strength of drink, or of too much liquor, are we dumb,
but through the influence of a spirit that sits in the corner yonder, in
the form of a child.” Forthwith the king commanded the squire to fetch
him; and he went to the nook where Taliesin sat, and brought him before
the king, who asked him what he was, and whence he came. And he answered
the king in verse:

    “Primary chief bard am I to Elphin,
    And my native country is the region of the summer stars;
    I have been in Asia with Noah in the ark,
    I have seen the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah,
    I was in India when Rome was built,
    I have now come here to the remnant of Troia.”

When the king and his nobles had heard the song, they wondered much, for
they had never heard the like from a boy so young as he. And when the
king knew that he was the bard of Elphin he bade Heinin, his first and
wisest bard, to answer Taliesin, and to strive with him. But when he
came he could do no other than play “Blerwm!” on his lips; and when he
sent for the others of the four and twenty bards, they all did likewise,
and could do no other. And Maelgan asked the boy Taliesin what was his
errand, and he answered him in song:

    “Elphin, the son of Gwyddno,
    Is in the land of Artro,
    Secured by thirteen locks,
    For praising his instructor.
    Therefore I, Taliesin,
    Chief of the bards of the west,
    Will loosen Elphin
    Out of a golden fetter.”

Then he sang to them a riddle:

    “Discover thou what is
    The strong creature from before the flood,
    Without flesh, without bone,
    Without vein, without blood,
    Without head, without feet;
    It will neither be older nor younger
    Than at the beginning.
    Behold how the sea whitens
    When first it comes,
    When it comes from the south,
    When it strikes on coasts.
    It is in the field, it is in the wood,
    But the eye cannot perceive it.
    One Being has prepared it,
    By a tremendous blast,
    To wreak vengeance
    On Maelgan Gwynedd.

While he was thus singing his verse, there arose a mighty storm of wind,
so that the king and all his nobles thought that the castle would fall
upon their heads. And the king caused them to fetch Elphin in haste from
his dungeon, and placed him before Taliesin. And it is said that
immediately he sung a verse, so that the chains opened from about his
feet.

After that Taliesin brought Elphin’s wife before them, and showed that
she had not one finger wanting. And in this manner did he set his master
free from prison, and protect the innocence of his mistress, and silence
the bards so that not one of them dared to say a word. Right glad was
Elphin, right glad was Taliesin.




                              [BLANK PAGE]




                     HERO MYTHS OF THE BRITISH RACE


                                BEOWULF

NOTABLE among the names of heroes of the British race is that of
Beowulf, which appeals to all English-speaking people in a very special
way, since he is the one hero in whose story we may see the ideals of
our English forefathers before they left their Continental home to cross
to the islands of Britain.

Although this hero had distinguished himself by numerous feats of
strength during his boyhood and early youth, it was as the deliverer of
Hrothgar, king of Denmark, from the monster Grendel that he first gained
wide renown. Grendel was half monster and half man, and had his abode in
the fen-fastnesses in the vicinity of Hrothgar’s residence. Night after
night he would steal into the king’s great palace called Heorot and slay
sometimes as many as thirty at one time of the knights sleeping there.

Beowulf put himself at the head of a selected band of warriors, went
against the monster, and after a terrible fight slew it. The following
night Grendel’s mother, a fiend scarcely less terrible than her son,
carried off one of Hrothgar’s boldest thanes. Once more Beowulf went to
the help of the Danish king, followed the she-monster to her lair at the
bottom of a muddy lake in the midst of the swamp, and with his good
sword Hrunting and his own muscular arms broke the sea-woman’s neck.

Upon his return to his own country of the Geats, loaded with honors
bestowed upon him by Hrothgar, Beowulf served the king of Geatland as
the latter’s most trusted counsellor and champion. When, after many
years, the king fell before an enemy, the Geats unanimously chose
Beowulf for their new king. His fame as a warrior kept his country free
from invasion, and his wisdom as a statesman increased its prosperity
and happiness.

In the fiftieth year of Beowulf’s reign, however, a great terror fell
upon the land in the way of a monstrous fire-dragon, which flew forth by
night from its den in the rocks, lighting up the blackness with its
blazing breath, and burning houses and homesteads, men and cattle, with
the flames from its mouth. When the news came to Beowulf that his people
were suffering and dying, and that no warrior dared to risk his life in
an effort to deliver the country from this deadly devastation, the aged
king took up his shield and sword and went forth to his last fight. At
the entrance of the dragon’s cave Beowulf raised his voice and shouted a
furious defiance to the awesome guardian of the den. Roaring hideously
and flapping his glowing wings together, the dragon rushed forth and
half flew, half sprang, on Beowulf. Then began a fearful combat, which
ended in Beowulf’s piercing the dragon’s scaly armor and inflicting a
mortal wound, but alas! in himself being given a gash in the neck by his
opponent’s poisoned fangs which resulted in his death. As he lay
stretched on the ground, his head supported by Wiglaf, an honored
warrior who had helped in the fight with the dragon, Beowulf roused
himself to say, as he grasped Wiglaf’s hand:

    “Thou must now look to the needs of the nation;
    Here dwell I no longer, for Destiny calleth me!
    Bid thou my warriors after my funeral pyre
    Build me a burial-cairn high on the sea-cliff’s head;
    So that the seafarers Beowulf’s Barrow
    Henceforth shall name it, they who drive far and wide
    Over the mighty flood their foamy keels.
    Thou art the last of all the kindred of Wagmund!
    Wyrd has swept all my kin, all the brave chiefs away!
    Now must I follow them!”

These last words spoken, the king of the Geats, brave to seek danger and
brave to look on death and Fate undaunted, fell back dead. According to
his last desires, his followers gathered wood and piled it on the
cliff-head. Upon this funeral pyre was laid Beowulf’s body and consumed
to ashes. Then, upon the same cliff of Hronesness, was erected a huge
burial cairn, widespread and lofty, to be known thereafter as Beowulf’s
Barrow.

                                  ————


                     CUCHULAIN, CHAMPION OF IRELAND

AMONG all the early literatures of Europe, there are two which, at
exactly opposite corners of the continent, display most strikingly
similar characteristics. These are the Greek and the Irish, and the
legend of the Irish champion Cuchulain, which well illustrates the
similarity of the literatures, bears so close a resemblance to the story
of Achilles as to win for this hero the title of “the Irish Achilles.”
Certainly in reckless courage, power of inspiring dread, sense of
personal merit, and frankness of speech the Irish hero is fully equal to
the mighty Greek.

Cuchulain was the nephew of King Conor of Ulster, son of his sister
Dechtire, and it is said that his father was no mortal man, but the
great god Lugh of the Long Hand. Cuchulain was brought up by King Conor
himself, and even while he was still a boy his fame spread all over
Ireland. His warlike deeds were those of a proved warrior, not of a
child of nursery age; and by the time Cuchulain was seventeen he was
without peer among the champions of Ulster.

Upon Cuchulain’s marriage to Emer, daughter of Forgall the Wily, a Druid
of great power, the couple took up their residence at Armagh, the
capital of Ulster, under the protection of King Conor. Here there was
one chief, Bricriu of the Bitter Tongue, who, like Thersites among the
Grecian leaders, delighted in making mischief. Soon he had on foot plans
for stirring up strife among the heroes of Ulster, leaders among whom
were the mighty Laegaire, Conall Cearnach, cousin of Cuchulain, and
Cuchulain himself. Inviting the members of King Conor’s court to dinner,
Bricriu arranged that a contest should arise over who should have the
“champion’s portion,” and so successful was he that, to avoid a bloody
fight, the three heroes mentioned decided to submit their claims to the
championship of Ireland to King Ailill of Connaught.

Ailill put the heroes to an unexpected test. Their dinner was served
them in a separate room, into which three magic beasts, in the shape of
monstrous cats, were sent by the king. When they saw them Laegire and
Conall rose from their meal, climbed among the rafters, and stayed there
all night. Cuchulain waited until one cat attacked him, and then,
drawing his sword, struck the monster. It showed no further sign of
fight, and at daybreak the magic beasts disappeared.

As Laegire and Conall claimed that this test was an unfair one, Ailill
sent the three rivals to Curoi of Kerry, a just and wise man, who set
out to discover by wizardry and enchantments the best among the heroes.
In turn they stood watch outside Curoi’s castle, where Laegire and
Conall were overcome by a huge giant, who hurled spears of mighty oak
trees, and ended by throwing them over the wall into the courtyard.
Cuchulain alone withstood the giant, whereupon he was attacked by other
magic foes. Among these was a dragon, which flew on horrible wings from
a neighboring lake, and seemed ready to devour everything in its way.
Cuchulain sprang up, giving his wonderful hero-leap, thrust his arm into
the dragon’s mouth and down its throat, and tore out its heart. After
the monster fell dead, he cut off its scaly head.

As even yet Cuchulain’s opponents would not admit his championship, they
were all three directed to return to Armagh, to await Curoi’s judgment.
Here it happened that all the Ulster heroes were in the great hall one
night, except Cuchulain and his cousin Conall. As they sat in order of
rank, a terrible stranger, gigantic in stature, hideous of aspect, with
ravening yellow eyes, entered. In his hand he bore an enormous axe, with
keen and shining edge. Upon King Conor’s inquiring his business there,
the stranger replied:

“Behold my axe! The man who will grasp it to-day may cut my head off
with it, provided that I may, in like manner, cut off his head
to-morrow. If you have no champion who dare face me, I will say that
Ulster has lost her courage and is dishonored.”

At once Laegire accepted the challenge. The giant laid his head on a
block, and at a blow the hero severed it from the body. Thereupon the
giant arose, took the head and the axe, and thus, headless, strode from
the hall. But the following night, when he returned, sound as ever, to
claim the fulfilment of Laegire’s promise, the latter’s heart failed him
and he did not come forward. The stranger then jeered at the men of
Ulster because their great champion durst not keep his agreement, nor
face the blow he should receive in return for the one he gave.

The men of Ulster were utterly ashamed, but Conall Cearnach, who was
present that night, made a new agreement with the stranger. He gave a
blow which beheaded the giant, but again, when the latter returned whole
and sound on the following evening, the champion was not to be found.

Now it was the turn of Cuchulain, who, as the others had done, cut off
the giant’s head at one stroke. The next day the members of Conor’s
court watched Cuchulain to see what he would do. They would not have
been surprised if he had failed like the others, who now were present.
The champion, however, showed no signs of failing or retreat. He sat
sorrowfully in his place, and with a sigh said to King Conor as they
waited: “Do not leave this place till all is over. Death is coming to me
very surely, but I must fulfil my agreement, for I would rather die than
break my word.”

Towards the close of day the stranger strode into the hall exultant.

“Where is Cuchulain?” he cried.

“Here I am,” was the reply.

“Ah, poor boy! your speech is sad to-night, and the fear of death lies
heavy on you; but at least you have redeemed your word and have not
failed me.”

The youth rose from his seat and went towards him, as he stood with the
great axe ready, and knelt to receive the blow.

The hero of Ulster laid his head on the block; but the giant was not
satisfied. “Stretch out your neck better,” said he.

“You are playing with me, to torment me,” said Cuchulain. “Slay me now
speedily, for I did not keep you waiting last night.”

However, he stretched out his neck as ordered, and the stranger raised
his axe till it crashed upwards through the rafters of the hall, like
the crash of trees falling in a storm. When the axe came down with a
terrific sound all men looked fearfully at Cuchulain. The descending axe
had not even touched him; it had come down with the blunt side on the
ground, and the youth knelt there unharmed. Smiling at him, and leaning
on his axe, stood no terrible and hideous stranger, but Curoi of Kerry,
come to give his decision at last.

“Rise up, Cuchulain,” said Curoi. “There is none among all the heroes of
Ulster to equal you in courage and loyalty and truth. The Championship
of the Heroes of Ireland is yours from this day forth, and the
Champion’s Portion at all feasts; and to your wife I adjudge the first
place among all the women of Ulster. Woe to him who dares to dispute
this decision!” Thereupon Curoi vanished, and the warriors gathered
around Cuchulain, and all with one voice acclaimed him the Champion of
the Heroes of all Ireland—a title which has clung to him until this
day.

This is one of many stories told of the Irish champion, whose deeds of
bravery would fill many pages. Cuchulain finally came to his end on the
field of battle, after a fight in which he displayed all his usual
gallantry but in which unfair means were used to overcome him.

For Wales and for England during centuries Arthur has been the
representative “very gentle perfect knight.” In a similar way, in
England’s sister isle, Cuchulain stands ever for the highest ideals of
the Irish Gaels.

                                  ————


                           HEREWARD THE WAKE

IN Hereward the Wake (or “Watchful”) is found one of those heroes whose
date can be ascertained with a fair amount of exactness and yet in whose
story occur mythological elements which seem to belong to all ages. The
folklore of primitive races is a great storehouse whence a people can
choose tales and heroic deeds to glorify its own national hero, careless
that the same tales and deeds have done duty for other peoples and other
heroes. Hence it happens that Hereward the Saxon, a patriot hero as real
and actual as Nelson or George Washington, whose deeds were recorded in
prose and verse within forty years of his death, was even then
surrounded by a cloud of romance and mystery, which hid in vagueness his
family, his marriage, and even his death.

Briefly it may be stated that Hereward was a native of Lincolnshire, and
was in his prime about 1070. In that year he joined a party of Danes who
appeared in England, attacked Peterborough and sacked the abbey there,
and afterward took refuge in the Isle of Ely. Here he was besieged by
William the Conqueror, and was finally forced to yield to the Norman. He
thus came to stand for the defeated Saxon race, and his name has been
passed down as that of the darling hero of the Saxons. For his splendid
defence of Ely they forgave his final surrender to Duke William; they
attributed to him all the virtues supposed to be inherent in the
free-born, and all the glorious valor on which the English prided
themselves; and, lastly, they surrounded his death with a halo of
desperate fighting, and made his last conflict as wonderful as that of
Roland at Roncesvalles. If Roland is the ideal of Norman feudal
chivalry, Hereward is equally the ideal of Anglo-Saxon sturdy manliness
and knighthood.

An account of one of Hereward’s adventures as a youth will serve as
illustration of the stories told of his prowess. On an enforced visit to
Cornwall, he found that King Alef, a petty British chief, had betrothed
his fair daughter to a terrible Pictish giant, breaking off, in order to
do it, her troth-plight with Prince Sigtryg of Waterford, son of a
Danish king in Ireland. Hereward, ever chivalrous, picked a quarrel with
the giant and killed him in fair fight, whereupon the king threw him
into prison. In the following night, however, the released princess
arranged that the gallant Saxon should be freed and sent hot-foot for
her lover, Prince Sigtryg. After many adventures Hereward reached the
prince, who hastened to return to Cornwall with the young hero. But to
the grief of both, they learned upon their arrival that the princess had
just been betrothed to a wild Cornish hero, Haco, and the wedding feast
was to be held that very day. Sigtryg at once sent a troop of forty
Danes to King Alef demanding the fulfilment of the troth-plight between
himself and his daughter, and threatening vengeance if it were broken.
To this threat the king returned no answer, and no Dane came back to
tell of their reception.

Sigtryg would have waited till morning, trusting in the honor of the
king, but Hereward disguised himself as a minstrel and obtained
admission to the bridal feast, where he soon won applause by his
beautiful singing. The bridegroom, Haco, in a rapture offered him any
boon he liked to ask, but he demanded only a cup of wine from the hands
of the bride. When she brought it to him he flung into the empty cup the
betrothal ring, the token she had sent to Sigtryg, and said: “I thank
thee, lady, and would reward thee for thy gentleness to a wandering
minstrel; I give back the cup, richer than before by the kind thoughts
of which it bears the token.” The princess looked at him, gazed into the
goblet, and saw her ring; then, looking again, she recognized her
deliverer and knew that rescue was at hand.

While men feasted Hereward listened and talked, and found out that the
forty Danes were prisoners, to be released on the morrow when Haco was
sure of his bride, but released useless and miserable, since they would
be turned adrift blinded. Haco was taking his lovely bride back to his
own land, and Hereward saw that any rescue, to be successful, must be
attempted on the march.

Returning to Sigtryg, the young Saxon told all that he had learned, and
the Danes planned an ambush in the ravine where Haco had decided to
blind and set free his captives. The whole was carried out exactly as
Hereward arranged it. The Cornishmen, with the Danish captives, passed
first without attack; next came Haco, riding grim and ferocious beside
his silent bride, he exulting in his success, she looking eagerly for
any signs of rescue. As they passed Hereward sprang from his shelter,
crying, “Upon them, Danes, and set your brethren free!” and himself
struck down Haco and smote off his head. There was a short struggle, but
soon the rescued Danes were able to aid their deliverers, and the
Cornish guards were all slain; the men of King Alef, never very zealous
for the cause of Haco, fled, and the Danes were left masters of the
field.

Sigtryg had in the meantime seen to the safety of the princess, and now,
placing her between himself and Hereward, he escorted her to the ship,
which soon brought them to Waterford and a happy bridal. The Prince and
Princess of Waterford always recognized in Hereward their deliverer and
best friend, and in their gratitude wished him to dwell with them
always; but the hero’s roving and daring temper forbade his settling
down, but rather urged him on to deeds of arms in other lands, where he
quickly won a renown second to none.

                                  ————


                               ROBIN HOOD

AMONG the earliest heirlooms of the Anglo-Saxon tongue are the songs and
legends of Robin Hood and his merry outlaws, which have charmed readers
young and old for more than six hundred years. These entertaining
stories date back to the time when Chaucer wrote his “Canterbury Tales,”
when the minstrel and scribe stood in the place of the more prim and
precise modern printed book.

The question of whether or not Robin Hood was a real person has been
asked for many years, just as a similar question has been asked about
William Tell and others whom everyone would much rather accept on faith.
It cannot be answered by a brief “yes” or “no,” even though learned men
have pored over ancient records and have written books on the subject.
According to the general belief Robin was an outlaw in the reign of
Richard I, when in the depths of Sherwood Forest he entertained one
hundred tall men, all good archers, with the spoil he took; but “he
suffered no woman to be oppressed or otherwise molested; poore men’s
goods he spared, abundantlie relieving them with that which by theft he
got from abbeys and houses of rich earles.” Consequently Robin was an
immense favorite with the common people.

This popularity extended from the leader to all the members of his hardy
band. “God save Robin Hood and all his good yeomanry” is the ending of
many old ballads. The clever archer who could outshoot his fellows, the
brave yeoman inured to blows, and the man who could be true to his
friends through thick and thin were favorites for all time; and they
have been idealized in the persons of Robin Hood and his merry outlaws.

One of the best-known stories of this picturesque figure of early
English times is that given by Sir Walter Scott in “Ivanhoe,” concerning
the archery contest during the rule or misrule of Prince John, in the
absence of Richard from the kingdom. Robin Hood, under the assumed name
of Locksley, boldly presents himself at a royal tournament at Ashby, as
competitor for the prize in shooting with the long-bow. From the eight
or ten archers who enter the contest, the number finally narrows down to
two,—Hubert, a forester in the service of one of the king’s nobles, and
Locksley or Robin Hood. Hubert takes the first shot in the final trial
of skill, and lands his arrow within the inner ring of the target, but
not exactly in the centre.

“‘You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert,’ said Locksley, ‘or that
had been a better shot.’

“So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause upon his aim,
Locksley stepped to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as
carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He
was speaking almost at the instant that the shaft left the bow-string,
yet it alighted in the target two inches nearer to the white spot which
marked the centre than that of Hubert.

“‘By the light of Heaven!’ said Prince John to Hubert, ‘an thou suffer
that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!’

“Hubert had but one set speech for all occasions. ‘An your highness were
to hang me,’ he said, ‘a man can but do his best. Nevertheless, my
grandsire drew a good bow——’

“‘The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his generation!’ interrupted
John; ‘shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be worse for thee!’

“Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and not neglecting the caution
which he had received from his adversary, he made the necessary
allowance for a very light air of wind, which had just risen, and shot
so successfully that his arrow alighted in the very centre of the
target.

“‘A Hubert! a Hubert!’ shouted the populace, more interested in a known
person than in a stranger. ‘In the clout!—in the clout!—a Hubert
forever!’

“‘Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley,’ said the Prince, with an
insulting smile.

“‘I will notch his shaft for him, however,’ replied Locksley.

“And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before, it
lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers.
The people who stood around were so astonished at his wonderful
dexterity, that they could not even give vent to their surprise in their
usual clamor. ‘This must be the devil, and no man of flesh and blood,’
whispered the yeomen to each other; ‘such archery was never seen since a
bow was first bent in Britain.’

“‘And now,’ said Locksley, ‘I will crave your Grace’s permission to
plant such a mark as is used in the North Country; and welcome every
brave yeoman who shall try a shot at it to win a smile from the bonny
lass he loves best.’”

Locksley thereupon sets up a willow wand, six feet long and as thick as
a man’s thumb. Hubert is forced to decline the honor of taking part in
such a trial of archery skill, but his rival easily splits the wand at a
distance of three hundred feet and carries off the prize.

“Even Prince John, in admiration of Locksley’s skill, lost for an
instant his dislike to his person. ‘These twenty nobles,’ he said,
‘which, with the bugle, thou hast fairly won, are thine own; we will
make them fifty, if thou wilt take livery and service with us as a
yeoman of our bodyguard, and be near to our person. For never did so
strong a hand bend a bow, or so true an eye direct a shaft.’”[71]

Locksley, however, declares that it is impossible for him to enter the
Prince’s service, generously shares his prize with the worthy Hubert,
and retires once more to his beloved haunts among the lights and shadows
of the good greenwood.

[Illustration: CHARLEMAGNE.
 From painting by Dürer in the Museum at Nuremburg.]

[Illustration: CHARLEMAGNE RECEIVING HIS GUESTS.
 Original drawing by Byam Shaw.]




                         LEGENDS OF CHARLEMAGNE


                              INTRODUCTION

Those who have investigated the origin of the romantic fables relating
to Charlemagne and his peers are of opinion that the deeds of Charles
Martel, and perhaps of other Charleses, have been blended in popular
tradition with those properly belonging to Charlemagne. It was indeed a
most momentous era; and if our readers will have patience, before
entering on the perusal of the fabulous annals which we are about to lay
before them, to take a rapid survey of the real history of the times,
they will find it hardly less romantic than the tales of the poets.

In the century beginning from the year 600, the countries bordering upon
the native land of our Saviour, to the east and south, had not yet
received his religion. Arabia was the seat of an idolatrous religion
resembling that of the ancient Persians, who worshipped the sun, moon,
and stars. In Mecca, in the year 571, Mahomet was born, and here, at the
age of forty, he proclaimed himself the prophet of God, in dignity as
superior to Christ as Christ had been to Moses. Having obtained by slow
degrees a considerable number of disciples, he resorted to arms to
diffuse his religion. The energy and zeal of his followers, aided by the
weakness of the neighboring nations, enabled him and his successors to
spread the sway of Arabia and the religion of Mahomet over the countries
to the east as far as the Indus, northward over Persia and Asia Minor,
westward over Egypt and the southern shores of the Mediterranean, and
thence over the principal portion of Spain. All this was done within one
hundred years from the Hegira, or flight of Mahomet from Mecca to
Medina, which happened in the year 622, and is the era from which
Mahometans reckon time, as we do from the birth of Christ.

From Spain the way was open for the Saracens (so the followers of
Mahomet were called) into France, the conquest of which, if achieved,
would have been followed very probably by that of all the rest of
Europe, and would have resulted in the banishment of Christianity from
the earth. For Christianity was not at that day universally professed,
even by those nations which we now regard as foremost in civilization.
Great parts of Germany, Britain, Denmark, and Russia were still pagan or
barbarous.

At that time there ruled in France, though without the title of king,
the first of those illustrious Charleses of whom we have spoken, Charles
Martel, the grandfather of Charlemagne. The Saracens of Spain had made
incursions into France in 712 and 718, and had retired, carrying with
them a vast booty. In 725, Anbessa, who was then the Saracen governor of
Spain, crossed the Pyrenees with a numerous army, and took by storm the
strong town of Carcassone. So great was the terror excited by this
invasion, that the country for a wide extent submitted to the conqueror,
and a Mahometan governor for the province was appointed and installed at
Narbonne. Anbessa, however, received a fatal wound in one of his
engagements, and the Saracens, being thus checked from further advance,
retired to Narbonne.

In 732 the Saracens again invaded France under Abdalrahman, advanced
rapidly to the banks of the Garonne, and laid siege to Bordeaux. The
city was taken by assault and delivered up to the soldiery. The invaders
still pressed forward, and spread over the territories of Orleans,
Auxerre and Sens. Their advanced parties were suddenly called in by
their chief, who had received information of the rich abbey of St.
Martin of Tours, and resolved to plunder and destroy it.

Charles during all this time had done nothing to oppose the Saracens,
for the reason that the portion of France over which their incursions
had been made was not at that time under his dominion, but constituted
an independent kingdom, under the name of Aquitaine, of which Eude was
king. But now Charles became convinced of the danger, and prepared to
encounter it. Abdalrahman was advancing toward Tours, when intelligence
of the approach of Charles, at the head of an army of Franks, compelled
him to fall back upon Poitiers, in order to seize an advantageous field
of battle.

Charles Martel had called together his warriors from every part of his
dominions, and, at the head of such an army as had hardly ever been seen
in France, crossed the Loire, probably at Orleans, and, being joined by
the remains of the army of Aquitaine, came in sight of the Arabs in the
month of October, 732. The Saracens seem to have been aware of the
terrible enemy they were now to encounter, and for the first time these
formidable conquerors hesitated. The two armies remained in presence
during seven days before either ventured to begin the attack; but at
length the signal for battle was given by Abdalrahman, and the immense
mass of the Saracen army rushed with fury on the Franks. But the heavy
line of the Northern warriors remained like a rock, and the Saracens,
during nearly the whole day, expended their strength in vain attempts to
make any impression upon them. At length, about four o’clock in the
afternoon, when Abdalrahman was preparing for a new and desperate
attempt to break the line of the Franks, a terrible clamor was heard in
the rear of the Saracens. It was King Eude, who, with his Aquitanians,
had attacked their camp, and a great part of the Saracen army rushed
tumultuously from the field to protect their plunder. In this moment of
confusion the line of the Franks advanced, and, sweeping the field
before it, carried fearful slaughter amongst the enemy. Abdalrahman made
desperate efforts to rally his troops, but when he himself, with the
bravest of his officers, fell beneath the swords of the Christians, all
order disappeared, and the remains of his army sought refuge in their
immense camp, from which Eude and his Aquitanians had been repulsed. It
was now late, and Charles, unwilling to risk an attack on the camp in
the dark, withdrew his army, and passed the night in the plain,
expecting to renew the battle in the morning.

Accordingly, when daylight came, the Franks drew up in order of battle,
but no enemy appeared; and when at last they ventured to approach the
Saracen camp they found it empty. The invaders had taken advantage of
the night to begin their retreat, and were already on their way back to
Spain, leaving their immense plunder behind to fall into the hands of
the Franks.

This was the celebrated battle of Tours, in which vast numbers of the
Saracens were slain, and only fifteen hundred of the Franks. Charles
received the surname of Martel (the Hammer) in consequence of this
victory.

The Saracens, notwithstanding this severe blow, continued to hold their
ground in the south of France; but Pepin, the son of Charles Martel, who
succeeded to his father’s power, and assumed the title of king,
successively took from them the strong places they held; and in 759, by
the capture of Narbonne, their capital, extinguished the remains of
their power in France.

Charlemagne, or Charles the Great, succeeded his father, Pepin, on the
throne in the year 768. This prince, though the hero of numerous
romantic legends, appears greater in history than in fiction. Whether we
regard him as a warrior or as a legislator, as a patron of learning or
as the civilizer of a barbarous nation, he is entitled to our warmest
admiration. Such he is in history; but the romancers represent him as
often weak and passionate, the victim of treacherous counsellors, and at
the mercy of turbulent barons, on whose prowess he depends for the
maintenance of his throne. The historical representation is doubtless
the true one, for it is handed down in trustworthy records, and is
confirmed by the events of the age. At the height of his power, the
French empire extended over what we now call France, Germany,
Switzerland, Holland, Belgium, and great part of Italy.

In the year 800 Charlemagne, being in Rome, whither he had gone with a
numerous army to protect the Pope, was crowned by the Pontiff Emperor of
the West. On Christmas day Charles entered the Church of St. Peter, as
if merely to take his part in the celebration of the mass with the rest
of the congregation. When he approached the altar and stooped in the act
of prayer the Pope stepped forward and placed a crown of gold upon his
head; and immediately the Roman people shouted, “Life and victory to
Charles the August, crowned by God the great and pacific Emperor of the
Romans.” The Pope then prostrated himself before him, and paid him
reverence, according to the custom established in the times of the
ancient Emperors, and concluded the ceremony by anointing him with
consecrated oil.

Charlemagne’s wars were chiefly against the pagan and barbarous people,
who, under the name of Saxons, inhabited the countries now called
Hanover and Holland. He also led expeditions against the Saracens of
Spain; but his wars with the Saracens were not carried on, as the
romances assert, in France, but on the soil of Spain. He entered Spain
by the Eastern Pyrenees, and made an easy conquest of Barcelona and
Pampeluna. But Saragossa refused to open her gates to him, and Charles
ended by negotiating and accepting a vast sum of gold as the price of
his return over the Pyrenees.

On his way back, he marched with his whole army through the gorges of
the mountains by way of the valleys of Engui, Eno, and Roncesvalles. The
chief of this region had waited upon Charlemagne, on his advance, as a
faithful vassal of the monarchy; but now, on the return of the Franks,
he had called together all the wild mountaineers who acknowledged him as
their chief, and they occupied the heights of the mountains under which
the army had to pass. The main body of the troops met with no
obstruction, and received no intimation of danger; but the rear-guard,
which was considerably behind, and encumbered with its plunder, was
overwhelmed by the mountaineers in the pass of Roncesvalles, and slain
to a man. Some of the bravest of the Frankish chiefs perished on this
occasion, among whom is mentioned Roland or Orlando, governor of the
marches or frontier of Brittany. His name became famous in after times,
and the disaster of Roncesvalles and death of Roland became eventually
the most celebrated episode in the vast cycle of romance.

Though after this there were hostile encounters between the armies of
Charlemagne and the Saracens, they were of small account, and generally
on the soil of Spain. Thus the historical foundation for the stories of
the romancers is but scanty, unless we suppose the events of an earlier
and of a later age to be incorporated with those of Charlemagne’s own
time.

There is, however, a pretended history, which for a long time was
admitted as authentic, and attributed to Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims, a
real personage of the time of Charlemagne. Its title is “History of
Charles the Great and Orlando.” It is now unhesitatingly considered as a
collection of popular traditions, produced by some credulous and
unscrupulous monk, who thought to give dignity to his romance by
ascribing its authorship to a well-known and eminent individual. It
introduces its pretended author, Bishop Turpin, in this manner:

“Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims, the friend and secretary of Charles the
Great, excellently skilled in sacred and profane literature, of a genius
equally adapted to prose and verse, the advocate of the poor, beloved of
God in his life and conversation, who often fought the Saracens, hand to
hand, by the Emperor’s side, he relates the acts of Charles the Great in
one book, and flourished under Charles and his son Louis, to the year of
our Lord eight hundred and thirty.”

The titles of some of Archbishop Turpin’s chapters will show the nature
of his history. They are these: “Of the Walls of Pampeluna, that fell of
themselves.” “Of the War of the holy Facundus, where the Spears grew.”
(Certain of the Christians fixed their spears in the evening, erect in
the ground, before the castle; and found them, in the morning, covered
with bark and branches.) “How the Sun stood still for Three Days, and of
the Slaughter of Four Thousand Saracens.”

Turpin’s history has perhaps been the source of the marvellous
adventures which succeeding poets and romancers have accumulated around
the names of Charlemagne and his Paladins, or Peers. But Ariosto and the
other Italian poets have drawn from different sources, and doubtless
often from their own invention, numberless other stories which they
attribute to the same heroes, not hesitating to quote as their authority
“the good Turpin,” though his history contains no trace of them; and the
more outrageous the improbability, or rather the impossibility, of their
narrations, the more attentive are they to cite “the Archbishop,”
generally adding their testimonial to his unquestionable veracity.

The principal Italian poets who have sung the adventures of the peers of
Charlemagne are Pulci, Boiardo, and Ariosto. The characters of Orlando,
Rinaldo, Astolpho, Gano, and others, are the same in all, though the
adventures attributed to them are different. Boiardo tells us of the
loves of Orlando, Ariosto of his disappointment and consequent madness,
Pulci of his death.

Ogier, the Dane, is a real personage. History agrees with romance in
representing him as a powerful lord who, originally from Denmark and a
Pagan, embraced Christianity, and took service under Charlemagne. He
revolted from the Emperor, and was driven into exile. He afterwards led
one of those bands of piratical Northmen which ravaged France under the
reigns of Charlemagne’s degenerate successors. The description which an
ancient chronicler gives of Charlemagne, as described by Ogier, is so
picturesque, that we are tempted to transcribe it. Charlemagne was
advancing to the siege of Pavia. Didier, King of the Lombards, was in
the city with Ogier, to whom he had given refuge. When they learned that
the king was approaching they mounted a high tower, whence they could
see far and wide over the country. “They first saw advancing the engines
of war, fit for the armies of Darius or Julius Cæsar. ‘There is
Charlemagne,’ said Didier. ‘No,’ said Ogier. The Lombard next saw a vast
body of soldiers, who filled all the plain. ‘Certainly Charles advanced
with that host,’ said the king. ‘Not yet,’ replied Ogier. ‘What hope for
us,’ resumed the king, ‘if he brings with him a greater host than that?’
At last Charles appeared, his head covered with an iron helmet, his
hands with iron gloves, his breast and shoulders with a cuirass of iron,
his left hand holding an iron lance, while his right hand grasped his
sword. Those who went before the monarch, those who marched at his side,
and those who followed him, all had similar arms. Iron covered the
fields and the roads; iron points reflected the rays of the sun. This
iron, so hard, was borne by a people whose hearts were harder still. The
blaze of the weapons flashed terror into the streets of the city.”

This picture of Charlemagne in his military aspect would be incomplete
without a corresponding one of his “mood of peace.” One of the greatest
of modern historians, M. Guizot, has compared the glory of Charlemagne
to a brilliant meteor, rising suddenly out of the darkness of barbarism
to disappear no less suddenly in the darkness of feudalism. But the
light of this meteor was not extinguished, and reviving civilization
owed much that was permanently beneficial to the great Emperor of the
Franks. His ruling hand is seen in the legislation of his time, as well
as in the administration of the laws. He encouraged learning; he upheld
the clergy, who were the only peaceful and intellectual class, against
the encroaching and turbulent barons; he was an affectionate father, and
watched carefully over the education of his children, both sons and
daughters. Of his encouragement of learning we will give some
particulars.

He caused learned men to be brought from Italy and from other foreign
countries to revive the public schools of France, which had been
prostrated by the disorders of preceding times. He recompensed these
learned men liberally, and kept some of them near himself, honoring them
with his friendship. Of these the most celebrated is Alcuin, an
Englishman, whose writings still remain, and prove him to have been both
a learned and a wise man. With the assistance of Alcuin, and others like
him, he founded an academy or royal school, which should have the
direction of the studies of all the schools of the kingdom. Charlemagne
himself was a member of this academy on equal terms with the rest. He
attended its meetings, and fulfilled all the duties of an academician.
Each member took the name of some famous man of antiquity. Alcuin called
himself Horace, another took the name of Augustin, a third of Pindar.
Charlemagne, who knew the Psalms by heart, and who had an ambition to
be, according to his conception, _a king after God’s own heart_,
received from his brother academicians the name of David.

Of the respect entertained for him by foreign nations an interesting
proof is afforded in the embassy sent to him by the Caliph of the
Arabians, the celebrated Haroun al Raschid, a prince in character and
conduct not unlike to Charlemagne. The ambassadors brought with them,
besides other rich presents, a clock, the first that was seen in Europe,
which excited universal admiration. It had the form of a twelve-sided
edifice with twelve doors. These doors formed niches, in each of which
was a little statue representing one of the hours. At the striking of
the hour the doors, one for each stroke, was seen to open, and from the
doors to issue as many of the little statues, which, following one
another, marched gravely round the tower. The motion of the clock was
caused by water, and the striking was effected by balls of brass equal
to the number of the hours, which fell upon a cymbal of the same metal,
the number falling being determined by the discharge of the water,
which, as it sunk in the vessel, allowed their escape.

Charlemagne was succeeded by his son Louis, a well-intentioned but
feeble prince, in whose reign the fabric reared by Charles began rapidly
to crumble. Louis was followed successively by two Charleses, incapable
princes, whose weak and often tyrannical conduct is no doubt the source
of incidents of that character ascribed in the romances to Charlemagne.

The lawless and disobedient deportment of Charles’s paladins, instances
of which are so frequent in the romantic legends, was also a trait of
the declining empire, but not of that of Charlemagne.

                                  ————


                         THE PEERS, OR PALADINS

The twelve most illustrious knights of Charlemagne were called Peers,
for the equality that reigned among them; while the name of Paladins,
also conferred on them, implies that they were inmates of the palace and
companions of the king. Their names are always given alike by the
romancers, yet we may enumerate the most distinguished of them as
follows: Orlando or Roland (the former the Italian, the latter the
French form of the name), favorite nephew of Charlemagne; Rinaldo of
Montalban, cousin of Orlando; Namo, Duke of Bavaria; Salomon, king of
Brittany; Turpin, the Archbishop; Astolpho, of England; Ogier, the Dane;
Malagigi, the Enchanter; and Florismart, the friend of Orlando. There
were others who are sometimes named as paladins, and the number cannot
be strictly limited to twelve. Charlemagne himself must be counted one,
and Ganelon, or Gano, of Mayence, the treacherous enemy of all the rest,
was rated high on the list by his deluded sovereign, who was completely
the victim of his arts.

We shall introduce more particularly to our readers a few of the
principal peers, leaving the others to make their own introduction as
they appear in the course of our narrative. We begin with Orlando.

                                ORLANDO

Milon, or Milone, a knight of great family, and distantly related to
Charlemagne, having secretly married Bertha, the Emperor’s sister, was
banished from France, and excommunicated by the Pope. After a long and
miserable wandering on foot as mendicants Milon and his wife arrived at
Sutri, in Italy, where they took refuge in a cave, and in that cave
Orlando was born. There his mother continued, deriving a scanty support
from the compassion of the neighboring peasants; while Milon, in quest
of honor and fortune, went into foreign lands. Orlando grew up among the
children of the peasantry, surpassing them all in strength and manly
graces. Among his companions in age, though in station far more
elevated, was Oliver, son of the governor of the town. Between the two
boys a feud arose that led to a fight, in which Orlando thrashed his
rival; but this did not prevent a friendship springing up between the
two, which lasted through life.

Orlando was so poor that he was sometimes half naked. As he was a
favorite of the boys, one day four of them brought some cloth to make
him clothes. Two brought white and two red; and from this circumstance
Orlando took his coat-of-arms, or _quarterings_.

When Charlemagne was on his way to Rome to receive the imperial crown he
dined in public in Sutri. Orlando and his mother that day had nothing to
eat, and Orlando coming suddenly upon the royal party, and seeing
abundance of provisions, seized from the attendants as much as he could
carry off, and made good his retreat in spite of their resistance. The
Emperor, being told of this incident, was reminded of an intimation he
had received in a dream, and ordered the boy to be followed. This was
done by three of the knights, whom Orlando would have encountered with a
cudgel on their entering the grotto, had not his mother restrained him.
When they heard from her who she was they threw themselves at her feet,
and promised to obtain her pardon from the Emperor. This was easily
effected. Orlando was received into favor by the Emperor, returned with
him to France, and so distinguished himself that he became the most
powerful support of the throne and of Christianity.[72]

                          ROLAND AND FERRAGUS

Orlando, or Roland, particularly distinguished himself by his combat
with Ferragus. Ferragus was a giant, and moreover his skin was of such
impenetrable stuff that no sword could make any impression upon it. The
giant’s mode of fighting was to seize his adversary in his arms and
carry him off, in spite of all the struggles he could make. Roland’s
utmost skill only availed to keep him out of the giant’s clutches, but
all his efforts to wound him with the sword were useless. After long
fighting Ferragus was so weary that he proposed a truce, and when it was
agreed upon he lay down and immediately fell asleep. He slept in perfect
security, for it was against all the laws of chivalry to take advantage
of an adversary under such circumstances. But Ferragus lay so
uncomfortably for the want of a pillow that Orlando took pity upon him,
and brought a smooth stone and placed it under his head. When the giant
woke up, after a refreshing nap, and perceived what Orlando had done, he
seemed quite grateful, became sociable, and talked freely in the usual
boastful style of such characters. Among other things he told Orlando
that he need not attempt to kill him with a sword, for that every part
of his body was invulnerable, except this; and as he spoke, he put his
hand to the vital part, just in the middle of his breast. Aided by this
information Orlando succeeded, when the fight was renewed, in piercing
the giant in the very spot he had pointed out, and giving him a
death-wound. Great was the rejoicing in the Christian camp, and many the
praises showered upon the victorious paladin by the Emperor and all his
host.

On another occasion Orlando encountered a puissant Saracen warrior, and
took from him, as the prize of victory, the sword Durindana. This famous
weapon had once belonged to the illustrious prince Hector of Troy. It
was of the finest workmanship, and of such strength and temper that no
armor in the world could stand against it.

                         A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER

Guerin de Montglave held the lordship of Vienne, subject to Charlemagne.
He had quarrelled with his sovereign, and Charles laid siege to his
city, having ravaged the neighboring country. Guerin was an aged
warrior, but relied for his defence upon his four sons and two
grandsons, who were among the bravest knights of the age. After the
siege had continued two months Charlemagne received tidings that
Marsilius, king of Spain, had invaded France, and, finding himself
unopposed, was advancing rapidly in the Southern provinces. At this
intelligence Charles listened to the counsel of his peers, and consented
to put the quarrel with Guerin to the decision of Heaven, by single
combat between two knights, one of each party, selected by lot. The
proposal was acceptable to Guerin and his sons. The names of the four,
together with Guerin’s own, who would not be excused, and of the two
grandsons, who claimed their lot, being put into a helmet, Oliver’s was
drawn forth, and to him, the youngest of the grandsons, was assigned the
honor and the peril of the combat. He accepted the award with delight,
exulting in being thought worthy to maintain the cause of his family. On
Charlemagne’s side Roland was the designated champion, and neither he
nor Oliver knew who his antagonist was to be.

They met on an island in the Rhone, and the warriors of both camps were
ranged on either shore, spectators of the battle. At the first encounter
both lances were shivered, but both riders kept their seats, immovable.
They dismounted, and drew their swords. Then ensued a combat which
seemed so equal, that the spectators could not form an opinion as to the
probable issue. Two hours and more the knights continued to strike and
parry, to thrust and ward, neither showing any sign of weariness, nor
ever being taken at unawares. At length Orlando struck furiously upon
Oliver’s shield, burying Durindana in its edge so deeply that he could
not draw it back, and Oliver, almost at the same moment, thrust so
vigorously upon Orlando’s breastplate that his sword snapped off at the
handle. Thus were the two warriors left weaponless. Scarcely pausing a
moment, they rushed upon one another, each striving to throw his
adversary to the ground, and failing in that, each snatched at the
other’s helmet to tear it away. Both succeeded, and at the same moment
they stood bareheaded face to face, and Roland recognized Oliver, and
Oliver Roland. For a moment they stood still; and the next, with open
arms, rushed into one another’s embrace. “I am conquered,” said Orlando.
“I yield me,” said Oliver.

The people on the shore knew not what to make of all this. Presently
they saw the two late antagonists standing hand in hand, and it was
evident the battle was at an end. The knights crowded round them, and
with one voice hailed them as equals in glory. If there were any who
felt disposed to murmur that the battle was left undecided they were
silenced by the voice of Ogier the Dane, who proclaimed aloud that all
had been done that honor required, and declared that he would maintain
that award against all gainsayers.

The quarrel with Guerin and his sons being left undecided, a truce was
made for four days, and in that time, by the efforts of Duke Namo on the
one side, and of Oliver on the other, a reconciliation was effected.
Charlemagne, accompanied by Guerin and his valiant family, marched to
meet Marsilius, who hastened to retreat across the frontier.

                                RINALDO

Rinaldo was one of the four sons of Aymon, who married Aya, the sister
of Charlemagne. Thus Rinaldo was nephew to Charlemagne and cousin of
Orlando.

When Rinaldo had grown old enough to assume arms Orlando had won for
himself an illustrious name by his exploits against the Saracens, whom
Charlemagne and his brave knights had driven out of France. Orlando’s
fame excited a noble emulation in Rinaldo. Eager to go in pursuit of
glory, he wandered in the country near Paris, and one day saw at the
foot of a tree a superb horse, fully equipped and loaded with a complete
suit of armor. Rinaldo clothed himself in the armor and mounted the
horse, but took not the sword. On the day when, with his brothers, he
had received the honor of knighthood from the Emperor he had sworn never
to bind a sword to his side till he had wrested one from some famous
knight.

Rinaldo took his way to the forest of Arden, celebrated for so many
adventures. Hardly had he entered it when he met an old man, bending
under the weight of years, and learned from him that the forest was
infested with a wild horse, untamable, that broke and overturned
everything that opposed his career. To attack him, he said, or even to
meet him, was certain death. Rinaldo, far from being alarmed, showed the
most eager desire to combat the animal. This was the horse Bayard,
afterward so famous. He had formerly belonged to Amadis of Gaul. After
the death of that hero he had been held under enchantment by the power
of a magician, who predicted that, when the time came to break the
spell, he should be subdued by a knight of the lineage of Amadis, and
not less brave than he.

To win this wonderful horse it was necessary to conquer him by force or
skill; for from the moment when he should be thrown down he would become
docile and manageable. His habitual resort was a cave on the borders of
the forest; but woe be to any one who should approach him, unless gifted
with strength and courage more than mortal. Having told this, the old
man departed. He was not, in fact, an old man, but Malagigi, the
enchanter, cousin of Rinaldo, who, to favor the enterprises of the young
knight, had procured for him the horse and armor which he so opportunely
found, and now put him in the way to acquire a horse unequalled in the
world.

Rinaldo plunged into the forest, and spent many days in seeking Bayard,
but found no traces of him. One day he encountered a Saracen knight,
with whom he made acquaintance, as often happened to knights, by first
meeting him in combat. This knight, whose name was Isolier, was also in
quest of Bayard. Rinaldo succeeded in the encounter, and so severe was
the shock that Isolier was a long time insensible. When he revived, and
was about to resume the contest, a peasant who passed by (it was
Malagigi) interrupted them with the news that the terrible horse was
near at hand, advising them to unite their powers to subdue him, for it
would require all their ability.

Rinaldo and Isolier, now become friends, proceeded together to the
attack of the horse. They found Bayard, and stood a long time, concealed
by the wood, admiring his strength and beauty.

A bright bay in color (whence he was called Bayard), with a silver star
in his forehead, and his hind feet white, his body slender, his head
delicate, his ample chest filled out with swelling muscles, his
shoulders broad and full, his legs straight and sinewy, his thick mane
falling over his arching neck,—he came rushing through the forest,
regardless of rocks, bushes, or trees, rending everything that opposed
his way, and neighing defiance.

He first descried Isolier, and rushed upon him. The knight received him
with lance in rest, but the fierce animal broke the spear, and his
course was not delayed by it for an instant. The Spaniard adroitly
stepped aside, and gave way to the rushing tempest. Bayard checked his
career, and turned again upon the knight, who had already drawn his
sword. He drew his sword, for he had no hope of taming the horse; that,
he was satisfied, was impossible.

Bayard rushed upon him; fiercely rearing, now on this side, now on that.
The knight struck him with his sword, where the white star adorned his
forehead, but struck in vain, and felt ashamed, thinking that he had
struck feebly, for he did not know that the skin of that horse was so
tough that the keenest sword could make no impression upon it.

Whistling fell the sword once more, and struck with greater force, and
the fierce horse felt it, and drooped his head under the blow, but the
next moment turned upon his foe with such a buffet that the Pagan fell
stunned and lifeless to the earth.

Rinaldo, who saw Isolier fall, and thought that his life was reft,
darted towards the horse, and, with his fist gave him such a blow on the
jaws that the blood tinged his mouth with vermilion. Quicker than an
arrow leaves the bow the horse turned upon him, and tried to seize his
arm with his teeth.

The knight stepped back, and then, repeating his blow, struck him on the
forehead. Bayard turned, and kicked with both his feet with a force that
would have shattered a mountain. Rinaldo was on his guard, and evaded
his attacks, whether made with head or heels. He kept at his side
avoiding both; but, making a false step, he at last received a terrible
blow from the horse’s foot, and at the shock almost fainted away. A
second such blow would have killed him, but the horse kicked at random,
and a second blow did not reach Rinaldo, who in a moment recovered
himself. Thus the contest continued until by chance Bayard’s foot got
caught between the branches of an oak. Rinaldo seized it and putting
forth all his strength and address, threw him on the ground.

No sooner had Bayard touched the ground than all his rage subsided. No
longer an object of terror, he became gentle and quiet, yet with dignity
in his mildness.

The paladin patted his neck, stroked his breast, and smoothed his mane,
while the animal neighed and showed delight to be caressed by his
master. Rinaldo, seeing him now completely subdued, took the saddle and
trappings from the other horse, and adorned Bayard with the spoils.

Rinaldo became one of the most illustrious knights of Charlemagne’s
court,—indeed, the most illustrious, if we except Orlando. Yet he was
not always so obedient to the Emperor’s commands as he should have been,
and every fault he committed was sure to be aggravated by the malice of
Gan, Duke of Maganza, the treacherous enemy of Rinaldo and all his
house.

At one time Rinaldo had incurred the severe displeasure of Charlemagne,
and been banished from court. Seeing no chance of being ever restored to
favor, he went to Spain, and entered into the service of the Saracen
king, Ivo. His brothers, Alardo, Ricardo, and Ricciardetto, accompanied
him, and all four served the king so faithfully that they rose to high
favor with him. The king gave them land in the mountains on the
frontiers of France and Spain, and subjected all the country round to
Rinaldo’s authority. There was plenty of marble in the mountains, the
king furnished workmen, and they built a castle for Rinaldo, surrounded
with high walls, so as to be almost impregnable. Built of white stone,
and placed on the brow of a marble promontory, the castle shone like a
star, and Rinaldo gave it the name of Montalban. Here he assembled his
friends, many of whom were banished men like himself, and the country
people furnished them with provisions in return for the protection the
castle afforded. Yet some of Rinaldo’s men were lawless, and sometimes
the supplies were not furnished in sufficient abundance, so that Rinaldo
and his garrison got a bad name for taking by force what they could not
obtain by gift; and we sometimes find Montalban spoken of as a nest of
freebooters, and its defenders called a beggarly garrison.

Charlemagne’s displeasure did not last long, and, at the time our
history commences, Rinaldo and his brothers were completely restored to
the favor of the Emperor, and none of his cavaliers served him with
greater zeal and fidelity than they, throughout all his wars with the
Saracens and Pagans.

                                  ————


                             THE TOURNAMENT

It was the month of May, and the feast of Pentecost. Charlemagne had
ordered magnificent festivities, and summoned to them, besides his
paladins and vassals of the crown, all strangers, Christian or Saracen,
then sojourning at Paris. Among the guests were King Grandonio, from
Spain; and Ferrau, the Saracen, with eyes like an eagle; Orlando and
Rinaldo, the Emperor’s nephews; Duke Namo; Astolpho, of England, the
handsomest man living; Malagigi, the Enchanter; and Gano, of Maganza,
that wily traitor, who had the art to make the Emperor think he loved
him, while he plotted against him.

High sat Charlemagne at the head of his vassals and his paladins,
rejoicing in the thought of their number and their might, while all were
sitting and hearing music, and feasting, when suddenly there came into
the hall four enormous giants, having between them a lady of
incomparable beauty, attended by a single knight. There were many ladies
present who had seemed beautiful till she made her appearance, but after
that they all seemed nothing. Every Christian knight turned his eyes to
her, and every Pagan crowded round her, while she, with a sweetness that
might have touched a heart of stone, thus addressed the Emperor:

“High-minded lord, the renown of your worthiness, and of the valor of
these your knights, which echoes from sea to sea, encourages me to hope
that two pilgrims, who have come from the ends of the world to behold
you, will not have encountered their fatigue in vain. And, before I show
the motive which has brought us hither, learn that this knight is my
brother Uberto, and that I am his sister Angelica. Fame has told us of
the jousting this day appointed, and so the prince my brother has come
to prove his valor, and to say that, if any of the knights here
assembled choose to meet him in the joust, he will encounter them, one
by one, at the stair of Merlin, by the Fountain of the Pine. And his
conditions are these: No knight who chances to be thrown shall be
allowed to renew the combat, but shall remain prisoner to my brother;
but if my brother be overthrown he shall depart out of the country,
leaving me as the prize of the conqueror.”

Now it must be stated that this Angelica and her brother, who called
himself Uberto, but whose real name was Argalia, were the children of
Galafron, king of Cathay, who had sent them to be the destruction of the
Christian host; for Argalia was armed with an enchanted lance, which
unfailingly overthrew everything it touched, and he was mounted on a
horse, a creature of magic, whose swiftness outstripped the wind.
Angelica possessed also a ring which was a defence against all
enchantments, and when put into the mouth rendered the bearer invisible.
Thus Argalia was expected to subdue and take prisoners whatever knights
should dare to encounter him; and the charms of Angelica were relied on
to entice the paladins to make the fatal venture, while her ring would
afford her easy means of escape.

When Angelica ceased speaking she knelt before the king and awaited his
answer, and everybody gazed on her with admiration. Orlando especially
felt irresistibly drawn towards her, so that he trembled and changed
countenance. Every knight in the hall was infected with the same
feeling, not excepting old white-headed Duke Namo and Charlemagne
himself.

All stood for a while in silence, lost in the delight of looking at her.
The fiery youth Ferrau could hardly restrain himself from seizing her
from the giants and carrying her away; Rinaldo turned as red as fire,
while Malagigi, who had discovered by his art that the stranger was not
speaking truth, muttered softly, as he looked at her, “Exquisite false
creature! I will play thee such a trick for this, as will leave thee no
cause to boast of thy visit.”

Charlemagne, to detain her as long as possible before him, delayed his
assent till he had asked her a number of questions, all which she
answered discreetly, and then the challenge was accepted.

As soon as she was gone Malagigi consulted his book, and found out the
whole plot of the vile, infidel king, Galafron, as we have explained it,
so he determined to seek the damsel and frustrate her designs. He
hastened to the appointed spot, and there found the prince and his
sister in a beautiful pavilion, where they lay asleep, while the four
giants kept watch. Malagigi took his book and cast a spell out of it,
and immediately the four giants fell into a deep sleep. Drawing his
sword (for he was a belted knight), he softly approached the young lady,
intending to despatch her at once; but, seeing her look so lovely, he
paused for a moment, thinking there was no need of hurry, as he believed
his spell was upon her, and she could not wake. But the ring which she
wore secured her from the effect of the spell, and some slight noise, or
whatever else it was, caused her at that moment to awake. She uttered a
great cry, and flew to her brother, and waked him. By the help of her
knowledge of enchantment, they took and bound fast the magician, and,
seizing his book, turned his arts against himself. Then they summoned a
crowd of demons, and bade them seize their prisoner and bear him to King
Galafron, at his great city of Albracca, which they did, and, on his
arrival, he was locked up in a rock under the sea.

While these things were going on all was uproar at Paris, since Orlando
insisted upon being the first to try the adventure at the stair of
Merlin. This was resented by the other pretenders to Angelica, and all
contested his right to the precedence. The tumult was stilled by the
usual expedient of drawing lots, and the first prize was drawn by
Astolpho. Ferrau, the Saracen, had the second, and Grandonio the third.
Next came Berlinghieri, and Otho; then Charles himself, and, as his
ill-fortune would have it, after thirty more, the indignant Orlando.

Astolpho, who drew the first lot, was handsome, brave, and rich. But,
whether from heedlessness or want of skill, he was an unlucky jouster,
and very apt to be thrown, an accident which he bore with perfect
good-humor, always ready to mount again and try to mend his fortune,
generally with no better success.

Astolpho went forth upon his adventure with great gayety of dress and
manner, encountered Argalia, and was immediately tilted out of the
saddle. He railed at fortune, to whom he laid all the fault; but his
painful feelings were somewhat relieved by the kindness of Angelica,
who, touched by his youth and good looks, granted him the liberty of the
pavilion, and caused him to be treated with all kindness and respect.

The violent Ferrau had the next chance in the encounter, and was thrown
no less speedily than Astolpho; but he did not so easily put up with his
mischance. Crying out, “What are the emperor’s engagements to me?” he
rushed with his sword against Argalia, who, being forced to defend
himself, dismounted and drew his sword, but got so much the worse of the
fight that he made a signal of surrender, and, after some words,
listened to a proposal of marriage from Ferrau to his sister. The
beauty, however, feeling no inclination to match with such a rough and
savage-looking person, was so dismayed at the offer, that, hastily
bidding her brother to meet her in the forest of Arden, she vanished
from the sight of both by means of the enchanted ring. Argalia, seeing
this, took to his horse of swiftness, and dashed away in the same
direction. Ferrau pursued him, and Astolpho, thus left to himself, took
possession of the enchanted lance in place of his own, which was broken,
not knowing the treasure he possessed in it, and returned to the
tournament. Charlemagne, finding the lady and her brother gone, ordered
the jousting to proceed as at first intended, in which Astolpho, by aid
of the enchanted lance, unhorsed all comers against him, equally to
their astonishment and his own.

The paladin Rinaldo, on learning the issue of the combat of Ferrau and
the stranger, galloped after the fair fugitive in an agony of love and
impatience. Orlando, perceiving his disappearance, pushed forth in like
manner; and, at length, all three are in the forest of Arden, hunting
about for her who is invisible.

Now in this forest there were two fountains, the one constructed by the
sage Merlin, who designed it for Tristram and the fair Isoude;[73] for
such was the virtue of this fountain, that a draught of its waters
produced an oblivion of the love which the drinker might feel, and even
produced aversion for the object formerly beloved. The other fountain
was endowed with exactly opposite qualities, and a draught of it
inspired love for the first living object that was seen after tasting
it. Rinaldo happened to come to the first mentioned fountain, and, being
flushed with heat, dismounted, and quenched in one draught both his
thirst and his passion. So far from loving Angelica as before he hated
her from the bottom of his heart, became disgusted with the search he
was upon, and, feeling fatigued with his ride, finding a sheltered and
flowery nook, laid himself down and fell asleep.

Shortly after came Angelica, but, approaching in a different direction,
she espied the other fountain, and there quenched her thirst. Then
resuming her way, she came upon the sleeping Rinaldo. Love instantly
seized her, and she stood rooted to the spot.

The meadow round was all full of lilies of the valley and wild roses.
Angelica, not knowing what to do, at length plucked a handful of these,
and dropped them, one by one, on the face of the sleeper. He woke up,
and, seeing who it was, received her salutations with averted
countenance, remounted his horse, and galloped away. In vain the
beautiful creature followed and called after him, in vain asked him what
she had done to be so despised. Rinaldo disappeared, leaving her in
despair, and she returned in tears to the spot where she had found him
sleeping. There, in her turn, she herself lay down, pressing the spot of
earth on which he had lain, and, out of fatigue and sorrow, fell asleep.

As Angelica thus lay, fortune conducted Orlando to the same place. The
attitude in which she was sleeping was so lovely that it is not to be
conceived, much less expressed. Orlando stood gazing like a man who had
been transported to another sphere. “Am I on earth,” he exclaimed, “or
am I in Paradise? Surely it is I that sleep, and this is my dream.”

But his dream was proved to be none in a manner which he little desired.
Ferrau, who had slain Argalia, came up, raging with jealousy, and a
combat ensued which awoke the sleeper.

Terrified at what she beheld, she rushed to her palfrey, and, while the
fighters were occupied with one another, fled away through the forest.
The champions continued their fight till they were interrupted by a
messenger, who brought word to Ferrau that king Marsilius, his
sovereign, was in pressing need of his assistance, and conjured him to
return to Spain. Ferrau, upon this, proposed to suspend the combat, to
which Orlando, eager to pursue Angelica, agreed. Ferrau, on the other
hand, departed with the messenger to Spain.

Orlando’s quest for the fair fugitive was all in vain. Aided by the
powers of magic, she made a speedy return to her own country.

But the thought of Rinaldo could not be banished from her mind, and she
determined to set Malagigi at liberty, and to employ him to win Rinaldo,
if possible, to make her a return of affection. She accordingly freed
him from his dungeon, unlocking his fetters with her own hands, and
restored him his book, promising him ample honors and rewards on
condition of his bringing Rinaldo to her feet.

Malagigi accordingly, with the aid of his book, called up a demon,
mounted him, and departed. Arrived at his destination, he inveigled
Rinaldo into an enchanted bark, which conveyed him, without any visible
pilot, to an island where stood an edifice called Joyous Castle. The
whole island was a garden. On the western side, close to the sea, was
the palace, built of marble, so clear and polished that it reflected the
landscape about it. Rinaldo leapt ashore, and soon met a lady, who
invited him to enter. The house was as beautiful within as without, full
of rooms adorned with azure and gold, and with noble paintings. The lady
led the knight into an apartment painted with stories, and opening to
the garden, through pillars of crystal, with golden capitals. Here he
found a bevy of ladies, three of whom were singing in concert, while
another played on an instrument of exquisite accord, and the rest danced
round about them. When the ladies beheld him coming they turned the
dance into a circuit round him, and then one of them, in the sweetest
manner, said, “Sir knight, the tables are set, and the hour for the
banquet is come;” and, with these words, still dancing, they drew him
across the lawn in front of the apartment, to a table that was spread
with cloth of gold and fine linen, under a bower of damask roses by the
side of a fountain.

Four ladies were already seated there, who rose, and placed Rinaldo at
their head, in a chair set with pearls. And truly indeed was he
astonished. A repast ensued, consisting of viands the most delicate, and
wines as fragrant as they were fine, drunk out of jewelled cups; and,
when it drew towards its conclusion, harps and lutes were heard in the
distance, and one of the ladies said in the knight’s ear: “This house
and all that you see in it are yours; for you alone was it built, and
the builder is a queen. Happy indeed must you think yourself, for she
loves you, and she is the greatest beauty in the world! Her name is
Angelica.”

The moment Rinaldo heard the name he so detested he started up, with a
changed countenance, and, in spite of all that the lady could say, broke
off across the garden, and never ceased hastening till he reached the
place where he landed. The bark was still on the shore. He sprang into
it, and pushed off, though he saw nobody in it but himself. It was in
vain for him to try to control its movements, for it dashed on as if in
fury, till it reached a distant shore covered with a gloomy forest. Here
Rinaldo, surrounded by enchantments of a very different sort from those
which he had lately resisted, was entrapped into a pit.

The pit belonged to a castle called Altaripa, which was hung with human
heads, and painted red with blood. As the paladin was viewing the scene
with amazement a hideous old woman made her appearance at the edge of
the pit, and told him that he was destined to be thrown to a monster,
who was only kept from devastating the whole country by being supplied
with living human flesh. Rinaldo said, “Be it so; let me but remain
armed as I am, and I fear nothing.” The old woman laughed in derision.
Rinaldo remained in the pit all night, and the next morning was taken to
the place where the monster had his den. It was a court surrounded by a
high wall. Rinaldo was shut in with the beast, and a terrible combat
ensued. Rinaldo was unable to make any impression on the scales of the
monster, while he, on the contrary, with his dreadful claws, tore away
plate and mail from the paladin. Rinaldo began to think his last hour
was come, and cast his eyes around and above to see if there was any
means of escape. He perceived a beam projecting from the wall at the
height of some ten feet, and, taking a leap almost miraculous, he
succeeded in reaching it, and in flinging himself up across it. Here he
sat for hours, the hideous brute continually trying to reach him. All at
once he heard the sound of something coming through the air like a bird,
and suddenly Angelica herself alighted on the end of the beam. She held
something in her hand towards him, and spoke to him in a loving voice.
But the moment Rinaldo saw her he commanded her to go away, refused all
her offers of assistance, and at length declared that, if she did not
leave him, he would cast himself down to the monster, and meet his fate.

Angelica, saying she would lose her life rather than displease him,
departed; but first she threw to the monster a cake of wax she had
prepared, and spread around him a rope knotted with nooses. The beast
took the bait, and, finding his teeth glued together by the wax, vented
his fury in bounds and leaps, and, soon getting entangled in the nooses,
drew them tight by his struggles, so that he could scarcely move a limb.

Rinaldo, watching his chance, leapt down upon his back, seized him round
the neck, and throttled him, not relaxing his grip till the beast fell
dead.

Another difficulty remained to be overcome. The walls were of immense
height, and the only opening in them was a grated window of such
strength that he could not break the bars. In his distress Rinaldo found
a file, which Angelica had left on the ground, and, with the help of
this, effected his deliverance.

What further adventures he met with will be told in another chapter.

                                  ————


                         THE SIEGE OF ALBRACCA

At the very time when Charlemagne was holding his plenary court and his
great tournament his kingdom was invaded by a mighty monarch, who was
moreover so valiant and strong in battle that no one could stand against
him. He was named Gradasso, and his kingdom was called Sericane. Now, as
it often happens to the greatest and the richest to long for what they
cannot have, and thus to lose what they already possess, this king could
not rest content without Durindana, the sword of Orlando, and Bayard,
the horse of Rinaldo. To obtain these he determined to war upon France,
and for this purpose put in array a mighty army.

He took his way through Spain, and, after defeating Marsilius, the king
of that country, in several battles, was rapidly advancing on France.
Charlemagne, though Marsilius was a Saracen, and had been his enemy, yet
felt it needful to succor him in this extremity from a consideration of
common danger, and, with the consent of his peers, despatched Rinaldo
with a strong body of soldiers against Gradasso.

There was much fighting, with doubtful results, and Gradasso was
steadily advancing into France. But, impatient to achieve his objects,
he challenged Rinaldo to single combat, to be fought on foot, and upon
these conditions: If Rinaldo conquered, Gradasso agreed to give up all
his prisoners and return to his own country; but if Gradasso won the
day, he was to have Bayard.

The challenge was accepted, and would have been fought had it not been
for the arts of Malagigi, who just then returned from Angelica’s kingdom
with set purpose to win Rinaldo to look with favor upon the fair
princess who was dying for love of him. Malagigi drew Rinaldo away from
the army by putting on the semblance of Gradasso, and, after a short
contest, pretending to fly before him, by which means Rinaldo was
induced to follow him into a boat, in which he was borne away, and
entangled in various adventures, as we have already related.

The army, left under the command of Ricciardetto, Rinaldo’s brother, was
soon joined by Charlemagne and all his peerage, but experienced a
disastrous rout, and the Emperor and many of his paladins were taken
prisoners. Gradasso, however, did not abuse his victory; he took Charles
by the hand, seated him by his side, and told him he warred only for
honor. He renounced all conquests, on condition that the Emperor should
deliver to him Bayard and Durindana, both of them the property of his
vassals, the former of which, as he maintained, was already forfeited to
him by Rinaldo’s failure to meet him as agreed. To these terms
Charlemagne readily acceded.

Bayard, after the departure of his master, had been taken in charge by
Ricciardetto, and sent back to Paris, where Astolpho was in command, in
the absence of Charlemagne. Astolpho received with great indignation the
message despatched for Bayard, and replied by a herald that “he would
not surrender the horse of his kinsman Rinaldo without a contest. If
Gradasso wanted the steed he might come and take him, and that he,
Astolpho, was ready to meet him in the field.”

Gradasso was only amused at this answer, for Astolpho’s fame as a
successful warrior was not high, and Gradasso willingly renewed with him
the bargain which he had made with Rinaldo. On these conditions the
battle was fought. The enchanted lance, in the hands of Astolpho,
performed a new wonder; and Gradasso, the terrible Gradasso, was
unhorsed.

He kept his word, set free his prisoners, and put his army on the march
to return to his own country, renewing his oath, however, not to rest
till he had taken from Rinaldo his horse, and from Orlando his sword, or
lost his life in the attempt.

Charlemagne, full of gratitude to Astolpho, would have kept him near his
person and loaded him with honors, but Astolpho preferred to seek
Rinaldo, with the view of restoring to him his horse, and departed from
Paris with that design.

                                  ————

Our story now returns to Orlando, whom we left fascinated with the sight
of the sleeping beauty, who, however, escaped him while engaged in the
combat with Ferrau. Having long sought her in vain through the recesses
of the wood, he resolved to follow her to her father’s court. Leaving,
therefore, the camp of Charlemagne, he travelled long in the direction
of the East, making inquiry everywhere, if, perchance, he might get
tidings of the fugitive. After many adventures, he arrived one day at a
place where many roads crossed, and meeting there a courier, he asked
him for news. The courier replied that he had been despatched by
Angelica to solicit the aid of Sacripant, king of Circassia, in favor of
her father Galafron, who was besieged in his city, Albracca, by Agrican,
king of Tartary. This Agrican had been an unsuccessful suitor to the
damsel, whom he now pursued with arms. Orlando thus learned that he was
within a day’s journey of Albracca; and, feeling now secure of Angelica,
he proceeded with all speed to her city.

Thus journeying he arrived at a bridge, under which flowed a foaming
river. Here a damsel met him with a goblet, and informed him that it was
the usage of this bridge to present the traveller with a cup. Orlando
accepted the offered cup and drank its contents. He had no sooner done
so than his brain reeled, and he became unconscious of the object of his
journey, and of everything else. Under the influence of this fascination
he followed the damsel into a magnificent and marvellous palace. Here he
found himself in company with many knights, unknown to him and to each
other, though if it had not been for the Cup of Oblivion of which they
all had partaken they would have found themselves brothers in arms.

                                  ————

Astolpho, proceeding on his way to seek Rinaldo, splendidly dressed and
equipped, as was his wont, arrived in Circassia, and found there a great
army encamped under the command of Sacripant, the king of that country,
who was leading it to the defence of Galafron, the father of Angelica.
Sacripant, much struck by the appearance of Astolpho and his horse,
accosted him courteously, and tried to enlist him in his service; but
Astolpho, proud of his late victories, scornfully declined his offers,
and pursued his way. King Sacripant was too much attracted by his
appearance to part with him so easily, and having laid aside his kingly
ornaments, set out in pursuit of him.

Astolpho next day encountered on his way a stranger knight, named Sir
Florismart, Lord of the Sylvan Tower, one of the bravest and best of
knights, having as his guide a damsel, young, fair, and virtuous, to
whom he was tenderly attached, whose name was Flordelis. Astolpho, as he
approached, defied the knight, bidding him yield the lady, or prepare to
maintain his right by arms. Florismart accepted the contest, and the
knights encountered. Florismart was unhorsed and his steed fell dead,
while Bayard sustained no injury by the shock.

Florismart was so overwhelmed with despair at his own disgrace and the
sight of the damsel’s distress, that he drew his sword, and was about to
plunge it into his own bosom. But Astolpho held his hand, told him that
he contended only for glory, and was contented to leave him the lady.

While Florismart and Flordelis were vowing eternal gratitude King
Sacripant arrived, and coveting the damsel of the one champion as much
as the horse and arms of the other, defied them to the joust. Astolpho
met the challenger, whom he instantly overthrew, and presented his
courser to Florismart, leaving the king to return to his army on foot.

The friends pursued their route, and ere long Flordelis discovered, by
signs which were known to her, that they were approaching the waters of
Oblivion, and advised them to turn back, or to change their course. This
the knights would not hear of, and, continuing their march, they soon
arrived at the bridge where Orlando had been taken prisoner.

The damsel of the bridge appeared as before with the enchanted cup, but
Astolpho, forewarned, rejected it with scorn. She dashed it to the
ground, and a fire blazed up which rendered the bridge unapproachable.
At the same moment the two knights were assailed by sundry warriors,
known and unknown, who, having no recollection of anything, joined
blindly in defence of their prison-house. Among these was Orlando, at
sight of whom Astolpho, with all his confidence not daring to encounter
him, turned and fled, owing his escape to the strength and fleetness of
Bayard.

Florismart, meanwhile, overlaid by fearful odds, was compelled to yield
to necessity, and comply with the usage of the fairy. He drank of the
cup and remained prisoner with the rest. Flordelis, deprived of her two
friends, retired from the scene, and devoted herself to untiring efforts
to effect her lover’s deliverance. Astolpho pursued his way to Albracca,
which Agrican was about to besiege. He was kindly welcomed by Angelica,
and enrolled among her defenders. Impatient to distinguish himself, he
one night sallied forth alone, arrived in Agrican’s camp, and unhorsed
his warriors right and left by means of the enchanted lance. But he was
soon surrounded and overmatched, and made prisoner to Agrican.

Relief was, however, at hand; for as the citizens and soldiers were one
day leaning over their walls they descried a cloud of dust, from which
horsemen were seen to prick forth, as it rolled on towards the camp of
the besiegers. This turned out to be the army of Sacripant, which
immediately attacked that of Agrican, with the view of cutting a passage
through his camp to the besieged city. But Agrican, mounted upon Bayard,
taken from Astolpho, but not armed with the lance of gold, the virtues
of which were unknown to him, performed wonders, and rallied his
scattered troops, which had given way to the sudden and unexpected
assault. Sacripant, on the other hand, encouraged his men by the most
desperate acts of valor, having as an additional incentive to his
courage the sight of Angelica, who showed herself upon the city walls.

There she witnessed a single combat between the two leaders, Agrican and
Sacripant. In this, at length, her defender appeared to be overmatched,
when the Circassians broke the ring, and separated the combatants, who
were borne asunder in the rush. Sacripant, severely wounded, profited by
the confusion, and escaped into Albracca, where he was kindly received
and carefully tended by Angelica.

The battle continuing, the Circassians were at last put to flight, and,
being intercepted between the enemy’s lines and the town, sought for
refuge under the walls. Angelica ordered the drawbridge to be let down,
and the gates thrown open to the fugitives. With these Agrican, not
distinguished in the crowd, entered the place, driving both Circassians
and Cathayans before him, and the portcullis being dropped, he was shut
in.

For a time the terror which he inspired put to flight all opposers, but
when at last it came to be known that few or none of his followers had
effected an entrance with him, the fugitives rallied and surrounded him
on all sides. While he was thus apparently reduced to the last
extremities, he was saved by the very circumstance which threatened him
with destruction. The soldiers of Angelica, closing upon him from all
sides, deserted their defences; and his own besieging army entered the
city in a part where the wall was broken down.

In this way was Agrican rescued, the city taken, and the inhabitants put
to the sword. Angelica, however, with some of the knights who were her
defenders, among whom was Sacripant, saved herself in the citadel, which
was planted upon a rock.

The fortress was impregnable, but it was scantily victualled, and ill
provided with other necessaries. Under these circumstances Angelica
announced to those blockaded with her in the citadel her intention to go
in quest of assistance, and, having plighted her promise of a speedy
return, she set out, with the enchanted ring upon her finger. Mounted
upon her palfrey, the damsel passed through the enemy’s lines, and by
sunrise was many miles clear of their encampment.

It so happened that her road led her near the fatal bridge of Oblivion,
and as she approached it she met a damsel weeping bitterly. It was
Flordelis, whose lover, Florismart, as we have related, had met the fate
of Orlando and many more, and fallen a victim to the enchantress of the
cup. She related her adventures to Angelica, and conjured her to lend
what aid she might to rescue her lord and his companions. Angelica,
accordingly, watching her opportunity and aided by her ring, slipped
into the castle unseen, when the door was opened to admit a new victim.
Here she speedily disenchanted Orlando and the rest by a touch of her
talisman. But Florismart was not there. He had been given up to
Falerina, a more powerful enchantress, and was still in durance.
Angelica conjured the rescued captives to assist her in the recovery of
her kingdom, and all departed together for Albracca.

The arrival of Orlando, with his companions, nine in all, and among the
bravest knights of France, changed at once the fortunes of the war.
Wherever the great paladin came, pennon and standard fell before him.
Agrican in vain attempted to rally his troops. Orlando kept constantly
in his front, forcing him to attend to nobody else. The Tartar king at
length bethought him of a stratagem. He turned his horse, and made a
show of flying in despair. Orlando dashed after him as he desired, and
Agrican fled till he reached a green place in a wood, where there was a
fountain.

The place was beautiful, and the Tartar dismounted to refresh himself at
the fountain, but without taking off his helmet, or laying aside any of
his armor. Orlando was quickly at his back, crying out, “So bold, and
yet a fugitive! How could you fly from a single arm and think to
escape?”

The Tartar king had leaped on his saddle the moment he saw his enemy,
and when the paladin had done speaking, he said in a mild voice,
“Without doubt you are the best knight I ever encountered, and fain
would I leave you untouched for your own sake, if you would cease to
hinder me from rallying my people. I pretended to fly, in order to bring
you out of the field. If you insist upon fighting I must needs fight and
slay you, but I call the sun in the heavens to witness I would rather
not. I should be very sorry for your death.”

The Count Orlando felt pity for so much gallantry, and he said, “The
nobler you show yourself the more it grieves me to think that in dying
without a knowledge of the true faith you will be lost in the other
world. Let me advise you to save body and soul at once. Receive baptism,
and go your way in peace.”

Agrican replied: “I suspect you to be the paladin Orlando. If you are I
would not lose this opportunity of fighting with you to be king of
Paradise. Talk to me no more about your things of another world, for you
will preach in vain. Each of us for himself, and let the sword be
umpire.”

The Saracen drew his sword, boldly advancing upon Orlando, and a combat
began, so obstinate and so long, each warrior being a miracle of
prowess, that the story says it lasted from noon till night. Orlando
then seeing the stars come out was the first to propose a respite.

“What are we to do,” said he, “now that daylight has left us?”

Agrican answered readily enough, “Let us repose in this meadow, and
renew the combat at dawn.”

The repose was taken accordingly. Each tied up his horse, and reclined
himself on the grass, not far from the other, just as if they had been
friends, Orlando by the fountain, Agrican beneath a pine. It was a
beautiful clear night, and, as they talked together before addressing
themselves to sleep, the champion of Christendom, looking up at the
firmament, said, “That is a fine piece of workmanship, that starry
spectacle; God made it all, that moon of silver, and those stars of
gold, and the light of day, and the sun,—all for the sake of human
kind.”

“You wish, I see, to talk of matters of faith,” said the Tartar. “Now I
may as well tell you at once that I have no sort of skill in such
matters, nor learning of any kind. I never could learn anything when I
was a boy. I hated it so that I broke the man’s head who was
commissioned to teach me; and it produced such an effect on others that
nobody ever afterwards dared so much as show me a book. My boyhood was
therefore passed, as it should be, in horsemanship and hunting, and
learning to fight. What is the good of a gentleman’s poring all day over
a book? Prowess to the knight, and preaching to the clergyman, that is
my motto.”

“I acknowledge,” returned Orlando, “that arms are the first
consideration of a gentleman; but not at all that he does himself
dishonor by knowledge. On the contrary, knowledge is as great an
embellishment of the rest of his attainments, as the flowers are to the
meadow before us; and as to the knowledge of his Maker, the man that is
without it is no better than a stock or a stone or a brute beast.
Neither without study can he reach anything of a due sense of the depth
and divineness of the contemplation.”

“Learned or not learned,” said Agrican, “you might show yourself better
bred than by endeavoring to make me talk on a subject on which you have
me at a disadvantage. If you choose to sleep I wish you good night; but
if you prefer talking I recommend you to talk of fighting or of fair
ladies. And, by the way, pray tell me, are you not that Orlando who
makes such a noise in the world? And what is it, pray, that brings you
into these parts? Were you ever in love? I suppose you must have been;
for to be a knight, and never to have been in love, would be like being
a man without a heart in his breast.”

The count replied: “Orlando I am, and in love I am. Love has made me
abandon everything, and brought me into these distant regions, and, to
tell you all in one word, my heart is in the hands of the daughter of
King Galafron. You have come against him with fire and sword, to get
possession of his castles and his dominions; and I have come to help
him, for no object in the world but to please his daughter and win her
beautiful hand. I care for nothing else in existence.”

Now when the Tartar king, Agrican, heard his antagonist speak in this
manner, and knew him to be indeed Orlando, and to be in love with
Angelica, his face changed color for grief and jealousy, though it could
not be seen for the darkness. His heart began beating with such violence
that he felt as if he should have died. “Well,” said he to Orlando, “we
are to fight when it is daylight, and one or other is to be left here,
dead on the ground. I have a proposal to make to you—nay, an entreaty.
My love is so excessive for the same lady that I beg you to leave her to
me. I will owe you my thanks, and give up the siege and put an end to
the war. I cannot bear that any one should love her, and that I should
live to see it. Why, therefore, should either of us perish? Give her up.
Not a soul shall know it.”

“I never yet,” answered Orlando, “made a promise which I did not keep,
and nevertheless I own to you that, were I to make a promise like that,
and even swear to keep it, I should not. You might as well ask me to
tear away the limbs from my body, and the eyes out of my head. I could
as well live without breath itself as cease loving Angelica.”

Agrican had hardly patience to let him finish speaking, ere he leapt
furiously on horseback, though it was midnight. “Quit her,” said he, “or
die!”

Orlando seeing the infidel getting up, and not being sure that he would
not add treachery to fierceness, had been hardly less quick in mounting
for the combat. “Never,” exclaimed he; “I never could have quitted her
if I would, and now I would not if I could. You must seek her by other
means than these.”

Fiercely dashed their horses together, in the nighttime, on the green
mead. Despiteful and terrible were the blows they gave and took by the
moonlight. Agrican fought in a rage, Orlando was cooler. And now the
struggle had lasted more than five hours, and day began to dawn, when
the Tartar king, furious to find so much trouble given him, dealt his
enemy a blow sharp and violent beyond conception. It cut the shield in
two as if it had been made of wood, and, though blood could not be drawn
from Orlando, because he was fated, it shook and bruised him as if it
had started every joint in his body.

His _body_ only, however, not a particle of his soul. So dreadful was
the blow which the paladin gave in return, that not only shield, but
every bit of mail on the body of Agrican was broken in pieces, and three
of his ribs cut asunder.

The Tartar, roaring like a lion, raised his sword with still greater
vehemence than before, and dealt a blow on the paladin’s helmet, such as
he had never yet received from mortal man. For a moment it took away his
senses. His sight failed, his ears tingled, his frightened horse turned
about to fly; and he was falling from the saddle, when the very action
of falling threw his head upwards, and thus recalled his recollection.

“What a shame is this!” thought he; “how shall I ever again dare to face
Angelica! I have been fighting hour after hour with this man, and he is
but one, and I call myself Orlando! If the combat last any longer I will
bury myself in a monastery, and never look on sword again.”

Orlando muttered with his lips closed and his teeth ground together; and
you might have thought that fire instead of breath came out of his nose
and mouth. He raised his sword Durindana with both his hands, and sent
it down so tremendously on Agrican’s shoulder that it cut through
breastplate down to the very haunch, nay, crushed the saddle-bow, though
it was made of bone and iron, and felled man and horse to the earth.
Agrican turned as white as ashes, and felt death upon him. He called
Orlando to come close to him, with a gentle voice, and said, as well as
he could: “I believe on Him who died on the cross. Baptize me, I pray
thee, with the fountain, before my senses are gone. I have lived an evil
life, but need not be rebellious to God in death also. May He who came
to save all the rest of the world save me!” And he shed tears, that
great king, though he had been so lofty and fierce.

Orlando dismounted quickly, with his own face in tears. He gathered the
king tenderly in his arms, and took and laid him by the fountain, on a
marble rim that it had, and then he wept in concert with him heartily,
and asked his pardon, and so baptized him in the water of the fountain,
and knelt and prayed to God for him with joined hands.

He then paused and looked at him; and when he perceived his countenance
changed, and that his whole person was cold, he left him there on the
marble rim of the fountain, all armed as he was, with the sword by his
side, and the crown upon his head.

                                  ————


                   ADVENTURES OF RINALDO AND ORLANDO

WE left Rinaldo when, having overcome the monster, he quitted the castle
of Altaripa, and pursued his way on foot. He soon met with a weeping
damsel, who, being questioned as to the cause of her sorrow, told him
she was in search of one to do battle to rescue her lover, who had been
made prisoner by a vile enchantress, together with Orlando and many
more. The damsel was Flordelis, the lady-love of Florismart, and Rinaldo
promised his assistance, trusting to accomplish the adventure either by
valor or skill. Flordelis insisted upon Rinaldo’s taking her horse,
which he consented to do, on condition of her mounting behind him.

As they rode on through a wood, they heard strange noises, and Rinaldo,
reassuring the damsel, pressed forward towards the quarter from which
they proceeded. He soon perceived a giant standing under a vaulted
cavern, with a huge club in his hand, and of an appearance to strike the
boldest spirit with dread. By the side of the cavern was chained a
griffin, which, together with the giant, was stationed there to guard a
wonderful horse, the same which was once Argalia’s. This horse was a
creature of enchantment, matchless in vigor, speed, and form, which
disdained to share the diet of his fellow-steeds,—corn or grass,—and
fed only on air. His name was Rabican.

This marvellous horse, after his master Argalia had been slain by
Ferrau, finding himself at liberty, returned to his native cavern, and
was here stabled under the protection of the giant and the griffin. As
Rinaldo approached, the giant assailed him with his club. Rinaldo
defended himself from the giant’s blows, and gave him one in return,
which, if his skin had not been of the toughest, would have finished the
combat. But the giant, though wounded, escaped, and let loose the
griffin. This monstrous bird towered in air, and thence pounced down
upon Rinaldo, who, watching his opportunity, dealt her a desperate
wound. She had, however, strength for another flight, and kept repeating
her attacks, which Rinaldo parried as he could, while the damsel stood
trembling by, witnessing the contest.

The battle continued, rendered more terrible by the approach of night,
when Rinaldo determined upon a desperate expedient to bring it to a
conclusion. He fell, as if fainting from his wounds, and, on the close
approach of the griffin, dealt her a blow which sheared away one of her
wings. The beast, though sinking, gripped him fast with her talons,
digging through plate and mail; but Rinaldo plied his sword in utter
desperation, and at last accomplished her destruction.

Rinaldo then entered the cavern, and found there the wonderful horse,
all caparisoned. He was coal-black, except for a star of white on his
forehead, and one white foot behind. For speed he was unrivalled, though
in strength he yielded to Bayard. Rinaldo mounted upon Rabican, and
issued from the cavern.

As he pursued his way he met a fugitive from Agrican’s army, who gave
such an account of the prowess of a champion who fought on the side of
Angelica, that Rinaldo was persuaded this must be Orlando, though at a
loss to imagine how he could have been freed from captivity. He
determined to repair to the scene of the contest to satisfy his
curiosity, and Flordelis, hoping to find Florismart with Orlando,
consented to accompany him.

While these things were doing, all was rout and dismay in the Tartarian
army, from the death of Agrican. King Galafron, arriving at this
juncture with an army for the relief of his capital, Albracca, assaulted
the enemy’s camp, and carried all before him. Rinaldo had now reached
the scene of action, and was looking on as an unconcerned spectator,
when he was espied by Galafron. The king instantly recognized the horse
Rabican, which he had given to Argalia when he sent him forth on his
ill-omened mission to Paris. Possessed with the idea that the rider of
the horse was the murderer of Argalia, Galafron rode at Rinaldo, and
smote him with all his force. Rinaldo was not slow to avenge the blow,
and it would have gone hard with the king had not his followers
instantly closed round him and separated the combatants.

Rinaldo thus found himself, almost without his own choice, enlisted on
the side of the enemies of Angelica, which gave him no concern, so
completely had his draught from the fountain of hate steeled his mind
against her.

For several successive days the struggle continued, without any
important results, Rinaldo meeting the bravest knights of Angelica’s
party, and defeating them one after the other. At length he encountered
Orlando, and the two knights bitterly reproached one another for the
cause they had each adopted, and engaged in a furious combat. Orlando
was mounted upon Bayard, Rinaldo’s horse, which Agrican had by chance
become possessed of, and Orlando had taken from him as the prize of
victory. Bayard would not fight against his master, and Orlando was
getting the worse of the encounter, when suddenly Rinaldo, seeing
Astolpho, who for love of him had arrayed himself on his side, hard
beset by numbers, left Orlando to rush to the defence of his friend.
Night prevented the combat from being renewed; but a challenge was given
and accepted for their next meeting.

But Angelica, sighing in her heart for Rinaldo, was not willing that he
should be again exposed to so terrible a venture. She begged a boon of
Orlando, promising she would be his if he would do her bidding. On
receiving his promise, she enjoined him to set out without delay to
destroy the garden of the enchantress Falerina, in which many valiant
knights had been entrapped, and were imprisoned.

Orlando departed on his horse Brigliadoro, leaving Bayard in disgrace
for his bad deportment the day before. Angelica, to conciliate Rinaldo,
sent Bayard to him; but Rinaldo remained unmoved by this as by all her
former acts of kindness.

When Rinaldo learned Orlando’s departure, he yielded to the entreaties
of the lady of Florismart, and prepared to fulfil his promise, and
rescue her lover from the power of the enchantress. Thus both Rinaldo
and Orlando were bound upon the same adventure, but unknown to one
another.

The castle of Falerina was protected by a river, which was crossed by a
bridge, kept by a ruffian, who challenged all comers to the combat; and
such was his strength that he had thus far prevailed in every encounter,
as appeared by the arms of various knights which he had taken from them,
and piled up as a trophy on the shore. Rinaldo attacked him, but with as
bad success as the rest, for the bridge-ward struck him so violent a
blow with an iron mace that he fell to the ground. But when the villain
approached to strip him of his armor, Rinaldo seized him, and the
bridge-ward, being unable to free himself, leapt with Rinaldo into the
lake, where they both disappeared.

Orlando, meanwhile, in discharge of his promise to Angelica, pursued his
way in quest of the same adventure. In passing through a wood he saw a
cavalier armed at all points, and mounted, keeping guard over a lady who
was bound to a tree, weeping bitterly. Orlando hastened to her relief,
but was exhorted by the knight not to interfere, for she had deserved
her fate by her wickedness. In proof of which he made certain charges
against her. The lady denied them all, and Orlando believed her, defied
the knight, overthrew him, and, releasing the lady, departed with her
seated on his horse’s croup.

While they rode another damsel approached on a white palfrey, who warned
Orlando of impending danger, and informed him that he was near the
garden of the enchantress. Orlando was delighted with the intelligence,
and entreated her to inform him how he was to gain admittance. She
replied that the garden could only be entered at sunrise and gave him
such instructions as would enable him to gain admittance. She gave him
also a book in which was painted the garden and all that it contained,
together with the palace of the false enchantress, where she had
secluded herself for the purpose of executing a magic work in which she
was engaged. This was the manufacture of a sword capable of cutting even
through enchanted substances. The object of this labor, the damsel told
him, was the destruction of a knight of the west, by name Orlando, who
she had read in the book of Fate was coming to demolish her garden.
Having thus instructed him, the damsel departed.

Orlando, finding he must delay his enterprise till the next morning, now
lay down and was soon asleep. Seeing this, the base woman whom he had
rescued, and who was intent on making her escape to rejoin her paramour,
mounted Brigliadoro, and rode off, carrying away Durindana.

When Orlando awoke, his indignation, as may be supposed, was great on
the discovery of the theft; but, like a good knight and true, he was not
to be diverted from his enterprise. He tore off a huge branch of an elm
to supply the place of his sword; and, as the sun rose, took his way
towards the gate of the garden, where a dragon was on his watch. This he
slew by repeated blows, and entered the garden, the gate of which closed
behind him, barring retreat. Looking round him, he saw a fair fountain,
which overflowed into a river, and in the centre of the fountain a
figure, on whose forehead was written:

    “The stream which waters violet and rose,
    From hence to the enchanted palace goes.”

Following the banks of this flowing stream, and rapt in the delights of
the charming garden, Orlando arrived at the palace, and entering it,
found the mistress, clad in white, with a crown of gold upon her head,
in the act of viewing herself in the surface of the magic sword. Orlando
surprised her before she could escape, deprived her of the weapon, and
holding her fast by her long hair, which floated behind, threatened her
with immediate death if she did not yield up her prisoners, and afford
him the means of egress. She, however, was firm of purpose, making no
reply, and Orlando, unable to move her either by threats or entreaties,
was under the necessity of binding her to a beech, and pursuing his
quest as he best might.

He then bethought him of his book, and, consulting it, found that there
was an outlet to the south, but that to reach it a lake was to be
passed, inhabited by a siren, whose song was so entrancing as to be
quite irresistible to whoever heard it; but his book instructed him how
to protect himself against this danger. According to its directions,
while pursuing his path, he gathered abundance of flowers, which sprung
all around, and filled his helmet and his ears with them; then listened
if he heard the birds sing. Finding that, though he saw the gaping beak,
the swelling throat, and ruffled plumes, he could not catch a note, he
felt satisfied with his defence, and advanced toward the lake. It was
small but deep, and so clear and tranquil that the eye could penetrate
to the bottom.

He had no sooner arrived upon the banks than the waters were seen to
gurgle, and the siren, rising midway out of the pool, sung so sweetly
that birds and beasts came trooping to the water-side to listen. Of this
Orlando heard nothing, but, feigning to yield to the charm, sank down
upon the bank. The siren issued from the water with the intent to
accomplish his destruction. Orlando seized her by the hair, and while
she sang yet louder (song being her only defence) cut off her head.
Then, following the directions of the book, he stained himself all over
with her blood.

Guarded by this talisman, he met successively all the monsters set for
defence of the enchantress and her garden, and at length found himself
again at the spot where he had made captive the enchantress, who still
continued fastened to the beech. But the scene was changed. The garden
had disappeared, and Falerina, before so haughty, now begged for mercy,
assuring him that many lives depended upon the preservation of hers.
Orlando promised her life upon her pledging herself for the deliverance
of her captives.

This, however, was no easy task. They were not in her possession, but in
that of a much more powerful enchantress, Morgana, the Lady of the Lake,
the very idea of opposing whom made Falerina turn pale with fear.
Representing to him the hazards of the enterprise, she led him towards
the dwelling of Morgana. To approach it he had to encounter the same
uncourteous bridge-ward who had already defeated and made captive so
many knights, and last of all, Rinaldo. He was a churl of the most
ferocious character, named Arridano. Morgana had provided him with
impenetrable armor, and endowed him in such a manner that his strength
always increased in proportion to that of the adversary with whom he was
matched. No one had ever yet escaped from the contest, since, such was
his power of endurance, he could breathe freely under water. Hence,
having grappled with a knight, and sunk with him to the bottom of the
lake, he returned, bearing his enemy’s arms in triumph to the surface.

While Falerina was repeating her cautions and her counsels Orlando saw
Rinaldo’s arms erected in form of a trophy, among other spoils made by
the villain, and, forgetting their late quarrel, determined upon
revenging his friend. Arriving at the pass, the churl presuming to bar
the way, a desperate contest ensued, during which Falerina escaped. The
churl finding himself over-matched at a contest of arms, resorted to his
peculiar art, grappled his antagonist, and plunged with him into the
lake. When he reached the bottom Orlando found himself in another world,
upon a dry meadow, with the lake overhead, through which shone the beams
of our sun, while the water stood on all sides like a crystal wall. Here
the battle was renewed, and Orlando had in his magic sword an advantage
which none had hitherto possessed. It had been tempered by Falerina so
that no spells could avail against it. Thus armed, and countervailing
the strength of his adversary by his superior skill and activity, it was
not long before he laid him dead upon the field.

Orlando then made all haste to return to the upper air, and, passing
through the water, which opened a way before him (such was the power of
the magic sword), he soon regained the shore, and found himself in a
field as thickly covered with precious stones as the sky is with stars.

Orlando crossed the field, nor tempted to delay his enterprise by
gathering any of the brilliant gems spread all around him. He next
passed into a flowery meadow planted with trees, covered with fruit and
flowers, and full of all imaginable delights.

In the middle of this meadow was a fountain, and fast by it lay Morgana
asleep; a lady of a lovely aspect, dressed in white and vermilion
garments, her forehead well furnished with hair, while she had scarcely
any behind.

While Orlando stood in silence contemplating her beauty he heard a voice
exclaim: “Seize the fairy by the forelock, if thou hopest fair success.”
But his attention was arrested by another object, and he heeded not the
warning. He saw on a sudden an array of towers, pinnacles and columns,
palaces with balconies and windows, extended alleys with trees, in short
a scene of architectural magnificence surpassing all he had ever beheld.
While he stood gazing in silent astonishment the scene slowly melted
away and disappeared.[74]

When he had recovered from his amazement he looked again toward the
fountain. The fairy had awaked and risen, and was dancing round its
border with the lightness of a leaf, timing her footsteps to this song:

    “Who in this world would wealth and treasure share,
    Honor, delight, and state, and what is best,
    Quick let him catch me by the lock of hair
    Which flutters from my forehead; and be blest.

    “But let him not the proffered good forbear,
    Nor till he seize the fleeting blessing rest;
    For present loss is sought in vain to-morrow,
    And the deluded wretch is left in sorrow.”

The fairy, having sung thus, bounded off, and fled from the flowery
meadow over a high and inaccessible mountain. Orlando pursued her
through thorns and rocks, while the sky gradually became overcast, and
at last he was assailed by tempest, lightning, and hail.

While he thus pursued, a pale and meagre woman issued from a cave, armed
with a whip, and, treading close upon his steps, scourged him with
vigorous strokes. Her name was Repentance, and she told him it was her
office to punish those who neglected to obey the voice of Prudence, and
seize the fairy Fortune when he might.

Orlando, furious at this chastisement, turned upon his tormentor, but
might as well have stricken the wind. Finding it useless to resist, he
resumed his chase of the fairy, gained upon her, and made frequent
snatches at her white and vermilion garments, which still eluded his
grasp. At last, on her turning her head for an instant, he profited by
the chance, and seized her by the forelock. In an instant the tempest
ceased, the sky became serene, and Repentance retreated to her cave.

Orlando now demanded of Morgana the keys of her prison, and the fairy,
feigning a complacent aspect, delivered up a key of silver, bidding him
to be cautious in the use of it, since to break the lock would be to
involve himself and all in inevitable destruction; a caution which gave
the Count room for long meditation, and led him to consider

    How few amid the suitors who importune
    The dame, know how to turn the keys of Fortune.

Keeping the fairy still fast by the forelock, Orlando proceeded toward
the prison, turned the key, without occasioning the mischiefs
apprehended, and delivered the prisoners.

Among these were Florismart, Rinaldo, and many others of the bravest
knights of France. Morgana had disappeared, and the knights, under the
guidance of Orlando, retraced the path by which he had come. They soon
reached the field of treasure. Rinaldo, finding himself amidst this mass
of wealth, remembered his needy garrison of Montalban, and could not
resist the temptation of seizing part of the booty. In particular a
golden chain, studded with diamonds, was too much for his self-denial,
and he took it and was bearing it off, notwithstanding the remonstrances
of Orlando, when a violent wind caught him and whirled him back, as he
approached the gate. This happened a second and a third time, and
Rinaldo at length yielded to necessity, rather than to the entreaties of
his friends, and cast away his prize.

They soon reached the bridge and passed over without hindrance to the
other side, where they found the trophy decorated with their arms. Here
each knight resumed his own, and all, except the paladins and their
friends, separated as their inclinations or duty prompted. Dudon, the
Dane, one of the rescued knights, informed the cousins that he had been
made prisoner by Morgana while in the discharge of an embassy to them
from Charlemagne, who called upon them to return to the defence of
Christendom. Orlando was too much fascinated by Angelica to obey this
summons, and, followed by the faithful Florismart, who would not leave
him, returned towards Albracca. Rinaldo, Dudon, Iroldo, Prasildo, and
the others took their way toward the west.

                                  ————


                         THE INVASION OF FRANCE

Agramant, King of Africa, convoked the kings, his vassals, to deliberate
in council. He reminded them of the injuries he had sustained from
France, that his father had fallen in battle with Charlemagne, and that
his early years had hitherto not allowed him to wipe out the stain of
former defeats. He now proposed to them to carry war into France.

Sobrino, his wisest councillor, opposed the project, representing the
rashness of it; but Rodomont, the young and fiery king of Algiers,
denounced Sobrino’s counsel as base and cowardly, declaring himself
impatient for the enterprise. The king of the Garamantes, venerable for
his age and renowned for his prophetic lore, interposed, and assured the
King that such an attempt would be sure to fail, unless he could first
get on his side a youth marked out by destiny as the fitting compeer of
the most puissant knights of France, the young Rogero, descended in
direct line from Hector of Troy. This prince was now a dweller upon the
mountain Carena, where Atlantes, his foster-father, a powerful magician,
kept him in retirement, having discovered by his art that his pupil
would be lost to him if allowed to mingle with the world. To break the
spells of Atlantes, and draw Rogero from his retirement, one only means
was to be found. It was a ring possessed by Angelica, Princess of
Cathay, which was a talisman against all enchantments. If this ring
could be procured all would go well; without it the enterprise was
desperate.

Rodomont treated this declaration of the old prophet with scorn, and it
would probably have been held of little weight by the council, had not
the aged king, oppressed by the weight of years, expired in the very act
of reaffirming his prediction. This made so deep an impression on the
council that it was unanimously resolved to postpone the war until an
effort should be made to win Rogero to the camp.

King Agramant thereupon proclaimed that the sovereignty of a kingdom
should be the reward of whoever should succeed in obtaining the ring of
Angelica. Brunello, the dwarf, the subtlest thief in all Africa,
undertook to procure it.

In prosecution of this design, he made the best of his way to Angelica’s
kingdom, and arrived beneath the walls of Albracca while the besieging
army was encamped before the fortress. While the attention of the
garrison was absorbed by the battle that raged below he scaled the
walls, approached the Princess unnoticed, slipped the ring from her
finger, and escaped unobserved. He hastened to the seaside, and, finding
a vessel ready to sail, embarked, and arrived at Biserta, in Africa.
Here he found Agramant impatient for the talisman which was to foil the
enchantments of Atlantes and to put Rogero into his hands. The dwarf,
kneeling before the king, presented him with the ring, and Agramant,
delighted at the success of his mission, crowned him in recompense King
of Tingitana.

All were now anxious to go in quest of Rogero. The cavalcade accordingly
departed, and in due time arrived at the mountain of Carena.

At the bottom of this was a fruitful and well-wooded plain, watered by a
large river, and from this plain was descried a beautiful garden on the
mountain-top, which contained the mansion of Atlantes; but the ring,
which discovered what was before invisible, could not, though it
revealed this paradise, enable Agramant or his followers to enter it. So
steep and smooth was the rock by nature, that even Brunello failed in
every attempt to scale it. He did not, for this, despair of
accomplishing the object; but, having obtained Agramant’s consent,
caused the assembled courtiers and knights to celebrate a tournament
upon the plain below. This was done with the view of seducing Rogero
from his fastness, and the stratagem was attended with success.

Rogero joined the tourney, and was presented by Agramant with a splendid
horse, Frontino, and a magnificent sword. Having learned from Agramant
his intended invasion of France, he gladly consented to join the
expedition.

Rodomont, meanwhile, was too impatient to wait for Agramant’s
arrangements, and embarked with all the forces he could raise, made good
his landing on the coast of France, and routed the Christians in several
encounters. Previously to this, however, Gano, or Ganelon (as he is
sometimes called), the traitor, enemy of Orlando and the other nephews
of Charlemagne, had entered into a traitorous correspondence with
Marsilius, the Saracen king of Spain, whom he invited into France.
Marsilius, thus encouraged, led an army across the frontiers, and joined
Rodomont. This was the situation of things when Rinaldo and the other
knights who had obeyed the summons of Dudon set forward on their return
to France.

When they arrived at Buda in Hungary they found the king of that country
about despatching his son, Ottachiero, with an army to the succor of
Charlemagne. Delighted with the arrival of Rinaldo, he placed his son
and troops under his command. In due time the army arrived on the
frontiers of France, and, united with the troops of Desiderius, king of
Lombardy, poured down into Provence. The confederate armies had not
marched many days through this gay tract before they heard a crash of
drums and trumpets behind the hills, which spoke the conflict between
the paynims, led by Rodomont, and the Christian forces. Rinaldo,
witnessing from a mountain the prowess of Rodomont, left his troops in
charge of his friends, and galloped towards him with his lance in rest.
The impulse was irresistible, and Rodomont was unhorsed. But Rinaldo,
unwilling to avail himself of his advantage, galloped back to the hill,
and having secured Bayard among the baggage, returned to finish the
combat on foot.

During this interval the battle had become general, the Hungarians were
routed, and Rinaldo, on his return, had the mortification to find that
Ottachiero was wounded, and Dudon taken prisoner. While he sought
Rodomont in order to renew the combat a new sound of drums and trumpets
was heard, and Charlemagne, with the main body of his army, was descried
advancing in battle array.

Rodomont, seeing this, mounted the horse of Dudon, left Rinaldo, who was
on foot, and galloped off to encounter this new enemy.

Agramant, accompanied by Rogero, had by this time made good his landing,
and joined Rodomont with all his forces. Rogero eagerly embraced this
first opportunity of distinguishing himself, and spread terror wherever
he went, encountering in turn and overthrowing many of the bravest
knights of France. At length he found himself opposite to Rinaldo, who,
being interrupted, as we have said, in his combat with Rodomont, and
unable to follow him, being on foot, was shouting to his late foe to
return and finish their combat. Rogero also was on foot, and seeing the
Christian knight so eager for a contest, proffered himself to supply the
place of his late antagonist. Rinaldo saw at a glance that the Moorish
prince was a champion worthy of his arm, and gladly accepted the
defiance. The combat was stoutly maintained for a time; but now fortune
declared decisively in favor of the infidel army, and Charlemagne’s
forces gave way at all points in irreparable confusion. The two
combatants were separated by the crowd of fugitives and pursuers, and
Rinaldo hastened to recover possession of his horse. But Bayard, in the
confusion, had got loose, and Rinaldo followed him into a thick wood,
thus becoming effectually separated from Rogero.

Rogero, also seeking his horse in the medley, came where two warriors
were engaged in mortal combat. Though he knew not who they were, he
could distinguish that one was a paynim and the other a Christian; and
moved by the spirit of courtesy he approached them and exclaimed, “Let
him of the two who worships Christ pause, and hear what I have to say.
The army of Charles is routed and in flight, so that if he wishes to
follow his leader he has no time for delay.” The Christian knight, who
was none other than Bradamante, a female warrior, in prowess equal to
the best of knights, was thunderstruck with the tidings, and would
gladly leave the contest undecided, and retire from the field; but
Rodomont, her antagonist, would by no means consent. Rogero, indignant
at his discourtesy, insisted upon her departure, while he took up her
quarrel with Rodomont.

The combat, obstinately maintained on both sides, was interrupted by the
return of Bradamante. Finding herself unable to overtake the fugitives,
and reluctant to leave to another the burden and risk of a contest which
belonged to herself, she had returned to reclaim the combat. She
arrived, however, when her champion had dealt his enemy such a blow as
obliged him to drop both his sword and bridle. Rogero, disdaining to
profit by his adversary’s defenceless situation, sat apart upon his
horse, while that of Rodomont bore his rider, stunned and stupefied,
about the field.

Bradamante approached Rogero, conceiving a yet higher opinion of his
valor on beholding such an instance of forbearance. She addressed him,
excusing herself for leaving him exposed to an enemy from his
interference in her cause; pleading her duty to her sovereign as the
motive. While she spoke Rodomont, recovered from his confusion, rode up
to them. His bearing was, however, changed; and he disclaimed all
thoughts of further contest with one who, he said, “had already
conquered him by his courtesy.” So saying, he quitted his antagonist,
picked up his sword, and spurred out of sight.

Bradamante was now again desirous of retiring from the field, and Rogero
insisted on accompanying her, though yet unaware of her sex.

As they pursued their way, she inquired the name and quality of her new
associate; and Rogero informed her of his nation and family. He told her
that Astyanax, the son of Hector of Troy, established the kingdom of
Messina in Sicily. From him were derived two branches, which gave origin
to two families of renown. From one sprang the royal race of Pepin and
Charlemagne, and from the other, that of Reggio, in Italy. “From that of
Reggio am I derived,” he continued. “My mother, driven from her home by
the chance of war, died in giving me life, and I was taken in charge by
a sage enchanter, who trained me to feats of arms amidst the dangers of
the desert and the chase.”

Having thus ended his tale, Rogero entreated a similar return of
courtesy from his companion, who replied, without disguise, that she was
of the race of Clermont, and sister to Rinaldo, whose fame was perhaps
known to him. Rogero, much moved by this intelligence, entreated her to
take off her helmet, and at the discovery of her face remained
transported with delight.

While absorbed in this contemplation, an unexpected danger assailed
them. A party which was placed in a wood, in order to intercept the
retreating Christians, broke from its ambush upon the pair, and
Bradamante, who was uncasqued, was wounded in the head. Rogero was in a
fury at this attack; and Bradamante, replacing her helmet, joined him in
taking speedy vengeance on their enemies. They cleared the field of
them, but became separated in the pursuit, and Rogero, quitting the
chase, wandered by hill and vale in search of her whom he had no sooner
found than lost.

While pursuing this quest he fell in with two knights, whom he joined,
and engaged them to assist him in the search of his companion,
describing her arms, but concealing, from a certain feeling of jealousy,
her quality and sex.

It was evening when they joined company, and having ridden together
through the night the morning was beginning to break, when one of the
strangers, fixing his eyes upon Rogero’s shield, demanded of him by what
right he bore the Trojan arms. Rogero declared his origin and race, and
then, in his turn, interrogated the inquirer as to his pretensions to
the cognizance of Hector, which he bore. The stranger replied, “My name
is Mandricardo, son of Agrican, the Tartar king, whom Orlando
treacherously slew. I say _treacherously_, for in fair fight he could
not have done it. It is in search of him that I have come to France, to
take vengeance for my father, and to wrest from him Durindana, that
famous sword, which belongs to me, and not to him.” When the knights
demanded to know by what right he claimed Durindana, Mandricardo thus
related his history:

“I had been, before the death of my father, a wild and reckless youth.
That event awakened my energies, and drove me forth to seek for
vengeance. Determined to owe success to nothing but my own exertions, I
departed without attendants or horse or arms. Travelling thus alone, and
on foot, I espied one day a pavilion, pitched near a fountain, and
entered it, intent on adventure. I found therein a damsel of gracious
aspect, who replied to my inquiries that the fountain was the work of a
fairy, whose castle stood beyond a neighboring hill, where she kept
watch over a treasure which many knights had tried to win, but
fruitlessly, having lost their life or liberty in the attempt. This
treasure was the armor of Hector, prince of Troy, whom Achilles
treacherously slew. Nothing was wanting but his sword, Durindana, and
this had fallen into the possession of a queen named Penthesilea, from
whom it passed through her descendants to Almontes, whom Orlando slew,
and thus became possessed of the sword. The rest of Hector’s arms were
saved and carried off by Æneas, from whom this fairy received them in
recompense of service rendered. ‘If you have the courage to attempt
their acquisition,’ said the damsel, ‘I will be your guide.’”

Mandricardo went on to say that he eagerly embraced the proposal, and
being provided with horse and armor by the damsel, set forth on his
enterprise, the lady accompanying him.

As they rode she explained the dangers of the quest. The armor was
defended by a champion, one of the numerous unsuccessful adventurers for
the prize, all of whom had been made prisoners by the fairy, and
compelled to take their turn, day by day, in defending the arms against
all comers. Thus speaking they arrived at the castle, which was of
alabaster, overlaid with gold. Before it, on a lawn, sat an armed knight
on horseback, who was none other than Gradasso, king of Sericane, who,
in his return home from his unsuccessful inroad into France, had fallen
into the power of the fairy, and was held to do her bidding.
Mandricardo, upon seeing him, dropt his visor, and laid his lance in
rest. The champion of the castle was equally ready, and each spurred
towards his opponent. They met one another with equal force, splintered
their spears, and, returning to the charge, encountered with their
swords. The contest was long and doubtful, when Mandricardo, determined
to bring it to an end, threw his arms about Gradasso, grappled with him,
and both fell to the ground. Mandricardo, however, fell uppermost, and,
preserving his advantage, compelled Gradasso to yield himself conquered.
The damsel now interfered, congratulating the victor, and consoling the
vanquished as well as she might.

Mandricardo and the damsel proceeded to the gate of the castle, which
they found undefended. As they entered they beheld a shield suspended
from a pilaster of gold. The device was a white eagle on an azure field,
in memory of the bird of Jove, which bore away Ganymede, the flower of
the Phrygian race. Beneath was engraved the following couplet:

    “Let none with hand profane my buckler wrong
    Unless he be himself as Hector strong.”

The damsel, alighting from her palfrey, made obeisance to the arms,
bending herself to the ground. The Tartar king bowed his head with equal
reverence; then advancing towards the shield, touched it with his sword.
Thereupon an earthquake shook the ground, and the way by which he had
entered closed. Another and an opposite gate opened, and displayed a
field bristling with stalks and grain of gold. The damsel, upon this,
told him that he had no means of retreat but by cutting down the harvest
which was before him, and by uprooting a tree which grew in the middle
of the field. Mandricardo, without replying, began to mow the harvest
with his sword, but had scarce smitten thrice when he perceived that
every stalk that fell was instantly transformed into some poisonous or
ravenous animal, which prepared to assail him. Instructed by the damsel,
he snatched up a stone and cast it among the pack. A strange wonder
followed; for no sooner had the stone fallen among the beasts, than they
turned their rage against one another, and rent each other to pieces.
Mandricardo did not stop to marvel at the miracle, but proceeded to
fulfil his task, and uproot the tree. He clasped it round the trunk, and
made vigorous efforts to tear it up by the roots. At each effort fell a
shower of leaves, that were instantly changed into birds of prey, which
attacked the knight, flapping their wings in his face, with horrid
screeching. But undismayed by this new annoyance, he continued to tug at
the trunk till it yielded to his efforts. A burst of wind and thunder
followed, and the hawks and vultures flew screaming away.

But these only gave place to a new foe; for from the hole made by
tearing up the tree issued a furious serpent, and, darting at
Mandricardo, wound herself about his limbs with a strain that almost
crushed him. Fortune, however, again stood his friend, for, writhing
under the folds of the monster, he fell backwards into the hole, and his
enemy was crushed beneath his weight.

Mandricardo, when he was somewhat recovered, and assured himself of the
destruction of the serpent, began to contemplate the place into which he
had fallen, and saw that he was in a vault, incrusted with costly
metals, and illuminated by a live coal. In the middle was a sort of
ivory bier, and upon this was extended what appeared to be a knight in
armor, but was in truth an empty trophy, composed of the rich and
precious arms once Hector’s, to which nothing was wanting but the sword.
While Mandricardo stood contemplating the prize a door opened behind
him, and a bevy of fair damsels entered, dancing, who, taking up the
armor piece by piece, led him away to the place where the shield was
suspended; where he found the fairy of the castle seated in state. By
her he was invested with the arms he had won, first pledging his solemn
oath to wear no other blade but Durindana, which he was to wrest from
Orlando, and thus complete the conquest of Hector’s arms.

                                  ————


                  THE INVASION OF FRANCE (_Continued_)

Mandricardo, having completed his story, now turned to Rogero, and
proposed that arms should decide which of the two was most worthy to
bear the symbol of the Trojan knight.

Rogero felt no other objection to this proposal than the scruple which
arose on observing that his antagonist was without a sword. Mandricardo
insisted that this need be no impediment, since his oath prevented him
from using a sword until he should have achieved the conquest of
Durindana.

This was no sooner said than a new antagonist started up in Gradasso,
who now accompanied Mandricardo. Gradasso vindicated his prior right to
Durindana, to obtain which he had embarked (as was related in the
beginning) in that bold inroad upon France. A quarrel was thus kindled
between the kings of Tartary and Sericane. While the dispute was raging
a knight arrived upon the ground, accompanied by a damsel, to whom
Rogero related the cause of the strife. The knight was Florismart, and
his companion Flordelis. Florismart succeeded in bringing the two
champions to accord, by informing them that he could bring them to the
presence of Orlando, the master of Durindana.

Gradasso and Mandricardo readily made truce, in order to accompany
Florismart, nor would Rogero be left behind.

As they proceeded on their quest they were met by a dwarf, who entreated
their assistance in behalf of his lady, who had been carried off by an
enchanter, mounted on a winged horse. However unwilling to leave the
question of the sword undecided, it was not possible for the knights to
resist this appeal. Two of their number, Gradasso and Rogero, therefore
accompanied the dwarf. Mandricardo persisted in his search for Orlando,
and Florismart, with Flordelis, pursued their way to the camp of
Charlemagne.

Atlantes, the enchanter, who had brought up Rogero, and cherished for
him the warmest affection, knew by his art that his pupil was destined
to be severed from him, and converted to the Christian faith through the
influence of Bradamante, that royal maiden with whom chance had brought
him acquainted. Thinking to thwart the will of Heaven in this respect,
he now put forth all his arts to entrap Rogero into his power. By the
aid of his subservient demons he reared a castle on an inaccessible
height, in the Pyrenean mountains, and to make it a pleasant abode to
his pupil, contrived to entrap and convey thither knights and damsels
many a one, whom chance had brought into the vicinity of his castle.
Here, in a sort of sensual paradise, they were but too willing to forget
glory and duty, and to pass their time in indolent enjoyment.

It was by the enchanter that the dwarf had now been sent to tempt the
knights into his power.

But we must now return to Rinaldo, whom we left interrupted in his
combat with Rodomont. In search of his late antagonist and intent on
bringing their combat to a decision he entered the forest of Arden,
whither he suspected Rodomont had gone. While engaged on this quest he
was surprised by the vision of a beautiful child dancing naked, with
three damsels as beautiful as himself. While he was lost in admiration
at the sight the child approached him, and, throwing at him handfuls of
roses and lilies, struck him from his horse. He was no sooner down than
he was seized by the dancers, by whom he was dragged about and scourged
with flowers till he fell into a swoon. When he began to revive one of
the group approached him, and told him that his punishment was the
consequence of his rebellion against that power before whom all things
bend; that there was but one remedy to heal the wounds that had been
inflicted, and that was to drink of the waters of Love. Then they left
him.

Rinaldo, sore and faint, dragged himself toward a fountain which flowed
near by, and, being parched with thirst, drank greedily and almost
unconsciously of the water, which was sweet to the taste, but bitter to
the heart. After repeated draughts he recovered his strength and
recollection, and found himself in the same place where Angelica had
formerly awakened him with a rain of flowers, and whence he had fled in
contempt of her courtesy.

This remembrance of the scene was followed by the recognition of his
crime; and, repenting bitterly his ingratitude, he leaped upon Bayard,
with the intention of hastening to Angelica’s country, and soliciting
his pardon at her feet.

Let us now retrace our steps, and revert to the time when the paladins
having learned from Dudon the summons of Charlemagne to return to France
to repel the invaders, had all obeyed the command with the exception of
Orlando, whose passion for Angelica still held him in attendance on her.
Orlando, arriving before Albracca, found it closely beleaguered. He,
however, made his way into the citadel, and related his adventures to
Angelica, from the time of his departure up to his separation from
Rinaldo and the rest, when they departed to the assistance of
Charlemagne. Angelica, in return, described the distresses of the
garrison, and the force of the besiegers; and in conclusion prayed
Orlando to favor her escape from the pressing danger, and escort her
into France. Orlando, who did not suspect that love for Rinaldo was her
secret motive, joyfully agreed to the proposal, and the sally was
resolved upon.

Leaving lights burning in the fortress, they departed at nightfall, and
passed in safety through the enemy’s camp. After encountering numerous
adventures they reached the sea-side, and embarked on board a pinnace
for France. The vessel arrived safely, and the travellers, disembarking
in Provence, pursued their way by land. One day, heated and weary, they
sought shelter from the sun in the forest of Arden, and chance directed
Angelica to the fountain of Disdain, of whose waters she eagerly drank.

Issuing thence, the Count and damsel encountered a stranger-knight. It
was no other than Rinaldo, who was just on the point of setting off on a
pilgrimage in search of Angelica, to implore her pardon for his
insensibility, and urge his new found passion. Surprise and delight at
first deprived him of utterance, but soon recovering himself, he
joyfully saluted her, claiming her as his, and exhorting her to put
herself under his protection. His presumption was repelled by Angelica
with disdain, and Orlando, enraged at the invasion of his rights,
challenged him to decide their claims by arms.

Terrified at the combat which ensued, Angelica fled amain through the
forest, and came out upon a plain covered with tents. This was the camp
of Charlemagne, who led the army of reserve destined to support the
troops which had advanced to oppose Marsilius. Charles having heard the
damsel’s tale, with difficulty separated the two cousins, and then
consigned Angelica, as the cause of quarrel, to the care of Namo, Duke
of Bavaria, promising that she should be his who should best deserve her
in the impending battle.

But these plans and hopes were frustrated. The Christian army, beaten at
all points, fled from the Saracens; and Angelica, indifferent to both
her lovers, mounted a swift palfrey and plunged into the forest,
rejoicing, in spite of her terror, at having regained her liberty. She
stopped at last in a tufted grove, where a gentle zephyr blew, and whose
young trees were watered by two clear runnels, which came and mingled
their waters, making a pleasing murmur. Believing herself far from
Rinaldo, and overcome by fatigue and the summer heat, she saw with
delight a bank covered with flowers so thick that they almost hid the
green turf, inviting her to alight and rest. She dismounted from her
palfrey, and turned him loose to recruit his strength with the tender
grass which bordered the streamlets. Then, in a sheltered nook
tapestried with moss and fenced in with roses and hawthorn-flowers, she
yielded herself to grateful repose.

She had not slept long when she was awakened by the noise made by the
approach of a horse. Starting up, she saw an armed knight who had
arrived at the bank of the stream. Not knowing whether he was to be
feared or not, her heart beat with anxiety. She pressed aside the leaves
to allow her to see who it was, but scarce dared to breathe for fear of
betraying herself. Soon the knight threw himself on the flowery bank,
and leaning his head on his hand fell into a profound reverie. Then
arousing himself from his silence he began to pour forth complaints,
mingled with deep sighs. Rivers of tears flowed down his cheeks, and his
breast seemed to labor with a hidden flame. “Ah, vain regrets!” he
exclaimed; “cruel fortune! others triumph, while I endure hopeless
misery! Better a thousand times to lose life, than wear a chain so
disgraceful and so oppressive!”

Angelica by this time had recognized the stranger, and perceived that it
was Sacripant, king of Circassia, one of the worthiest of her suitors.
This prince had followed Angelica from his country, at the very gates of
the day, to France, where he heard with dismay that she was under the
guardianship of the Paladin Orlando, and that the Emperor had announced
his decree to award her as the prize of valor to that one of his nephews
who should best deserve her.

As Sacripant continued to lament, Angelica, who had always opposed the
hardness of marble to his sighs, thought with herself that nothing
forbade her employing his good offices in this unhappy crisis. Though
firmly resolved never to accept him as a spouse, she yet felt the
necessity of giving him a gleam of hope in reward for the service she
required of him. All at once, like Diana, she stepped forth from the
arbor. “May the gods preserve thee,” she said, “and put far from thee
all hard thoughts of me!” Then she told him all that had befallen her
since she parted with him at her father’s court, and how she had availed
herself of Orlando’s protection to escape from the beleaguered city. At
that moment the noise of horse and armor was heard as of one
approaching; and Sacripant, furious at the interruption, resumed his
helmet, mounted his horse, and placed his lance in rest. He saw a knight
advancing, with scarf and plume of snowy whiteness. Sacripant regarded
him with angry eyes, and, while he was yet some distance off, defied him
to the combat. The other, not moved by his angry tone to make reply, put
himself on his defence. Their horses, struck at the same moment with the
spur, rushed upon one another with the impetuosity of a tempest. Their
shields were pierced each with the other’s lance, and only the temper of
their breastplates saved their lives. Both the horses recoiled with the
violence of the shock; but the unknown knight’s recovered itself at the
touch of the spur; the Saracen king’s fell dead, and bore down his
master with him. The white knight, seeing his enemy in this condition,
cared not to renew the combat, but, thinking he had done enough for
glory, pursued his way through the forest, and was a mile off before
Sacripant had got free from his horse.

As a ploughman, stunned by a thunder-clap which has stricken dead the
oxen at his plough, stands motionless, sadly contemplating his loss, so
Sacripant stood confounded and overwhelmed with mortification at having
Angelica a witness of his defeat. He groaned, he sighed, less from the
pain of his bruises than for the shame of being reduced to such a state
before her. The princess took pity on him, and consoled him as well as
she could. “Banish your regrets, my lord,” she said, “this accident has
happened solely in consequence of the feebleness of your horse, which
had more need of rest and food than of such an encounter as this. Nor
can your adversary gain any credit by it, since he has hurried away, not
venturing a second trial.” While she thus consoled Sacripant they
perceived a person approach, who seemed a courier, with bag and horn. As
soon as he came up, he accosted Sacripant, and inquired if he had seen a
knight pass that way, bearing a white shield and with a white plume to
his helmet. “I have, indeed, seen too much of him,” said Sacripant, “it
is he who has brought me to the ground; but at least I hope to learn
from you who that knight is.” “That I can easily inform you,” said the
man; “know then that, if you have been overthrown, you owe your fate to
the high prowess of a lady as beautiful as she is brave. It is the fair
and illustrious Bradamante who has won from you the honors of victory.”

At these words the courier rode on his way, leaving Sacripant more
confounded and mortified than ever. In silence he mounted the horse of
Angelica, taking the lady behind him on the croup, and rode away in
search of a more secure asylum. Hardly had they ridden two miles when a
new sound was heard in the forest, and they perceived a gallant and
powerful horse, which, leaping the ravines and dashing aside the
branches that opposed his passage, appeared before them, accoutred with
a rich harness adorned with gold.

“If I may believe my eyes, which penetrate with difficulty the
underwood,” said Angelica, “that horse that dashes so stoutly through
the bushes is Bayard, and I marvel how he seems to know the need we have
of him, mounted as we are both on one feeble animal.” Sacripant,
dismounting from the palfrey, approached the fiery courser, and
attempted to seize his bridle, but the disdainful animal, turning from
him, launched at him a volley of kicks enough to have shattered a wall
of marble. Bayard then approached Angelica with an air as gentle and
loving as a faithful dog could his master after a long separation. For
he remembered how she had caressed him, and even fed him, in Albracca.
She took his bridle in her left hand, while with her right she patted
his neck. The beautiful animal, gifted with wonderful intelligence,
seemed to submit entirely. Sacripant, seizing the moment to vault upon
him, controlled his curvetings, and Angelica, quitting the croup of the
palfrey, regained her seat.

But, turning his eyes toward a place where was heard a noise of arms,
Sacripant beheld Rinaldo. That hero now loves Angelica more than his
life, and she flies him as the timid crane the falcon.

The fountain of which Angelica had drunk produced such an effect on the
beautiful queen that, with distressed countenance and trembling voice,
she conjured Sacripant not to wait the approach of Rinaldo, but to join
her in flight.

“Am I, then,” said Sacripant, “of so little esteem with you that you
doubt my power to defend you? Do you forget the battle of Albracca, and
how, in your defence, I fought single-handed against Agrican and all his
knights?”

Angelica made no reply, uncertain what to do; but already Rinaldo was
too near to be escaped. He advanced menacingly to the Circassian king,
for he recognized his horse.

“Vile thief,” he cried, “dismount from that horse, and prevent the
punishment that is your due for daring to rob me of my property. Leave,
also, the princess in my hands; for it would indeed be a sin to suffer
so charming a lady and so gallant a charger to remain in such keeping.”

The king of Circassia, furious at being thus insulted, cried out, “Thou
liest, villain, in giving me the name of thief, which better belongs to
thyself than to me. It is true, the beauty of this lady and the
perfection of this horse are unequalled; come on, then, and let us try
which of us is most worthy to possess them.”

At these words the king of Circassia and Rinaldo attacked one another
with all their force, one fighting on foot, the other on horseback. You
need not, however, suppose that the Saracen king found any advantage in
this; for a young page, unused to horsemanship, could not have failed
more completely to manage Bayard than did this accomplished knight. The
faithful animal loved his master too well to injure him, and refused his
aid as well as his obedience to the hand of Sacripant, who could strike
but ineffectual blows, the horse backing when he wished him to go
forward, and dropping his head and arching his back, throwing out with
his legs, so as almost to shake the knight out of the saddle. Sacripant,
seeing that he could not manage him, watched his opportunity, rose on
his saddle, and leapt lightly to the earth; then, relieved from the
embarrassment of the horse, renewed the combat on more equal terms.
Their skill to thrust and parry were equal; one rises, the other stoops;
with one foot set firm they turn and wind, to lay on strokes or to dodge
them. At last Rinaldo, throwing himself on the Circassian, dealt him a
blow so terrible that Fusberta, his good sword, cut in two the buckler
of Sacripant, although it was made of bone, and covered with a thick
plate of steel well tempered. The arm of the Saracen was deprived of its
defence, and almost palsied with the stroke. Angelica, perceiving how
victory was likely to incline, and shuddering at the thought of becoming
the prize of Rinaldo, hesitated no longer. Turning her horse’s head, she
fled with the utmost speed; and, in spite of the round pebbles which
covered a steep descent, she plunged into a deep valley, trembling with
the fear that Rinaldo was in pursuit. At the bottom of this valley she
encountered an aged hermit, whose white beard flowed to his middle, and
whose venerable appearance seemed to assure his piety.

This hermit, who appeared shrunk by age and fasting, travelled slowly,
mounted upon a wretched ass. The princess, overcome with fear, conjured
him to save her life; and to conduct her to some port of the sea, whence
she might embark and quit France, never more to hear the odious name of
Rinaldo.

The old hermit was something of a wizard. He comforted Angelica, and
promised to protect her from all peril. Then he opened his scrip, and
took from thence a book, and had read but a single page when a goblin,
obedient to his incantations, appeared, under the form of a laboring
man, and demanded his orders. He received them, transported himself to
the place where the knights still maintained their conflict, and boldly
stepped between the two.

“Tell me, I pray you,” he said, “what benefit will accrue to him who
shall get the better in this contest? The object you are contending for
is already disposed of; for the Paladin Orlando, without effort and
without opposition, is now carrying away the princess Angelica to Paris.
You had better pursue them promptly; for if they reach Paris you will
never see her again.”

At these words you might have seen those rival warriors confounded,
stupefied, silently agreeing that they were affording their rival a fair
opportunity to triumph over them. Rinaldo, approaching Bayard, breathes
a sigh of shame and rage, and swears a terrible oath that, if he
overtakes Orlando, he will tear his heart out. Then mounting Bayard and
pressing his flanks with his spurs, he leaves the king of Circassia on
foot in the forest.

Let it not appear strange that Rinaldo found Bayard obedient at last,
after having so long prevented any one from even touching his bridle;
for that fine animal had an intelligence almost human; he had fled from
his master only to draw him on the track of Angelica, and enable him to
recover her. He saw when the princess fled from the battle, and Rinaldo
being then engaged in a fight on foot, Bayard found himself free to
follow the traces of Angelica. Thus he had drawn his master after him,
not permitting him to approach, and had brought him to the sight of the
princess. But Bayard now, deceived like his master with the false
intelligence of the goblin, submits to be mounted and to serve his
master as usual, and Rinaldo, animated with rage, makes him fly toward
Paris, more slowly than his wishes, though the speed of Bayard
outstripped the winds. Full of impatience to encounter Orlando, he gave
but a few hours that night to sleep. Early the next day he saw before
him the great city, under the walls of which the Emperor Charles had
collected the scattered remains of his army. Foreseeing that he would
soon be attacked on all sides, the Emperor had caused the ancient
fortifications to be repaired, and new ones to be built, surrounded by
wide and deep ditches. The desire to hold the field against the enemy
made him seize every means of procuring new allies. He hoped to receive
from England aid sufficient to enable him to form a new camp, and as
soon as Rinaldo rejoined him he selected him to go as his ambassador
into England, to plead for auxiliaries. Rinaldo was far from pleased
with his commission, but he obeyed the Emperor’s commands, without
giving himself time to devote a single day to the object nearest his
heart. He hastened to Calais, and lost not a moment in embarking for
England, ardently desiring a hasty despatch of his commission, and a
speedy return to France.

                                  ————


                         BRADAMANTE AND ROGERO

Bradamante, the knight of the white plume and shield, whose sudden
appearance and encounter with Sacripant we have already told, was in
quest of Rogero, from whom chance had separated her, almost at the
beginning of their acquaintance. After her encounter with Sacripant
Bradamante pursued her way through the forest, in hopes of rejoining
Rogero, and arrived at last on the brink of a fair fountain.

This fountain flowed through a broad meadow. Ancient trees overshadowed
it, and travellers, attracted by the sweet murmur of its waters, stopped
there to cool themselves. Bradamante, casting her eyes on all sides to
enjoy the beauties of the spot, perceived, under the shade of a tree, a
knight reclining, who seemed to be oppressed with the deepest grief.

Bradamante accosted him, and asked to be informed of the cause of his
distress. “Alas! my lord,” said he, “I lament a young and charming
friend, my affianced wife, who has been torn from me by a villain,—let
me rather call him a demon,—who, on a winged horse, descended from the
air, seized her, and bore her screaming to his den. I have pursued them
over rocks and through ravines till my horse is no longer able to bear
me, and I now wait only for death.” He added that already a vain attempt
on his behalf had been made by two knights, whom chance had brought to
the spot. Their names were Gradasso, king of Sericane, and Rogero, the
Moor. Both had been overcome by the wiles of the enchanter, and were
added to the number of the captives, whom he held in an impregnable
castle, situated on the height of the mountain. At the mention of
Rogero’s name Bradamante started with delight, which was soon changed to
an opposite sentiment when she heard that her lover was a prisoner in
the toils of the enchanter. “Sir Knight,” she said, “do not surrender
yourself to despair; this day may be more happy for you than you think,
if you will only lead me to the castle which enfolds her whom you
deplore.”

The knight responded, “After having lost all that made life dear to me I
have no motive to avoid the dangers of the enterprise, and I will do as
you request; but I forewarn you of the perils you will have to
encounter. If you fall impute it not to me.”

Having thus spoken, they took their way to the castle, but were
overtaken by a messenger from the camp, who had been sent in quest of
Bradamante to summon her back to the army, where her presence was needed
to reassure her disheartened forces, and withstand the advance of the
Moors.

The mournful knight, whose name was Pinabel, thus became aware that
Bradamante was a scion of the house of Clermont, between which and his
own of Mayence there existed an ancient feud. From this moment the
traitor sought only how he might be rid of the company of Bradamante,
from whom he feared no good would come to him, but rather mortal injury,
if his name and lineage became known to her. For he judged her by his
own base model, and, knowing his ill deserts, he feared to receive his
due.

Bradamante, in spite of the summons to return to the army, could not
resolve to leave her lover in captivity, and determined first to finish
the adventure on which she was engaged. Pinabel leading the way, they at
length arrived at a wood, in the centre of which rose a steep, rocky
mountain. Pinabel, who now thought of nothing else but how he might
escape from Bradamante, proposed to ascend the mountain to extend his
view, in order to discover a shelter for the night, if any there might
be within sight. Under this pretence he left Bradamante, and advanced up
the side of the mountain till he came to a cleft in the rock, down which
he looked, and perceived that it widened below into a spacious cavern.
Meanwhile Bradamante, fearful of losing her guide, had followed close on
his footsteps, and rejoined him at the mouth of the cavern. Then the
traitor, seeing the impossibility of escaping her, conceived another
design. He told her that before her approach he had seen in the cavern a
young and beautiful damsel, whose rich dress announced her high birth,
who with tears and lamentations implored assistance; that before he
could descend to relieve her a ruffian had seized her, and hurried her
away into the recesses of the cavern.

Bradamante, full of truth and courage, readily believed this lie of the
Mayencian traitor. Eager to succor the damsel, she looked round for the
means of facilitating the descent, and seeing a large elm with spreading
branches she lopped off with her sword one of the largest, and thrust it
into the opening. She told Pinabel to hold fast to the larger end,
while, grasping the branches with her hands, she let herself down into
the cavern.

The traitor smiled at seeing her thus suspended, and, asking her in
mockery, “Are you a good leaper?” he let go the branch with perfidious
glee, and saw Bradamante precipitated to the bottom of the cave. “I wish
your whole race were there with you,” he muttered, “that you might all
perish together.”

But Pinabel’s atrocious design was not accomplished. The twigs and
foliage of the branch broke its descent, and Bradamante, not seriously
injured, though stunned with her fall, was reserved for other
adventures.

As soon as she recovered from the shock Bradamante cast her eyes around
and perceived a door, through which she passed into a second cavern,
larger and loftier than the first. It had the appearance of a
subterranean temple. Columns of the purest alabaster adorned it, and
supported the roof; a simple altar rose in the middle; a lamp, whose
radiance was reflected by the alabaster walls, cast a mild light around.

Bradamante, inspired by a sense of religious awe, approached the altar,
and, falling on her knees, poured forth her prayers and thanks to the
Preserver of her life, invoking the protection of his power. At that
moment a small door opened, and a female issued from it with naked feet,
and flowing robe and hair, who called her by her name, and thus
addressed her: “Brave and generous Bradamante, know that it is a power
from above that has brought you hither. The spirit of Merlin, whose last
earthly abode was in this place, has warned me of your arrival, and of
the fate that awaits you. This famous grotto,” she continued, “was the
work of the enchanter Merlin; here his ashes repose. You have no doubt
heard how this sage and virtuous enchanter ceased to be. Victim of the
artful fairy of the lake, Merlin, by a fatal compliance with her
request, laid himself down living in his tomb, without power to resist
the spell laid upon him by that ingrate, who retained him there as long
as he lived. His spirit hovers about this spot, and will not leave it,
until the last trumpet shall summon the dead to judgment. He answers the
questions of those who approach his tomb, where perhaps you may be
privileged to hear his voice.”

Bradamante, astonished at these words, and the objects which met her
view, knew not whether she was awake or asleep. Confused, but modest,
she cast down her eyes, and a blush overspread her face. “Ah, what am
I,” said she, “that so great a prophet should deign to speak to me!”
Still, with a secret satisfaction, she followed the priestess, who led
her to the tomb of Merlin. This tomb was constructed of a species of
stone hard and resplendent like fire. The rays which beamed from the
stone sufficed to light up that terrible place, where the sun’s rays
never penetrated; but I know not whether that light was the effect of a
certain phosphorescence of the stone itself, or of the many talismans
and charms with which it was wrought over.

Bradamante had hardly passed the threshold of this sacred place when the
spirit of the enchanter saluted her with a voice firm and distinct: “May
thy designs be prosperous, O chaste and noble maiden, the future mother
of heroes, the glory of Italy, and destined to fill the whole world with
their fame. Great captains, renowned knights, shall be numbered among
your descendants, who shall defend the Church and restore their country
to its ancient splendor. Princes, wise as Augustus and the sage Numa,
shall bring back the age of gold.[75] To accomplish these grand
destinies it is ordained that you shall wed the illustrious Rogero. Fly
then to his deliverance, and lay prostrate in the dust the traitor who
has snatched him from you, and now holds him in chains!”

Merlin ceased with these words, and left to Melissa, the priestess, the
charge of more fully instructing the maiden in her future course.
“To-morrow,” said she, “I will conduct you to the castle on the rock
where Rogero is held captive. I will not leave you till I have guided
you through this wild wood, and I will direct you on your way so that
you shall be in no danger of mistaking it.”

The next morning Melissa conducted Bradamante between rocks and
precipices, crossing rapid torrents, and traversing intricate passes,
employing the time in imparting to her such information as was necessary
to enable her to bring her design to a successful issue.

“Not only would the castle, impenetrable by force, and that winged horse
of his baffle your efforts, but know that he possesses also a buckler
whence flashes a light so brilliant that the eyes of all who look upon
it are blinded. Think not to avoid it by shutting your eyes, for how
then will you be able to avoid his blows, and make him feel your own?
But I will teach you the proper course to pursue.

“Agramant, the Moorish prince, possesses a ring stolen from a queen of
India, which has power to render of no avail all enchantments. Agramant,
knowing that Rogero is of more importance to him than any one of his
warriors, is desirous of rescuing him from the power of the enchanter,
and has sent for that purpose Brunello, the most crafty and sagacious of
his servants, provided with his wonderful ring, and he is even now at
hand, bent on this enterprise. But, beautiful Bradamante, as I desire
that no one but yourself shall have the glory of delivering from
thraldom your future spouse, listen while I disclose the means of
success. Following this path which leads by the seashore, you will come
ere long to a hostelry, where the Saracen Brunello will arrive shortly
before you. You will readily know him by his stature, under four feet,
his great disproportioned head, his squint eyes, his livid hue, his
thick eyebrows joining his tufted beard. His dress, moreover, that of a
courier, will point him out to you.

“It will be easy for you to enter into conversation with him, announcing
yourself as a knight seeking combat with the enchanter, but let not the
knave suspect that you know anything about the ring. I doubt not that he
will be your guide to the castle of the enchanter. Accept his offer, but
take care to keep behind him till you come in sight of the brilliant
dome of the castle. Then hesitate not to strike him dead, for the wretch
deserves no pity, and take from him the ring. But let him not suspect
your intention, for by putting the ring into his mouth he will instantly
become invisible, and disappear from your eyes.”

Saying thus, the sage Melissa and the fair Bradamante arrived near the
city of Bordeaux, where the rich and wide river Garonne pours the
tribute of its waves into the sea. They parted with tender embraces.
Bradamante, intent wholly on her purpose, hastened to arrive at the
hostelry, where Brunello had preceded her a few moments only. The young
heroine knew him without difficulty. She accosted him, and put to him
some slight questions, to which he replied with adroit falsehoods.
Bradamante, on her part, concealed from him her sex, her religion, her
country, and the blood from whence she sprung. While they talk together,
sudden cries are heard from all parts of the hostelry. “O queen of
heaven!” exclaimed Bradamante, “what can be the cause of this sudden
alarm?” She soon learned the cause. Host, children, domestics, all, with
upturned eyes, as if they saw a comet or a great eclipse, were gazing on
a prodigy which seemed to pass the bounds of possibility. She beheld
distinctly a winged horse, mounted with a cavalier in rich armor,
cleaving the air with rapid flight. The wings of this strange courser
were wide extended, and covered with feathers of various colors. The
polished armor of the knight made them shine with rainbow tints. In a
short time the horse and rider disappeared behind the summits of the
mountains.

“It is an enchanter,” said the host, “a magician who often is seen
traversing the air in that way. Sometimes he flies aloft as if among the
stars, and at others skims along the land. He possesses a wonderful
castle on the top of the Pyrenees. Many knights have shown their courage
by going to attack him, but none have ever returned, from which it is to
be feared they have lost either their life or their liberty.”

Bradamante, addressing the host, said, “Could you furnish me a guide to
conduct me to the castle of this enchanter?” “By my faith,” said
Brunello, interrupting, “that you shall not seek in vain; I have it all
in writing, and I will myself conduct you.” Bradamante, with thanks,
accepted him for her guide.

The host had a tolerable horse to dispose of, which Bradamante bargained
for, and the next day, at the first dawn of morning, she took her route
by a narrow valley, taking care to have the Saracen Brunello lead the
way.

They reached the summit of the Pyrenees, whence one may look down on
France, Spain, and the two seas. From this height they descended again
by a fatiguing road into a deep valley. From the middle of this valley
an isolated mountain rose, composed of rough and perpendicular rock, on
whose summit was the castle, surrounded with a wall of brass. Brunello
said, “Yonder is the stronghold where the enchanter keeps his prisoners;
one must have wings to mount thither; it is easy to see that the aid of
a flying horse must be necessary for the master of this castle, which he
uses for his prison and for his abode.”

Bradamante, sufficiently instructed, saw that the time had now come to
possess herself of the ring; but she could not resolve to slay a
defenceless man. She seized Brunello before he was aware, bound him to a
tree, and took from him the ring which he wore on one of his fingers.
The cries and entreaties of the perfidious Saracen moved her not. She
advanced to the foot of the rock whereon the castle stood, and, to draw
the magician to the combat, sounded her horn, adding to it cries of
defiance.

The enchanter delayed not to present himself, mounted on his winged
horse. Bradamante was struck with surprise mixed with joy when she saw
that this person, described as so formidable, bore no lance nor club,
nor any other deadly weapon. He had only on his arm a buckler, covered
with a cloth, and in his hand an open book. As to the winged horse,
there was no enchantment about him. He was a natural animal, of a
species which exists in the Riphæan mountains. Like a griffin, he had
the head of an eagle, claws armed with talons, and wings covered with
feathers, the rest of his body being that of a horse. This strange
animal is called a Hippogriff.

The heroine attacked the enchanter on his approach, striking on this
side and on that, with all the energy of a violent combat, but wounding
only the wind; and after this pretended attack had lasted some time
dismounted from her horse, as if hoping to do battle more effectually on
foot. The enchanter now prepares to employ his sole weapon, by
uncovering the magic buckler which never failed to subdue an enemy by
depriving him of his senses. Bradamante, confiding in her ring, observed
all the motions of her adversary, and, at the unveiling of the shield,
cast herself on the ground, pretending that the splendor of the shield
had overcome her, but in reality to induce the enchanter to dismount and
approach her.

It happened according to her wish. When the enchanter saw her prostrate
he made his horse alight on the ground, and, dismounting, fixed the
shield on the pommel of his saddle, and approached in order to secure
the fallen warrior. Bradamante, who watched him intently, as soon as she
saw him near at hand, sprang up, seized him vigorously, threw him down,
and, with the same chain which the enchanter had prepared for herself,
bound him fast, without his being able to make any effectual resistance.

The enchanter, with the accents of despair, exclaimed, “Take my life,
young man!” but Bradamante was far from complying with such a wish.
Desirous of knowing the name of the enchanter, and for what purpose he
had formed with so much art this impregnable fortress, she commanded him
to inform her.

“Alas!” replied the magician, while tears flowed down his cheeks, “it is
not to conceal booty, nor for any culpable design that I have built this
castle; it was only to guard the life of a young knight, the object of
my tenderest affection, my art having taught me that he is destined to
become a Christian, and to perish, shortly after, by the blackest of
treasons.

“This youth, named Rogero, is the most beautiful and most accomplished
of knights. It is I, the unhappy Atlantes, who have reared him from his
childhood. The call of honor and the desire of glory led him from me to
follow Agramant, his prince, in his invasion of France, and I, more
devoted to Rogero than the tenderest of parents, have sought the means
of bringing him back to this abode, in the hope of saving him from the
cruel fate that menaces him.

“For this purpose I have got him in my possession by the same means as I
attempted to employ against you; and by which I have succeeded in
collecting a great many knights and ladies in my castle. My purpose was
to render my beloved pupil’s captivity light, by affording him society
to amuse him, and keep his thoughts from running on subjects of war and
glory. Alas! my cares have been in vain! Yet, take, I beseech you,
whatever else I have, but spare me my beloved pupil. Take this shield,
take this winged courser, deliver such of your friends as you may find
among my prisoners, deliver them all if you will, but leave me my
beloved Rogero; or if you will snatch him too from me, take also my
life, which will cease then to be to me worth preserving.”

Bradamante replied: “Old man, hope not to move me by your vain
entreaties. It is precisely the liberty of Rogero that I require. You
would keep him here in bondage and in slothful pleasure, to save him
from a fate which you foresee. Vain old man! how can you foresee his
fate when you could not foresee your own? You desire me to take your
life. No, my arm and my soul refuse the request.” This said, she
required the magician to go before, and guide her to the castle. The
prisoners were set at liberty, though some, in their secret hearts,
regretted the voluptuous life which was thus brought to an end.
Bradamante and Rogero met one another with transports of joy.

They descended from the mountain to the spot where the encounter had
taken place. There they found the Hippogriff, with the magic buckler in
its wrapper, hanging to his saddle-bow. Bradamante advanced to seize the
bridle; the Hippogriff seemed to wait her approach, but before she
reached him he spread his wings and flew away to a neighboring hill, and
in the same manner, a second time, eluded her efforts. Rogero and the
other liberated knights dispersed over the plain and hill-tops to secure
him, and at last the animal allowed Rogero to seize his rein. The
fearless Rogero hesitated not to vault upon his back, and let him feel
his spurs, which so roused his mettle that, after galloping a short
distance, he suddenly spread his wings, and soared into the air.
Bradamante had the grief to see her lover snatched away from her at the
very moment of reunion. Rogero, who knew not the art of directing the
horse, was unable to control his flight. He found himself carried over
the tops of the mountains, so far above them that he could hardly
distinguish what was land and what water. The Hippogriff directed his
flight to the west, and cleaved the air as swiftly as a new-rigged
vessel cuts the waves, impelled by the freshest and most favorable
gales.

                                  ————


                      ASTOLPHO AND THE ENCHANTRESS

In the long flight which Rogero took on the back of the Hippogriff he
was carried over land and sea, unknowing whither. As soon as he had
gained some control over the animal he made him alight on the nearest
land. When he came near enough to earth Rogero leapt lightly from his
back, and tied the animal to a myrtle-tree. Near the spot flowed the
pure waters of a fountain, surrounded by cedars and palm-trees. Rogero
laid aside his shield, and, removing his helmet, breathed with delight
the fresh air, and cooled his lips with the waters of the fountain. For
we cannot wonder that he was excessively fatigued, considering the ride
he had taken. He was preparing to taste the sweets of repose when he
perceived that the Hippogriff, which he had tied by the bridle to a
myrtle-tree, frightened at something, was making violent efforts to
disengage himself. His struggle shook the myrtle-tree so that many of
its beautiful leaves were torn off, and strewed the ground.

A sound like that which issues from burning wood seemed to come from the
myrtle-tree, at first faint and indistinct, but growing stronger by
degrees, and at length was audible as a voice which spoke in this
manner: “O knight, if the tenderness of your heart corresponds to the
beauty of your person, relieve me, I pray you, from this tormenting
animal. I suffer enough inwardly without having outward evils added to
my lot.”

Rogero, at the first accents of this voice, turned his eyes promptly on
the myrtle, hastened to it, and stood fixed in astonishment when he
perceived that the voice issued from the tree itself. He immediately
untied his horse, and, flushed with surprise and regret, exclaimed,
“Whoever thou art, whether mortal or the goddess of these woods, forgive
me, I beseech you, my involuntary fault. Had I imagined that this hard
bark covered a being possessed of feeling, could I have exposed such a
beautiful myrtle to the insults of this steed? May the sweet influences
of the sky and air speedily repair the injury I have done! For my part,
I promise by the sovereign lady of my heart to do everything you wish in
order to merit your forgiveness.”

At these words the myrtle seemed to tremble from root to stem, and
Rogero remarked that a moisture as of tears trickled down its bark, like
that which exudes from a log placed on the fire. It then spoke:

“The kindness which inspires your words compels me to disclose to you
who I once was, and by what fatality I have been changed into this
shape. My name was Astolpho, cousin of Orlando and Rinaldo, whose fame
has filled the earth. I was myself reckoned among the bravest paladins
of France, and was by birth entitled to reign over England, after Otho,
my father. Returning from the distant East, with Rinaldo and many other
brave knights, called home to aid with our arms the great Emperor of
France, we reached a spot where the powerful enchantress Alcina
possessed a castle on the borders of the sea. She had gone to the
water-side to amuse herself with fishing, and we paused to see how, by
her art, without hook or line, she drew from the water whatever she
would.

“Not far from the shore an enormous whale showed a back so broad and
motionless that it looked like an island. Alcina had fixed her eyes on
me, and planned to get me into her power. Addressing us, she said: ‘This
is the hour when the prettiest mermaid in the sea comes regularly every
day to the shore of yonder island. She sings so sweetly that the very
waves flow smoother at the sound. If you wish to hear her come with me
to her resort.’ So saying, Alcina pointed to the fish, which we all
supposed to be an island. I, who was rash, did not hesitate to follow
her; but swam my horse over, and mounted on the back of the fish. In
vain Rinaldo and Dudon made signs to me to beware; Alcina, smiling, took
me in charge, and led the way. No sooner were we mounted upon him than
the whale moved off, spreading his great fins, and cleft rapidly the
waters. I then saw my folly, but it was too late to repent. Alcina
soothed my anger, and professed that what she had done was for love of
me. Ere long we arrived at this island, where at first everything was
done to reconcile me to my lot, and to make my days pass happily away.
But soon Alcina, sated with her conquest, grew indifferent, then weary
of me, and at last, to get rid of me, changed me into this form, as she
had done to many lovers before me, making some of them olives, some
palms, some cedars, changing others into fountains, rocks, or even into
wild beasts. And thou, courteous knight, whom accident has brought to
this enchanted isle, beware that she get not the power over thee, or
thou shalt haply be made like us, a tree, a fountain, or a rock.”

Rogero expressed his astonishment at this recital. Astolpho added that
the island was in great part subject to the sway of Alcina. By the aid
of her sister Morgana, she had succeeded in dispossessing a third
sister, Logestilla, of nearly the whole of her patrimony, for the whole
isle was hers originally by her father’s bequest. But Logestilla was
temperate and sage, while the other sisters were false and voluptuous.
Her empire was divided from theirs by a gulf and chain of mountains,
which alone had thus far prevented her sister from usurping it.

Astolpho here ended his tale, and Rogero, who knew that he was the
cousin of Bradamante, would gladly have devised some way for his relief;
but, as that was out of his power, he consoled him as well as he could,
and then begged to be told the way to the palace of Logestilla, and how
to avoid that of Alcina. Astolpho directed him to take the road to the
left, though rough and full of rocks. He warned him that this road would
present serious obstacles; that troops of monsters would oppose his
passage, employed by the art of Alcina to prevent her subjects from
escaping from her dominion. Rogero thanked the myrtle, and prepared to
set out on his way.

He at first thought he would mount the winged horse, and scale the
mountain on his back; but he was too uncertain of his power to control
him to wish to encounter the hazard of another flight through the air,
besides that he was almost famished for the want of food. So he led the
horse after him, and took the road on foot, which for some distance led
equally to the dominions of both the sisters.

He had not advanced more than two miles when he saw before him the
superb city of Alcina. It was surrounded with a wall of gold, which
seemed to reach the skies. I know that some think that this wall was not
of real gold, but only the work of alchemy; it matters not; I prefer to
think it gold, for it certainly shone like gold.

A broad and level road led to the gates of the city, and from this
another branched off, narrow and rough, which led to the mountain
region. Rogero took without hesitation the narrow road; but he had no
sooner entered upon it than he was assailed by a numerous troop which
opposed his passage.

You never have seen anything so ridiculous, so extraordinary, as this
host of hobgoblins were. Some of them bore the human form from the neck
to the feet, but had the head of a monkey or a cat; others had the legs
and the ears of a horse; old men and women, bald and hideous, ran hither
and thither as if out of their senses, half clad in the shaggy skins of
beasts; one rode full speed on a horse without a bridle, another jogged
along mounted on an ass or a cow; others, full of agility, skipped
about, and clung to the tails and manes of the animals which their
companions rode. Some blew horns, others brandished drinking-cups; some
were armed with spits, and some with pitchforks. One, who appeared to be
the captain, had an enormous belly and a gross fat head; he was mounted
on a tortoise, that waddled, now this way, now that, without keeping any
one direction.

One of these monsters, who had something approaching the human form,
though he had the neck, ears, and muzzle of a dog, set himself to bark
furiously at Rogero, to make him turn off to the right, and reenter upon
the road to the gay city; but the brave chevalier exclaimed, “That will
I not, so long as I can use this sword,”—and he thrust the point
directly at his face. The monster tried to strike him with a lance, but
Rogero was too quick for him, and thrust his sword through his body, so
that it appeared a hand’s breadth behind his back. The paladin, now
giving full vent to his rage, laid about him vigorously among the
rabble, cleaving one to the teeth, another to the girdle; but the troop
were so numerous, and in spite of his blows pressed around him so close,
that, to clear his way, he must have had as many arms as Briareus.

If Rogero had uncovered the shield of the enchanter, which hung at his
saddle-bow, he might easily have vanquished this monstrous rout; but
perhaps he did not think of it, and perhaps he preferred to seek his
defence nowhere but in his good sword. At that moment, when his
perplexity was at its height, he saw issue from the city gate two young
beauties, whose air and dress proclaimed their rank and gentle nurture.
Each of them was mounted on a unicorn, whose whiteness surpassed that of
ermine. They advanced to the meadow where Rogero was contending so
valiantly against the hobgoblins, who all retired at their approach.
They drew near, they extended their hands to the young warrior, whose
cheeks glowed with the flush of exercise and modesty. Grateful for their
assistance, he expressed his thanks, and, having no heart to refuse
them, followed their guidance to the gate of the city.

This grand and beautiful entrance was adorned by a portico of four vast
columns, all of diamond. Whether they were real diamond or artificial I
cannot say. What matter is it, so long as they appeared to the eye like
diamond, and nothing could be more gay and splendid.

On the threshold, and between the columns, was seen a bevy of charming
young women, who played and frolicked together. They all ran to receive
Rogero, and conducted him into the palace, which appeared like a
paradise.

We might well call by that name this abode, where the hours flew by,
without account, in ever-new delights. The bare idea of satiety, want,
and, above all, of age, never entered the minds of the inhabitants. They
experienced no sensations except those of luxury and gayety; the cup of
happiness seemed for them ever-flowing and exhaustless. The two young
damsels to whom Rogero owed his deliverance from the hobgoblins
conducted him to the apartment of their mistress. The beautiful Alcina
advanced, and greeted him with an air at once dignified and courteous.
All her court surrounded the paladin, and rendered him the most
flattering attentions. The castle was less admirable for its
magnificence than for the charms of those who inhabited it. They were of
either sex, well matched in beauty, youth, and grace; but among this
charming group the brilliant Alcina shone, as the sun outshines the
stars. The young warrior was fascinated. All that he had heard from the
myrtle-tree appeared to him but a vile calumny. How could he suspect
that falsehood and treason veiled themselves under smiles and the
ingenuous air of truth? He doubted not that Astolpho had deserved his
fate, and perhaps a punishment more severe; he regarded all his stories
as dictated by a disappointed spirit, and a thirst for revenge. But we
must not condemn Rogero too harshly, for he was the victim of magic
power.

They seated themselves at table, and immediately harmonious lyres and
harps waked the air with the most ravishing notes. The charms of poetry
were added in entertaining recitals; the magnificence of the feast would
have done credit to a royal board. The traitress forgot nothing which
might charm the paladin, and attach him to the spot, meaning, when she
should grow tired of him, to metamorphose him as she had done others. In
the same manner passed each succeeding day. Games of pleasant exercise,
the chase, the dance, or rural sports, made the hours pass quickly;
while they gave zest to the refreshment of the bath, or sleep.

Thus Rogero led a life of ease and luxury, while Charlemagne and
Agramant were struggling for empire. But I cannot linger with him while
the amiable and courageous Bradamante is night and day directing her
uncertain steps to every spot where the slightest chance invites her, in
the hope of recovering Rogero.

I will therefore say that, having sought him in vain in fields and in
cities, she knew not whither next to direct her steps. She did not
apprehend the death of Rogero. The fall of such a hero would have
reëchoed from the Hydaspes to the farthest river of the West; but, not
knowing whether he was on the earth or in the air, she concluded, as a
last resource, to return to the cavern which contained the tomb of
Merlin, to ask of him some sure direction to the object of her search.

While this thought occupied her mind, Melissa, the sage enchantress,
suddenly appeared before her. This virtuous and beneficent magician had
discovered by her spells that Rogero was passing his time in pleasure
and idleness, forgetful of his honor and his sovereign. Not able to
endure the thought that one who was born to be a hero should waste his
years in base repose, and leave a sullied reputation in the memory of
survivors, she saw that vigorous measures must be employed to draw him
forth into the paths of virtue. Melissa was not blinded by her affection
for the amiable paladin, like Atlantes, who, intent only on preserving
Rogero’s life, cared nothing for his fame. It was that old enchanter
whose arts had guided the Hippogriff to the isle of the too charming
Alcina, where he hoped his favorite would learn to forget honor, and
lose the love of glory.

At the sight of Melissa joy lighted up the countenance of Bradamante,
and hope animated her breast. Melissa concealed nothing from her, but
told her how Rogero was in the toils of Alcina. Bradamante was plunged
in grief and terror; but the kind enchantress calmed her, dispelled her
fears, and promised that before many days she would lead back the
paladin to her feet.

“My daughter,” she said, “give me the ring which you wear, and which
possesses the power to overcome enchantments. By means of it I doubt not
but that I may enter the stronghold where the false Alcina holds Rogero
in durance, and may succeed in vanquishing her and liberating him.”
Bradamante unhesitatingly delivered her the ring, recommending Rogero to
her best efforts. Melissa then summoned by her art a huge palfrey, black
as jet, excepting one foot, which was bay. Mounted upon this animal, she
rode with such speed that by the next morning she had reached the abode
of Alcina.

She here transformed herself into the perfect resemblance of the old
magician Atlantes, adding a palm-breadth to her height, and enlarging
her whole figure. Her chin she covered with a long beard, and seamed her
whole visage well with wrinkles. She assumed also his voice and manner,
and watched her chance to find Rogero alone. At last she found him,
dressed in a rich tunic of silk and gold, a collar of precious stones
about his neck, and his arms, once so rough with exercise, decorated
with bracelets. His air and his every motion indicated effeminacy, and
he seemed to retain nothing of Rogero but the name; such power had the
enchantress obtained over him.

Melissa, under the form of his old instructor, presented herself before
him, wearing a stern and serious visage. “Is this, then,” she said, “the
fruit of all my labors? Is it for this that I fed you on the marrow of
bears and lions, that I taught you to subdue dragons, and, like
Hercules, strangle serpents in your youthful grasp, only to make you, by
all my cares, a feeble Adonis? My nightly watchings of the stars, of the
yet warm fibres of animals, the lots I have cast, the points of nativity
that I have calculated, have they all falsely indicated that you were
born for greatness? Who could have believed that you would become the
slave of a base enchantress? O Rogero, learn to know this Alcina, learn
to understand her arts and to countervail them. Take this ring, place it
on your finger, return to her presence, and see for yourself what are
her real charms.”

At these words, Rogero, confused, abashed, cast his eyes upon the
ground, and knew not what to answer. Melissa seized the moment, slipped
the ring on his finger, and the paladin was himself again. What a
thunderclap to him! Overcome by shame, he dared not to encounter the
looks of his instructor. When at last he raised his eyes he beheld not
that venerable form, but the priestess Melissa, who in virtue of the
ring now appeared in her true person. She told him of the motives which
had led her to come to his rescue, of the griefs and regrets of
Bradamante, and of her unwearied search for him. “That charming Amazon,”
she said, “sends you this ring, which is a sovereign antidote to all
enchantments. She would have sent you her heart in my hands, if it would
have had greater power to serve you.”

It was needless for Melissa to say more. Rogero’s love for Alcina, being
but the work of enchantment, vanished as soon as the enchantment was
withdrawn, and he now hated her with an equal intensity, seeing no
longer anything in her but her vices, and feeling only resentment for
the shame that she had put upon him.

His surprise when he again beheld Alcina was no less than his
indignation. Fortified by his ring from her enchantments, he saw her as
she was, a monster of ugliness. All her charms were artificial, and,
truly viewed, were rather deformities. She was, in fact, older than
Hecuba or the Sibyl of Cumæ; but an art, which it is to be regretted our
times have lost, enabled her to appear charming, and to clothe herself
in all the attractions of youth. Rogero now saw all this, but, governed
by the counsels of Melissa, he concealed his surprise, assumed under
some pretext his armor, long neglected, and bound to his side Belisarda,
his trusty sword, taking also the buckler of Atlantes, covered with its
veil.

He then selected a horse from the stables of Alcina, without exciting
her suspicions; but he left the Hippogriff, by the advice of Melissa,
who promised to take him in charge, and train him to a more manageable
state. The horse he took was Rabican, which belonged to Astolpho. He
restored the ring to Melissa.

Rogero had not ridden far when he met one of the huntsmen of Alcina,
bearing a falcon on his wrist, and followed by a dog. The huntsman was
mounted on a powerful horse, and came boldly up to the paladin,
demanding, in a somewhat imperious manner, whither he was going so
rapidly. Rogero disdained to stop or to reply; whereupon the huntsman,
not doubting that he was about making his escape, said, “What if I, with
my falcon, stop your ride?” So saying, he threw off the bird, which even
Rabican could not equal in speed. The huntsman then leapt from his
horse, and the animal, open-mouthed, darted after Rogero with the
swiftness of an arrow. The huntsman also ran as if the wind or fire bore
him, and the dog was equal to Rabican in swiftness. Rogero, finding
flight impossible, stopped and faced his pursuers; but his sword was
useless against such foes. The insolent huntsman assailed him with
words, and struck him with his whip, the only weapon he had; the dog bit
his feet, and the horse drove at him with his hoofs. At the same time
the falcon flew over his head and over Rabican’s and attacked them with
claws and wings, so that the horse in his fright began to be
unmanageable. At that moment the sound of trumpets and cymbals was heard
in the valley, and it was evident that Alcina had ordered out all her
array to go in pursuit. Rogero felt that there was no time to be lost,
and luckily remembered the shield of Atlantes, which he bore suspended
from his neck. He unveiled it, and the charm worked wonderfully. The
huntsman, the dog, the horse, fell flat; the trembling wings of the
falcon could no longer sustain her, and she fell senseless to the
ground. Rogero, rid of their annoyances, left them in their trance, and
rode away.

Meanwhile Alcina, with all the force she could muster, sallied forth
from her palace in pursuit. Melissa, left behind, took advantage of the
opportunity to ransack all the rooms, protected by the ring. She undid
one by one all the talismans and spells which she found, broke the
seals, burned the images, and untied the hag-knots. Thence, hurrying
through the fields, she disenchanted the victims changed into trees,
fountains, stones, or brutes; all of whom recovered their liberty, and
vowed eternal gratitude to their deliverer. They made their escape, with
all possible despatch, to the realms of the good Logestilla, whence they
departed to their several homes.

Astolpho was the first whom Melissa liberated, for Rogero had
particularly recommended him to her care. She aided him to recover his
arms, and particularly that precious golden-headed lance which once was
Argalia’s. The enchantress mounted with him upon the winged horse, and
in a short time arrived through the air at the castle of Logestilla,
where Rogero joined them soon after.

In this abode the friends passed a short period of delightful and
improving intercourse with the sage Logestilla and her virtuous court;
and then each departed, Rogero with the Hippogriff, ring, and buckler;
Astolpho with his golden lance, and mounted on Rabican, the fleetest of
steeds. To Rogero Logestilla gave a bit and bridle suited to govern the
Hippogriff; and to Astolpho a horn of marvellous powers, to be sounded
only when all other weapons were unavailing.

                                  ————


                                THE ORC

We left the charming Angelica at the moment when, in her flight from her
contending lovers, Sacripant and Rinaldo, she met an aged hermit. We
have seen that her request to the hermit was to furnish her the means of
gaining the sea-coast, eager to avoid Rinaldo, whom she hated, by
leaving France and Europe itself. The pretended hermit, who was no other
than a vile magician, knowing well that it would not be agreeable to his
false gods to aid Angelica in this undertaking, feigned to comply with
her desire. He supplied her a horse, into which he had by his arts
caused a subtle devil to enter, and, having mounted Angelica on the
animal, directed her what course to take to reach the sea.

Angelica rode on her way without suspicion, but when arrived at the
shore, the demon urged the animal headlong into the water. Angelica in
vain attempted to turn him back to the land; he continued his course
till, as night approached, he landed with his burden on a sandy
headland.

Angelica, finding herself alone, abandoned in this frightful solitude,
remained without movement, as if stupefied, with hands joined and eyes
turned towards heaven, till at last, pouring forth a torrent of tears,
she exclaimed: “Cruel fortune, have you not yet exhausted your rage
against me? To what new miseries do you doom me? Alas! then finish your
work! Deliver me a prey to some ferocious beast, or by whatever fate you
choose bring me to an end. I will be thankful to you for terminating my
life and my misery.” At last, exhausted by her sorrows, she fell asleep,
and sunk prostrate on the sand.

Before recounting what next befell, we must declare what place it was
upon which the unhappy lady was now thrown. In the sea that washes the
coast of Ireland there is an island called Ebuda, whose inhabitants,
once numerous, had been wasted by the anger of Proteus till there were
now but few left. This deity was incensed by some neglect of the usual
honors which he had in old times received from the inhabitants of the
land, and, to execute his vengeance, had sent a horrid sea-monster,
called an Orc, to devour them. Such were the terrors of his ravages that
the whole people of the isle had shut themselves up in the principal
town, and relied on their walls alone to protect them. In this distress
they applied to the Oracle for advice, and were directed to appease the
wrath of the sea-monster by offering to him the fairest virgin that the
country could produce.

Now it so happened that the very day when this dreadful oracle was
announced, and when the fatal mandate had gone forth to seek among the
fairest maidens of the land one to be offered to the monster, some
sailors, landing on the beach where Angelica was, beheld that beauty as
she lay asleep.

O blind Chance! whose power in human affairs is but too great, canst
thou then abandon to the teeth of a horrible monster those charms which
different sovereigns took arms against one another to possess? Alas! the
lovely Angelica is destined to be the victim of those cruel islanders.

Still asleep, she was bound by the Ebudians, and it was not until she
was carried on board the vessel that she came to a knowledge of her
situation. The wind filled the sails and wafted the ship swiftly to the
port, where all that beheld her agreed that she was unquestionably the
victim selected by Proteus himself to be his prey. Who can tell the
screams, the mortal anguish of this unhappy maiden, the reproaches she
addressed even to the heavens themselves, when the dreadful information
of her cruel fate was made known to her? I cannot; let me rather turn to
a happier part of my story.

Rogero left the palace of Logestilla, careering on his flying courser
far above the tops of the mountains, and borne westward by the
Hippogriff, which he guided with ease, by means of the bridle that
Melissa had given him. Anxious as he was to recover Bradamante, he could
not fail to be delighted at the view his rapid flight presented of so
many vast regions and populous countries as he passed over in his
career. At last he approached the shores of England, and perceived an
immense army in all the splendor of military pomp, as if about to go
forth flushed with hopes of victory. He caused the Hippogriff to alight
not far from the scene, and found himself immediately surrounded by
admiring spectators, knights and soldiers, who could not enough indulge
their curiosity and wonder. Rogero learned, in reply to his questions,
that the fine array of troops before him was the army destined to go to
the aid of the French Emperor, in compliance with the request presented
by the illustrious Rinaldo, as ambassador of King Charles, his uncle.

By this time the curiosity of the English chevaliers was partly
gratified in beholding the Hippogriff at rest, and Rogero, to renew
their surprise and delight, remounted the animal, and, slapping spurs to
his sides, made him launch into the air with the rapidity of a meteor,
and directed his flight still westwardly, till he came within sight of
the coasts of Ireland. Here he descried what seemed to be a fair damsel,
alone, fast chained to a rock which projected into the sea. What was his
astonishment when, drawing nigh, he beheld the beautiful princess
Angelica! That day she had been led forth and bound to the rock, there
to wait till the sea-monster should come to devour her. Rogero exclaimed
as he came near, “What cruel hands, what barbarous soul, what fatal
chance can have loaded thee with those chains?” Angelica replied by a
torrent of tears, at first her only response; then, in a trembling
voice, she disclosed to him the horrible destiny for which she was there
exposed. While she spoke, a terrible roaring was heard far off on the
sea. The huge monster soon came in sight, part of his body appearing
above the waves and part concealed. Angelica, half dead with fear,
abandoned herself to despair.

Rogero, lance in rest, spurred his Hippogriff toward the Orc, and gave
him a thrust. The horrible monster was like nothing that nature
produces. It was but one mass of tossing and twisting body, with nothing
of the animal but head, eyes, and mouth, the last furnished with tusks
like those of the wild boar. Rogero’s lance had struck him between the
eyes; but rock and iron are not more impenetrable than were his scales.
The knight, seeing the fruitlessness of the first blow, prepared to give
a second. The animal, beholding upon the water the shadow of the great
wings of the Hippogriff, abandoned his prey, and turned to seize what
seemed nearer. Rogero took the opportunity, and dealt him furious blows
on various parts of his body, taking care to keep clear of his murderous
teeth; but the scales resisted every attack. The Orc beat the water with
his tail till he raised a foam which enveloped Rogero and his steed, so
that the knight hardly knew whether he was in the water or the air. He
began to fear that the wings of the Hippogriff would be so drenched with
water that they would cease to sustain him. At that moment Rogero
bethought him of the magic shield which hung at his saddle-bow; but the
fear that Angelica would also be blinded by its glare discouraged him
from employing it. Then he remembered the ring which Melissa had given
him, the power of which he had so lately proved. He hastened to Angelica
and placed it on her finger. Then, uncovering the buckler, he turned its
bright disk full in the face of the detestable Orc. The effect was
instantaneous. The monster, deprived of sense and motion, rolled over on
the sea, and lay floating on his back. Rogero would fain have tried the
effect of his lance on the now exposed parts, but Angelica implored him
to lose no time in delivering her from her chains before the monster
should revive. Rogero, moved with her entreaties, hastened to do so,
and, having unbound her, made her mount behind him on the Hippogriff.
The animal, spurning the earth, shot up into the air, and rapidly sped
his way through it. Rogero, to give time to the princess to rest after
her cruel agitations, soon sought the earth again, alighting on the
shore of Brittany. Near the shore a thick wood presented itself, which
resounded with the songs of birds. In the midst, a fountain of
transparent water bathed the turf of a little meadow. A gentle hill rose
near by. Rogero, making the Hippogriff alight in the meadow, dismounted,
and took Angelica from the horse.

When the first tumults of emotion had subsided Angelica, casting her
eyes downward, beheld the precious ring upon her finger, whose virtues
she was well acquainted with, for it was the very ring which the Saracen
Brunello had robbed her of. She drew it from her finger and placed it in
her mouth, and, quicker than we can tell it, disappeared from the sight
of the paladin.

Rogero looked around him on all sides, like one frantic, but soon
remembered the ring which he had so lately placed on her finger. Struck
with the ingratitude which could thus recompense his services, he
exclaimed: “Thankless beauty, is this then the reward you make me? Do
you prefer to rob me of my ring rather than receive it as a gift?
Willingly would I have given it to you, had you but asked it.” Thus he
said, searching on all sides with arms extended like a blind man, hoping
to recover by the touch what was lost to sight; but he sought in vain.
The cruel beauty was already far away.

Though sensible of her obligations to her deliverer, her first necessity
was for clothing, food, and repose. She soon reached a shepherd’s hut,
where, entering unseen, she found what sufficed for her present relief.
An old herdsman inhabited the hut, whose charges consisted of a drove of
mares. When recruited by repose Angelica selected one of the mares from
the flock, and, mounting the animal, felt the desire revive in her mind
of returning to her home in the East, and for that purpose would gladly
have accepted the protection of Orlando or of Sacripant across those
wide regions which divided her from her own country. In hopes of meeting
with one or the other of them she pursued her way.

Meanwhile Rogero, despairing of seeing Angelica again, returned to the
tree where he had left his winged horse, but had the mortification to
find that the animal had broken his bridle and escaped. This loss, added
to his previous disappointment, overwhelmed him with vexation. Sadly he
gathered up his arms, threw his buckler over his shoulders, and, taking
the first path that offered, soon found himself within the verge of a
dense and widespread forest.

He had proceeded for some distance when he heard a noise on his right,
and, listening attentively, distinguished the clash of arms. He made his
way toward the place whence the sound proceeded, and found two warriors
engaged in mortal combat. One of them was a knight of a noble and manly
bearing, the other a fierce giant. The knight appeared to exert
consummate address in defending herself against the massive club of the
giant, evading his strokes, or parrying them with sword or shield.
Rogero stood spectator of the combat, for he did not allow himself to
interfere in it, though a secret sentiment inclined him strongly to take
part with the knight. At length he saw with grief the massive club fall
directly on the head of the knight, who yielded to the blow, and fell
prostrate. The giant sprang forward to despatch him, and for that
purpose unlaced his helmet, when Rogero, with dismay, recognized the
face of Bradamante. He cried aloud, “Hold, miscreant!” and sprang
forward with drawn sword. Whereupon the giant, as if he cared not to
enter upon another combat, lifted Bradamante on his shoulders, and ran
with her into the forest.

Rogero plunged after him, but the long legs of the giant carried him
forward so fast that the paladin could hardly keep him in sight. At
length they issued from the wood, and Rogero perceived before him a rich
palace, built of marble, and adorned with sculptures executed by a
master hand. Into this edifice, through a golden door, the giant passed,
and Rogero followed; but, on looking round, saw nowhere either the giant
or Bradamante. He ran from room to room, calling aloud on his cowardly
foe to turn and meet him; but got no response, nor caught another
glimpse of the giant or his prey. In his vain pursuit he met, without
knowing them, Ferrau, Florismart, King Gradasso, Orlando, and many
others, all of whom had been entrapped like himself into this enchanted
castle. It was a new stratagem of the magician Atlantes to draw Rogero
into his power, and to secure also those who might by any chance
endanger his safety. What Rogero had taken for Bradamante was a mere
phantom. That charming lady was far away, full of anxiety for her
Rogero, whose coming she had long expected.

The Emperor had committed to her charge the city and garrison of
Marseilles, and she held the post against the infidels with valor and
discretion. One day Melissa suddenly presented herself before her.
Anticipating her questions, she said, “Fear not for Rogero; he lives,
and is as ever true to you; but he has lost his liberty. The fell
enchanter has again succeeded in making him a prisoner. If you would
deliver him, mount your horse and follow me.” She told her in what
manner Atlantes had deceived Rogero, in deluding his eyes with the
phantom of herself in peril. “Such,” she continued, “will be his arts in
your own case, if you penetrate the forest and approach that castle. You
will think you behold Rogero, when, in fact, you see only the enchanter
himself. Be not deceived, plunge your sword into his body, and trust me
when I tell you that, in slaying him, you will restore not only Rogero,
but with him many of the bravest knights of France, whom the wizard’s
arts have withdrawn from the camp of their sovereign.”

Bradamante promptly armed herself, and mounted her horse. Melissa led
her by forced journeys, by field and forest, beguiling the way with
conversation on the theme which interested her hearer most. When at last
they reached the forest, she repeated once more her instructions, and
then took her leave, for fear the enchanter might espy her, and be put
on his guard.

Bradamante rode on about two miles when suddenly she beheld Rogero, as
it appeared to her, hard pressed by two fierce giants. While she
hesitated she heard his voice calling on her for help. At once the
cautions of Melissa lost their weight. A sudden doubt of the faith and
truth of her kind monitress flashed across her mind. “Shall I not
believe my own eyes and ears?” she said, and rushed forward to his
defence. Rogero fled, pursued by the giants, and Bradamante followed,
passing with them through the castle gate. When there, Bradamante was
undeceived, for neither giant nor knight was to be seen. She found
herself a prisoner, but had not the consolation of knowing that she
shared the imprisonment of her beloved. She saw various forms of men and
women, but could recognize none of them; and their lot was the same with
respect to her. Each viewed the others under some illusion of the fancy,
wearing the semblance of giants, dwarfs, or even four-footed animals, so
that there was no companionship or communication between them.

                                  ————


         ASTOLPHO’S ADVENTURES CONTINUED, AND ISABELLA’S BEGUN

When Astolpho escaped from the cruel Alcina, after a short abode in the
realm of the virtuous Logestilla, he desired to return to his native
country. Logestilla lent him the best vessel of her fleet to convey him
to the mainland. She gave him at parting a wonderful book, which taught
the secret of overcoming all manners of enchantments, and begged him to
carry it always with him, out of regard for her. She also gave him
another gift, which surpassed everything of the kind that mortal
workmanship can frame; yet it was nothing in appearance but a simple
horn.

Astolpho, protected by these gifts, thanked the good fairy, took leave
of her, and set out on his return to France. His voyage was prosperous,
and on reaching the desired port he took leave of the faithful mariners,
and continued his journey by land. As he proceeded over mountains and
through valleys he often met with bands of robbers, wild beasts, and
venomous serpents, but he had only to sound his horn to put them all to
flight.

Having landed in France, and traversed many provinces on his way to the
army, he one day, in crossing a forest, arrived beside a fountain, and
alighted to drink. While he stooped at the fountain a young rustic
sprang from the copse, mounted Rabican, and rode away. It was a new
trick of the enchanter Atlantes. Astolpho, hearing the noise, turned his
head just in time to see his loss; and, starting up, pursued the thief,
who, on his part, did not press the horse to his full speed, but just
kept in sight of his pursuer till they both issued from the forest; and
then Rabican and his rider took shelter in a castle which stood near.
Astolpho followed, and penetrated without difficulty within the
courtyard of the castle, where he looked around for the rider and his
horse, but could see no trace of either, nor any person of whom he could
make inquiry. Suspecting that enchantment was employed to embarrass him,
he bethought him of his book, and on consulting it discovered that his
suspicions were well founded. He also learned what course to pursue. He
was directed to raise the stone which served as a threshold, under which
a spirit lay pent, who would willingly escape, and leave the castle free
of access. Astolpho applied his strength to lift aside the stone.
Thereupon the magician put his arts in force. The castle was full of
prisoners, and the magician caused that to all of them Astolpho should
appear in some false guise—to some a wild beast, to others a giant, to
others a bird of prey. Thus all assailed him, and would quickly have
made an end of him, if he had not bethought him of his horn. No sooner
had he blown a blast than, at the horrid larum, fled the cavaliers and
the necromancer with them, like a flock of pigeons at the sound of the
fowler’s gun. Astolpho then renewed his efforts on the stone, and turned
it over. The under face was all inscribed with magical characters, which
the knight defaced, as directed by his book; and no sooner had he done
so, than the castle, with its walls and turrets, vanished into smoke.

The knights and ladies set at liberty were, besides Rogero and
Bradamante, Orlando, Gradasso, Florismart, and many more. At the sound
of the horn they fled, one and all, men and steeds, except Rabican,
which Astolpho secured, in spite of his terror. As soon as the sound had
ceased Rogero recognized Bradamante, whom he had daily met during their
imprisonment, but had been prevented from knowing by the enchanter’s
arts. No words can tell the delight with which they recognized each
other, and recounted mutually all that had happened to each since they
were parted. Rogero took advantage of the opportunity to press his suit,
and found Bradamante as propitious as he could wish, were it not for a
single obstacle, the difference of their faiths. “If he would obtain her
in marriage,” she said, “he must in due form demand her of her father,
Duke Aymon, and must abandon his false prophet, and become a Christian.”
The latter step was one which Rogero had for some time intended taking,
for reasons of his own. He therefore gladly accepted the terms, and
proposed that they should at once repair to the abbey of Vallombrosa,
whose towers were visible at no great distance. Thither they turned
their horses’ heads, and we will leave them to find their way without
our company.

I know not if my readers recollect that at the moment when Rogero had
just delivered Angelica from the voracious Orc that scornful beauty
placed her ring in her mouth, and vanished out of sight. At the same
time the Hippogriff shook off his bridle, soared away, and flew to
rejoin his former master, very naturally returning to his accustomed
stable. Here Astolpho found him, to his very great delight. He knew the
animal’s powers, having seen Rogero ride him, and he longed to fly
abroad over all the earth, and see various nations and peoples from his
airy course. He had heard Logestilla’s directions how to guide the
animal, and saw her fit a bridle to his head. He therefore was able, out
of all the bridles he found in the stable, to select one suitable, and,
placing Rabican’s saddle on the Hippogriff’s back, nothing seemed to
prevent his immediate departure. Yet before he went he bethought him of
placing Rabican in hands where he would be safe, and whence he might
recover him in time of need. While he stood deliberating where he should
find a messenger, he saw Bradamante approach. That fair warrior had been
parted from Rogero on their way to the abbey of Vallombrosa, by an
inopportune adventure which had called the knight away. She was now
returning to Montalban, having arranged with Rogero to join her there.
To Bradamante, therefore, his fair cousin, Astolpho committed Rabican,
and also the lance of gold, which would only be an incumbrance in his
aerial excursion. Bradamante took charge of both; and Astolpho, bidding
her farewell, soared in air.

Among those delivered by Astolpho from the magician’s castle was
Orlando. Following the guide of chance, the paladin found himself at the
close of day in a forest, and stopped at the foot of a mountain.
Surprised to discern a light which came from a cleft in the rock, he
approached, guided by the ray, and discovered a narrow passage in the
mountain-side, which led into a deep grotto.

Orlando fastened his horse, and then, putting aside the bushes that
resisted his passage, stepped down from rock to rock till he reached a
sort of cavern. Entering it, he perceived a lady, young and handsome, as
well as he could discover through the signs of distress which agitated
her countenance. Her only companion was an old woman, who seemed to be
regarded by her young partner with terror and indignation. The courteous
paladin saluted the women respectfully, and begged to know by whose
barbarity they had been subjected to such imprisonment.

The younger lady replied, in a voice often broken with sobs:

“Though I know well that my recital will subject me to worse treatment
by the barbarous man who keeps me here, to whom this woman will not fail
to report it, yet I will not hide from you the facts. Ah! why should I
fear his rage? If he should take my life, I know not what better boon
than death I can ask.

“My name is Isabella. I am the daughter of the king of Galicia, or
rather I should say misfortune and grief are my parents. Young, rich,
modest, and of tranquil temper, all things appeared to combine to render
my lot happy. Alas! I see myself to-day poor, humbled, miserable, and
destined perhaps to yet further afflictions. It is a year since, my
father having given notice that he would open the lists for a tournament
at Bayonne, a great number of chevaliers from all quarters came together
at our court. Among these Zerbino, son of the king of Scotland,
victorious in all combats, eclipsed by his beauty and his valor all the
rest. Before departing from the court of Galicia he testified the wish
to espouse me, and I consented that he should demand my hand of the
king, my father. But I was a Mahometan, and Zerbino a Christian, and my
father refused his consent. The prince, called home by his father to
take command of the forces destined to the assistance of the French
Emperor, prevailed on me to be married to him secretly, and to follow
him to Scotland. He caused a galley to be prepared to receive me, and
placed in command of it the chevalier Oderic, a Biscayan, famous for his
exploits both by land and sea. On the day appointed, Oderic brought his
vessel to a seaside resort of my father’s, where I embarked. Some of my
domestics accompanied me, and thus I departed from my native land.

“Sailing with a fair wind, after some hours we were assailed by a
violent tempest. It was to no purpose that we took in all sail; we were
driven before the wind directly upon the rocky shore. Seeing no other
hopes of safety, Oderic placed me in a boat, followed himself with a few
of his men, and made for land. We reached it through infinite peril, and
I no sooner felt the firm land beneath my feet, than I knelt down and
poured out heartfelt thanks to the Providence that had preserved me.

“The shore where we landed appeared to be uninhabited. We saw no
dwelling to shelter us, no road to lead us to a more hospitable spot. A
high mountain rose before us, whose base stretched into the sea. It was
here the infamous Oderic, in spite of my tears and entreaties, sold me
to a band of pirates, who fancied I might be an acceptable present to
their prince, the Sultan of Morocco. This cavern is their den, and here
they keep me under the guard of this woman, until it shall suit their
convenience to carry me away.”

Isabella had hardly finished her recital when a troop of armed men began
to enter the cavern. Seeing the prince Orlando, one said to the rest,
“What bird is this we have caught, without even setting a snare for
him?” Then addressing Orlando, “It was truly civil in you, friend, to
come hither with that handsome coat of armor and vest, the very things I
want.” “You shall pay for them, then,” said Orlando; and seizing a
half-burnt brand from the fire, he hurled it at him, striking his head,
and stretching him lifeless on the floor.

There was a massy table in the middle of the cavern, used for the
pirates’ repasts. Orlando lifted it and hurled it at the robbers as they
stood clustered in a group toward the entrance. Half the gang were laid
prostrate, with broken heads and limbs; the rest got away as nimbly as
they could.

Leaving the den and its inmates to their fate, Orlando, taking Isabella
under his protection, pursued his way for some days, without meeting
with any adventure.

One day they saw a band of men advancing, who seemed to be guarding a
prisoner, bound hand and foot, as if being carried to execution. The
prisoner was a youthful cavalier, of a noble and ingenuous appearance.
The band bore the ensigns of Count Anselm, head of the treacherous house
of Maganza. Orlando desired Isabella to wait, while he rode forward to
inquire the meaning of this array. Approaching, he demanded of the
leader who his prisoner was, and of what crime he had been guilty. The
man replied that the prisoner was a murderer, by whose hand Pinabel, the
son of Count Anselm, had been treacherously slain. At these words the
prisoner exclaimed, “I am no murderer, nor have I been in any way the
cause of the young man’s death.” Orlando, knowing the cruel and
ferocious character of the chiefs of the house of Maganza, needed no
more to satisfy him that the youth was the victim of injustice. He
commanded the leader of the troop to release his victim, and, receiving
an insolent reply, dashed him to the earth with a stroke of his lance;
then by a few vigorous blows dispersed the band, leaving deadly marks on
those who were slowest to quit the field.

Orlando then hastened to unbind the prisoner, and to assist him to
reclothe himself in his armor, which the false Magencian had dared to
assume. He then led him to Isabella, who now approached the scene of
action. How can we picture the joy, the astonishment, with which
Isabella recognized in him Zerbino, her husband, and the prince
discovered her whom he had believed overwhelmed in the waves! They
embraced one another, and wept for joy. Orlando, sharing in their
happiness, congratulated himself in having been the instrument of it.
The princess recounted to Zerbino what the illustrious paladin had done
for her, and the prince threw himself at Orlando’s feet, and thanked him
as having twice preserved his life.

While these exchanges of congratulation and thankfulness were going on,
a sound in the underwood attracted their attention, and caused the two
knights to brace their helmets and stand on their guard. What the cause
of the interruption was we shall record in another chapter.

                                  ————


                                 MEDORO

France was at this time the theatre of dreadful events. The Saracens and
the Christians, in numerous encounters, slew one another. On one
occasion Rinaldo led an attack on the infidel columns, broke and
scattered them, till he found himself opposite to a knight whose armor
(whether by accident or by choice, it matters not) bore the blazon of
Orlando. It was Dardinel, the young and brave prince of Zumara, and
Rinaldo remarked him by the slaughter he spread all around. “Ah,” said
he to himself, “let us pluck up this dangerous plant before it has grown
to its full height.”

As Rinaldo advanced, the crowd opened before him, the Christians to let
his sword have free course, the Pagans to escape its sweep. Dardinel and
he stood face to face. Rinaldo exclaimed, fiercely, “Young man, whoever
gave you that noble buckler to bear made you a dangerous gift; I should
like to see how you are able to defend those quarterings, red and white.
If you cannot defend them against me, how pray will you do so when
Orlando challenges them?” Dardinel replied: “Thou shalt learn that I can
defend the arms I bear, and shed new glory upon them. No one shall rend
them from me but with life.” Saying these words, Dardinel rushed upon
Rinaldo with sword uplifted.

The chill of mortal terror filled the souls of the Saracens when they
beheld Rinaldo advance to attack the prince, like a lion against a young
bull. The first blow came from the hand of Dardinel, and the weapon
rebounded from Mambrino’s helmet without effect. Rinaldo smiled, and
said, “I will now show you if my strokes are more effectual.” At these
words he thrust the unfortunate Dardinel in the middle of his breast.
The blow was so violent that the cruel weapon pierced the body, and came
out a palm-breadth behind his back. Through this wound the life of
Dardinel issued with his blood, and his body fell helpless to the
ground.

As a flower which the passing plough has uprooted languishes, and droops
its head, so Dardinel, his visage covered with the paleness of death,
expires, and the hopes of an illustrious race perish with him.

Like waters kept back by a dike, which, when the dike is broken, spread
abroad through all the country, so the Moors, no longer kept in column
by the example of Dardinel, fled in all directions. Rinaldo despised too
much such easy victories to pursue them; he wished for no combats but
with brave men. At the same time, the other paladins made terrible
slaughter of the Moors. Charles himself, Oliver, Guido, and Ogier the
Dane, carried death into their ranks on all sides.

The infidels seemed doomed to perish to a man on that dreadful day; but
the wise king, Marsilius, at last put some slight degree of method into
the general rout. He collected the remnant of the troops, formed them
into a battalion, and retreated in tolerable order to his camp. That
camp was well fortified by intrenchments and a broad ditch. Thither the
fugitives hastened, and by degrees all that remained of the Moorish army
was brought together there.

The Emperor might perhaps that night have crushed his enemy entirely;
but not thinking it prudent to expose his troops, fatigued as they were,
to an attack upon a camp so well fortified, he contented himself with
encompassing the enemy with his troops, prepared to make a regular
siege. During the night the Moors had time to see the extent of their
loss. Their tents resounded with lamentations. This warrior had to mourn
a brother, that a friend; many suffered with grievous wounds, all
trembled at the fate in store for them.

There were two young Moors, both of humble rank, who gave proof at that
time of attachment and fidelity rare in the history of man. Cloridan and
Medoro had followed their prince, Dardinel, to the wars of France.
Cloridan, a bold huntsman, combined strength with activity. Medoro was a
mere youth, his cheeks yet fair and blooming. Of all the Saracens, no
one united so much grace and beauty. His light hair was set off by his
black and sparkling eyes. The two friends were together on guard at the
rampart. About midnight they gazed on the scene in deep dejection.
Medoro, with tears in his eyes, spoke of the good prince Dardinel, and
could not endure the thought that his body should be cast out on the
plain, deprived of funeral honors. “O my friend,” said he, “must then
the body of our prince be the prey of wolves and ravens? Alas! when I
remember how he loved me, I feel that if I should sacrifice my life to
do him honor, I should not do more than my duty. I wish, dear friend, to
seek out his body on the battlefield, and give it burial, and I hope to
be able to pass through King Charles’s camp without discovery, as they
are probably all asleep. You, Cloridan, will be able to say for me, if I
should die in the adventure, that gratitude and fidelity to my prince
were my inducements.”

Cloridan was both surprised and touched with this proof of the young
man’s devotion. He loved him tenderly, and tried for a long time every
effort to dissuade him from his design; but he found Medoro determined
to accomplish his object or die in the endeavor.

Cloridan, unable to change his purpose, said, “I will go with you,
Medoro, and help you in this generous enterprise. I value not life
compared with honor, and if I did, do you suppose, dear friend, that I
could live without you? I would rather fall by the arms of our enemies
than die of grief for the loss of you.”

When the two friends were relieved from their guard duty they went
without any followers into the camp of the Christians. All there was
still; the fires were dying out; there was no fear of any attempt on the
part of the Saracens, and the soldiers, overcome by fatigue or wine,
slept secure, lying upon the ground in the midst of their arms and
equipage. Cloridan stopped, and said, “Medoro, I am not going to quit
this camp without taking vengeance for the death of our prince. Keep
watch, be on your guard that no one shall surprise us; I mean to mark a
road with my sword through the ranks of our enemies.” So saying, he
entered the tent where Alpheus slept, who a year before had joined the
camp of Charles, and pretended to be a great physician and astrologer.
But his science had deceived him, if it gave him hope of dying
peacefully in his bed at a good old age; his lot was to die with little
warning. Cloridan ran his sword through his heart. A Greek and a German
followed, who had been playing late at dice: fortunate if they had
continued their game a little longer; but they never reckoned a throw
like this among their chances. Cloridan next came to the unlucky
Grillon, whose head lay softly on his pillow. He dreamed probably of the
feast from which he had but just retired; for when Cloridan cut off his
head wine flowed forth with the blood.

The two young Moors might have penetrated even to the tent of
Charlemagne; but knowing that the paladins encamped around him kept
watch by turns, and judging that it was impossible they should all be
asleep, they were afraid to go too near. They might also have obtained
rich booty; but, intent only on their object, they crossed the camp, and
arrived at length at the bloody field, where bucklers, lances, and
swords lay scattered in the midst of corpses of poor and rich, common
soldier and prince, horses and pools of blood. This terrible scene of
carnage would have destroyed all hope of finding what they were in
search of until dawn of day, were it not that the moon lent the aid of
her uncertain rays.

Medoro raised his eyes to the planet, and exclaimed, “O holy goddess,
whom our fathers have adored under three different forms,—thou who
displayest thy power in heaven, on earth, and in the underworld,—thou
who art seen foremost among the nymphs chasing the beasts of the
forest,—cause me to see, I implore thee, the spot where my dear master
lies, and make me all my life long follow the example which thou dost
exhibit of works of charity and love.”

Either by accident, or that the moon was sensible of the prayer of
Medoro, the cloud broke away, and the moonlight burst forth as bright as
day. The rays seemed especially to gild the spot where lay the body of
Prince Dardinel; and Medoro, bathed in tears and with bleeding heart,
recognized him by the quarterings of red and white on his shield.

With groans stifled by his tears, and lamentations in accents
suppressed, not from any fear for himself, for he cared not for life,
but lest any one should be roused to interrupt their pious duty while
yet incomplete, he proposed to his companion that they should together
bear Dardinel on their shoulders, sharing the burden of the beloved
remains.

Marching with rapid strides under their precious load, they perceived
that the stars began to grow pale, and that the shades of night would
soon be dispersed by the dawn. Just then Zerbino, whose extreme valor
had urged him far from the camp in pursuit of the fugitives, returning,
entered the wood in which they were. Some knights in his train perceived
at a distance the two brothers-in-arms. Cloridan saw the troop, and,
observing that they dispersed themselves over the plain as if in search
of booty, told Medoro to lay down the body, and let each save himself by
flight. He dropped his part, thinking that Medoro would do the same; but
the good youth loved his prince too well to abandon him, and continued
to carry his load singly as well as he might, while Cloridan made his
escape. Near by there was a part of the wood tufted as if nothing but
wild animals had ever penetrated it. The unfortunate youth, loaded with
the weight of his dead master, plunged into its recesses.

Cloridan, when he perceived that he had evaded his foes, discovered that
Medoro was not with him. “Ah!” exclaimed he, “how could I, dear Medoro,
so forget myself as to consult my own safety without heeding yours?” So
saying, he retraced the tangled passes of the wood toward the place from
whence he had fled. As he approached he heard the noise of horses, and
the menacing voices of armed men. Soon he perceived Medoro, on foot,
with the cavaliers surrounding him. Zerbino, their commander, bade them
seize him. The unhappy Medoro turned now this way, now that, trying to
conceal himself behind an oak or a rock, still bearing the body, which
he would by no means leave. Cloridan not knowing how to help him, but
resolved to perish with him, if he must perish, takes an arrow, fits it
to his bow, discharges it, and pierces the breast of a Christian knight,
who falls helpless from his horse. The others look this way and that, to
discover whence the fatal bolt was sped. One, while demanding of his
comrades in what direction the arrow came, received a second in his
throat, which stopped his words, and soon closed his eyes to the scene.

Zerbino, furious at the death of his two comrades, ran upon Medoro,
seized his golden hair, and dragged him forward to slay him. But the
sight of so much youth and beauty commanded pity. He stayed his arm. The
young man spoke in suppliant tones. “Ah! signor,” said he, “I conjure
you by the God whom you serve, deprive me not of life until I shall have
buried the body of the prince, my master. Fear not that I will ask you
any other favor; life is not dear to me; I desire death as soon as I
shall have performed this sacred duty. Do with me then as you please.
Give my limbs a prey to the birds and beasts; only let me first bury my
prince.” Medoro pronounced these words with an air so sweet and tender
that a heart of stone would have been moved by them. Zerbino was so to
the bottom of his soul. He was on the point of uttering words of mercy,
when a cruel subaltern, forgetting all respect to his commander, plunged
his lance into the breast of the young Moor. Zerbino, enraged at his
brutality, turned upon the wretch to take vengeance, but he saved
himself by a precipitate flight.

Cloridan, who saw Medoro fall, could contain himself no longer. He
rushed from his concealment, threw down his bow, and, sword in hand,
seemed only desirous of vengeance for Medoro, and to die with him. In a
moment, pierced through and through with many wounds, he exerts the last
remnant of his strength in dragging himself to Medoro, to die embracing
him. The cavaliers left them thus to rejoin Zerbino, whose rage against
the murderer of Medoro had drawn him away from the spot.

Cloridan died; and Medoro, bleeding copiously, was drawing near his end
when help arrived.

A young maiden approached the fallen knights at this critical moment.
Her dress was that of a peasant-girl, but her air was noble, and her
beauty celestial; sweetness and goodness reigned in her lovely
countenance. It was no other than Angelica, the Princess of Cathay.

When she had recovered that precious ring, as we have before related,
Angelica, knowing its value, felt proud in the power it conferred,
travelled alone without fear, not without a secret shame that she had
ever been obliged to seek protection in her wanderings of the Count
Orlando and of Sacripant. She reproached herself too as with a weakness
that she had ever thought of marrying Rinaldo; in fine, her pride grew
so high as to persuade her that no man living was worthy to aspire to
her hand.

Moved with pity at the sight of the young man wounded, and melted to
tears at hearing the cause, she quickly recalled to remembrance the
knowledge she had acquired in India, where the virtues of plants and the
art of healing formed part of the education even of princesses. The
beautiful queen ran into the adjoining meadow to gather plants of virtue
to staunch the flow of blood. Meeting on her way a countryman on
horseback seeking a strayed heifer, she begged him to come to her
assistance, and endeavor to remove the wounded man to a more secure
asylum.

Angelica, having prepared the plants by bruising them between two
stones, laid them with her fair hand on Medoro’s wound. The remedy soon
restored in some degree the strength of the wounded man, who, before he
would quit the spot, made them cover with earth and turf the bodies of
his friend and of the prince. Then surrendering himself to the pity of
his deliverers, he allowed them to place him on the horse of the
shepherd, and conduct him to his cottage. It was a pleasant farmhouse on
the borders of the wood, bearing marks of comfort and competency. There
the shepherd lived with his wife and children. There Angelica tended
Medoro, and there, by the devoted care of the beautiful queen, his sad
wound closed over, and he recovered his perfect health.

O Count Rinaldo, O King Sacripant! what availed it you to possess so
many virtues and such fame? What advantage have you derived from all
your high deserts? O hapless king, great Agrican! if you could return to
life, how would you endure to see yourself rejected by one who will bow
to the yoke of Hymen in favor of a young soldier of humble birth? And
thou, Ferrau, and ye numerous others who a hundred times have put your
lives at hazard for this cruel beauty, how bitter will it be to you to
see her sacrifice you all to the claims of the humble Medoro!

There, under the low roof of a shepherd, the flame of Hymen was lighted
for this haughty queen. She takes the shepherd’s wife to serve in place
of mother, the shepherd and his children for witnesses, and marries the
happy Medoro.

Angelica, after her marriage, wishing to endow Medoro with the
sovereignty of the countries which yet remained to her, took with him
the road to the East. She had preserved through all her adventures a
bracelet of gold enriched with precious stones, the present of the Count
Orlando. Having nothing else wherewith to reward the good shepherd and
his wife, who had served her with so much care and fidelity, she took
the bracelet from her arm and gave it to them, and then the
newly-married couple directed their steps toward those mountains which
separate France and Spain, intending to wait at Barcelona a vessel which
should take them on their way to the East.

                                  ————


                              ORLANDO MAD

Orlando, on the loss of Angelica, laid aside his crest and arms, and
arrayed himself in a suit of black armor expressive of his despair. In
this guise he carried such slaughter among the ranks of the infidels
that both armies were astonished at the achievements of the stranger
knight. Mandricardo, who had been absent from the battle, heard the
report of these achievements, and determined to test for himself the
valor of the knight so extolled. He it was who broke in upon the
conference of Zerbino and Isabella, and their benefactor Orlando, as
they stood occupied in mutual felicitations, after the happy reunion of
the lovers by the prowess of the paladin.

Mandricardo, after contemplating the group for a moment, addressed
himself to Orlando in these words: “Thou must be the man I seek. For ten
days and more I have been on thy track. The fame of thy exploits has
brought me hither, that I may measure my strength with thine. Thy crest
and shield prove thee the same who spread such slaughter among our
troops. But these marks are superfluous, and if I saw thee among a
hundred I should know thee by thy martial bearing to be the man I seek.”

“I respect thy courage,” said Orlando; “such a design could not have
sprung up in any but a brave and generous soul. If the desire to see me
has brought thee hither, I would, if it were possible, show thee my
inmost soul. I will remove my visor, that you may satisfy your
curiosity; but when you have done so I hope that you will also try and
see if my valor corresponds to my appearance.”

“Come on,” said the Saracen, “my first wish was to see and know thee; I
will not gratify my second.”

Orlando, observing Mandricardo, was surprised to see no sword at his
side, nor mace at his saddle-bow. “And what weapon hast thou,” said he,
“if thy lance fail thee?”

“Do not concern yourself about that,” said Mandricardo; “I have made
many good knights give ground with no other weapon than you see. Know
that I have sworn an oath never to bear a sword until I win back that
famous Durindana that Orlando, the paladin, carries. That sword belongs
to the suit of armor which I wear; that only is wanting. Without doubt
it was stolen, but how it got into the hands of Orlando I know not. But
I will make him pay dearly for it when I find him. I seek him the more
anxiously that I may avenge with his blood the death of King Agrican, my
father, whom he treacherously slew. I am sure he must have done it by
treachery, for it was not in his power to subdue in fair fight such a
warrior as my father.”

“Thou liest,” cried Orlando; “and all who say so lie. I am Orlando, whom
you seek; yes, I am he who slew your father honorably. Hold, here is the
sword: you shall have it if your courage avails to merit it. Though it
belongs to me by right, I will not use it in this dispute. See, I hang
it on this tree; you shall be master of it, if you bereave me of life;
not else.”

At these words Orlando drew Durindana, and hung it on one of the
branches of a tree near by.

Both knights, boiling with equal ardor, rode off in a semicircle; then
rushed together with reins thrown loose, and struck one another with
their lances. Both kept their seats, immovable. The splinters of their
lances flew into the air, and no weapon remained for either but the
fragment which he held in his hand. Then those two knights, covered with
iron mail, were reduced to the necessity of fighting with staves, in the
manner of two rustics, who dispute the boundary of a meadow, or the
possession of a spring.

These clubs could not long keep whole in the hands of such sturdy
smiters, who were soon reduced to fight with naked fists. Such warfare
was more painful to him that gave than to him that received the blows.
They next clasped, and strained each his adversary, as Hercules did
Antæus. Mandricardo, more enraged than Orlando, made violent efforts to
unseat the paladin, and dropped the rein of his horse. Orlando, more
calm, perceived it. With one hand he resisted Mandricardo, with the
other he twitched the horse’s bridle over the ears of the animal. The
Saracen dragged Orlando with all his might, but Orlando’s thighs held
the saddle like a vise. At last the efforts of the Saracen broke the
girths of Orlando’s horse; the saddle slipped; the knight, firm in his
stirrups, slipped with it, and came to the ground hardly conscious of
his fall. The noise of his armor in falling startled Mandricardo’s
horse, now without a bridle. He started off in full career, heeding
neither trees nor rocks nor broken ground. Urged by fright, he ran with
furious speed, carrying his master, who, almost distracted with rage,
shouted and beat the animal with his fists, and thereby impelled his
flight. After running thus three miles or more, a deep ditch opposed
their progress. The horse and rider fell headlong into it, and did not
find the bottom covered with feather-beds or roses. They got sadly
bruised; but were lucky enough to escape without any broken limbs.

Mandricardo, as soon as he gained his feet, seized the horse by his mane
with fury; but, having no bridle, could not hold him. He looked round in
hopes of finding something that would do for a rein. Just then fortune,
who seemed willing to help him at last, brought that way a peasant with
a bridle in his hand, who was in search of his farm horse that had
strayed away.

Orlando, having speedily repaired his horse’s girths, remounted, and
waited a good hour for the Saracen to return. Not seeing him, he
concluded to go in search of him. He took an affectionate leave of
Zerbino and Isabella, who would willingly have followed him; but this
the brave paladin would by no means permit. He held it unknightly to go
in search of an enemy accompanied by a friend, who might act as a
defender. Therefore, desiring them to say to Mandricardo, if they should
meet him, that his purpose was to tarry in the neighborhood three days,
and then repair to the camp of Charlemagne, he took down Durindana from
the tree, and proceeded in the direction which the Saracen’s horse had
taken. But the animal, having no guide but its terror, had so doubled
and confused its traces that Orlando, after two days spent in the
search, gave up the attempt.

It was about the middle of the third day when the paladin arrived on the
pleasant bank of a stream which wound through a meadow enamelled with
flowers. High trees, whose tops met and formed an arbor, overshadowed
the fountain; and the breeze which blew through their foliage tempered
the heat. Hither the shepherds used to resort to quench their thirst,
and to enjoy the shelter from the midday sun. The air, perfumed with the
flowers, seemed to breathe fresh strength into their veins. Orlando felt
the influence, though covered with his armor. He stopped in this
delicious arbor, where everything seemed to invite to repose. But he
could not have chosen a more fatal asylum. He there spent the most
miserable moments of his life.

He looked around, and noted with pleasure all the charms of the spot. He
saw that some of the trees were carved with inscriptions—he drew near,
and read them, and what was his surprise to find that they composed the
name of Angelica! Farther on he found the name of Medoro mixed with
hers. The paladin thought he dreamed. He stood like one amazed—like a
bird that, rising to fly, finds its feet caught in a net.

Orlando followed the course of the stream, and came to one of its turns
where the rocks of the mountain bent in such a way as to form a sort of
grotto. The twisted stems of ivy and the wild vine draped the entrance
of this recess, scooped by the hand of nature.

The unhappy paladin, on entering the grotto, saw letters which appeared
to have been lately carved. They were verses which Medoro had written in
honor of his happy nuptials with the beautiful queen. Orlando tried to
persuade himself it must be some other Angelica whom those verses
celebrated, and as for Medoro, he had never heard his name. The sun was
now declining, and Orlando remounted his horse, and went on his way. He
soon saw the roof of a cottage whence the smoke ascended; he heard the
barking of dogs and the lowing of cattle, and arrived at a humble
dwelling which seemed to offer an asylum for the night. The inmates, as
soon as they saw him, hastened to render him service. One took his
horse, another his shield and cuirass, another his golden spurs. This
cottage was the very same where Medoro had been carried, deeply
wounded,—where Angelica had tended him, and afterwards married him. The
shepherd who lived in it loved to tell everybody the story of this
marriage, and soon related it, with all its details, to the miserable
Orlando.

Having finished it, he went away, and returned with the precious
bracelet which Angelica, grateful for his services, had given him as a
memorial. It was the one which Orlando had himself given her.

This last touch was the finishing stroke to the excited paladin.
Frantic, exasperated, he exclaimed, against the ungrateful and cruel
princess who had disdained him, the most renowned, the most indomitable
of all the paladins of France,—him, who had rescued her from the most
alarming perils,—him, who had fought the most terrible battles for her
sake,—she to prefer to him a young Saracen! The pride of the noble
Count was deeply wounded. Indignant, frantic, a victim to ungovernable
rage, he rushed into the forest, uttering the most frightful shrieks.

“No, no!” cried he, “I am not the man they take me for! Orlando is dead!
I am only the wandering ghost of that unhappy Count, who is now
suffering the torments of hell!”

Orlando wandered all night, as chance directed, through the wood, and at
sunrise his destiny led him to the fountain where Medoro had engraved
the fatal inscription. The frantic paladin saw it a second time with
fury, drew his sword, and hacked it from the rock.

Unlucky grotto! you shall no more attract by your shade and coolness,
you shall no more shelter with your arch either shepherd or flock. And
you, fresh and pure fountain, you may not escape the rage of the furious
Orlando! He cast into the fountain branches, trunks of trees which he
tore up, pieces of rocks which he broke off, plants uprooted, with the
earth adhering, and turf and brushes, so as to choke the fountain, and
destroy the purity of its waters. At length, exhausted by his violent
exertions, bathed in sweat, breathless, Orlando sunk panting upon the
earth, and lay there insensible three days and three nights.

The fourth day he started up and seized his arms. His helmet, his
buckler, he cast far from him; his hauberk and his clothes he rent
asunder; the fragments were scattered through the wood. In fine, he
became a furious madman. His insanity was such that he cared not to
retain even his sword. But he had no need of Durindana, nor of other
arms, to do wonderful things. His prodigious strength sufficed. At the
first wrench of his mighty arm he tore up a pine-tree by the roots.
Oaks, beeches, maples, whatever he met in his path, yielded in like
manner. The ancient forest soon became as bare as the borders of a
morass, where the fowler has cleared away the bushes to spread his nets.
The shepherds, hearing the horrible crashing in the forest, abandoned
their flocks to run and see the cause of this unwonted uproar. By their
evil star, or for their sins, they were led thither. When they saw the
furious state the Count was in, and his incredible force, they would
fain have fled out of his reach, but in their fears lost their presence
of mind. The madman pursued them, seized one and rent him limb from
limb, as easily as one would pull ripe apples from a tree. He took
another by the feet, and used him as a club to knock down a third. The
shepherds fled; but it would have been hard for any to escape, if he had
not at that moment left them to throw himself with the same fury upon
their flocks. The peasants, abandoning their ploughs and harrows,
mounted on the roofs of buildings and pinnacles of the rocks, afraid to
trust themselves even to the oaks and pines. From such heights they
looked on, trembling at the raging fury of the unhappy Orlando. His
fists, his teeth, his nails, his feet, seize, break, and tear cattle,
sheep, and swine; the most swift in flight alone being able to escape
him.

When at last terror had scattered everything before him, he entered a
cottage which was abandoned by its inhabitants, and there found that
which served for food. His long fast had caused him to feel the most
ravenous hunger. Seizing whatever he found that was eatable, whether
roots, acorns, or bread, raw meat or cooked, he gorged it
indiscriminately.

Issuing thence again, the frantic Orlando gave chase to whatever living
thing he saw, whether men or animals. Sometimes he pursued the deer and
hind, sometimes he attacked bears and wolves, and with his naked hands
killed and tore them, and devoured their flesh.

Thus he wandered, from place to place, through France, imperilling his
life a thousand ways, yet always preserved by some mysterious providence
from a fatal result. But here we leave Orlando for a time, that we may
record what befell Zerbino and Isabella after their parting with him.

The prince and his fair bride waited, by Orlando’s request, near the
scene of the battle for three days, that, if Mandricardo should return,
they might inform him where Orlando would give him another meeting. At
the end of that time their anxiety to know the issue led them to follow
Orlando’s traces, which led them at last to the wood where the trees
were inscribed with the names of Angelica and Medoro. They remarked how
all these inscriptions were defaced, and how the grotto was disordered,
and the fountain clogged with rubbish. But that which surprised them and
distressed them most of all was to find on the grass the cuirass of
Orlando, and not far from it his helmet, the same which the renowned
Almontes once wore.

Hearing a horse neigh in the forest, Zerbino turned his eyes in that
direction, and saw Brigliadoro, with the bridle yet hanging at the
saddle-bow. He looked round for Durindana, and found that famous sword,
without the scabbard, lying on the grass. He saw also the fragments of
Orlando’s other arms and clothing scattered on all sides over the plain.

Zerbino and Isabella stood in astonishment and grief, not knowing what
to think, but little imagining the true cause. If they had found any
marks of blood on the arms or on the fragments of the clothing, they
would have supposed him slain, but there were none. While they were in
this painful uncertainty they saw a young peasant approach. He, not yet
recovered from the terror of the scene, which he had witnessed from the
top of a rock, told them the whole of the sad events.

Zerbino, with his eyes full of tears, carefully collected all the
scattered arms. Isabella also dismounted to aid him in the sad duty.
When they had collected all the pieces of that rich armor they hung them
like a trophy on a pine; and to prevent their being violated by any
passers-by, Zerbino inscribed on the bark this caution: “These are the
arms of the Paladin Orlando.”

Having finished this pious work, he remounted his horse, and just then a
knight rode up, and requested Zerbino to tell him the meaning of the
trophy. The prince related the facts as they had happened; and
Mandricardo, for it was that Saracen knight, full of joy, rushed
forward, and seized the sword, saying, “No one can censure me for what I
do; this sword is mine; I can take my own wherever I find it. It is
plain that Orlando, not daring to defend it against me, has
counterfeited madness to excuse him in surrendering it.”

Zerbino vehemently exclaimed, “Touch not that sword. Think not to
possess it without a contest. If it be true that the arms you wear are
those of Hector, you must have got them by theft, and not by prowess.”

Immediately they attacked one another with the utmost fury. The air
resounded with thick-falling blows. Zerbino, skilful and alert, evaded
for a time with good success the strokes of Durindana; but at length a
terrible blow struck him on the neck. He fell from his horse, and the
Tartar king, possessed of the spoils of his victory, rode away.

                                  ————


                          ZERBINO AND ISABELLA

Zerbino’s pain at seeing the Tartar prince go off with the sword
surpassed the anguish of his wound; but now the loss of blood so reduced
his strength that he could not move from where he fell. Isabella, not
knowing whither to resort for help, could only bemoan him, and chide her
cruel fate. Zerbino said, “If I could but leave thee, my best beloved,
in some secure abode, it would not distress me to die; but to abandon
thee so, without protection, is sad indeed.” She replied, “Think not to
leave me, dearest; our souls shall not be parted; this sword will give
me the means to follow thee.” Zerbino’s last words implored her to
banish such a thought, but live, and be true to his memory. Isabella
promised, with many tears, to be faithful to him so long as life should
last.

When he ceased to breathe, Isabella’s cries resounded through the
forest, and reached the ears of a reverend hermit, who hastened to the
spot. He soothed and calmed her, urging those consolations which the
word of God supplies; and at last brought her to wish for nothing else
but to devote herself for the rest of life wholly to religion.

As she could not bear the thoughts of leaving her dead lord abandoned,
the body was, by the good hermit’s aid, placed upon the horse, and taken
to the nearest inhabited place, where a chest was made for it, suitable
to be carried with them on their way. The hermit’s plan was to escort
his charge to a monastery, not many days’ journey distant, where
Isabella resolved to spend the remainder of her days. Thus they
travelled day after day, choosing the most retired ways, for the country
was full of armed men. One day a cavalier met them, and barred their
way. It was no other than Rodomont, king of Algiers, who had just left
the camp of Agramant, full of indignation at the treatment he had
received from Doralice. At sight of the lovely lady and her reverend
attendant, with their horse laden with a burden draped with black, he
asked the meaning of their journey. Isabella told him her affliction,
and her resolution to renounce the world and devote herself to religion,
and to the memory of the friend she had lost. Rodomont laughed
scornfully at this, and told her that her project was absurd; that
charms like hers were meant to be enjoyed, not buried, and that he
himself would more than make amends for her dead lover. The monk, who
promptly interposed to rebuke this impious talk, was commanded to hold
his peace; and still persisting was seized by the knight and hurled over
the edge of the cliff, where he fell into the sea, and was drowned.

Rodomont, when he had got rid of the hermit, again applied to the sad
lady, heartless with affright, and, in the language used by lovers,
said, “she was his very heart, his life, his light.” Having laid aside
all violence, he humbly sued that she would accompany him to his
retreat, near by. It was a ruined chapel from which the monks had been
driven by the disorders of the time, and which Rodomont had taken
possession of. Isabella, who had no choice but to obey, followed him,
meditating as she went what resource she could find to escape out of his
power, and keep her vow to her dead husband, to be faithful to his
memory as long as life should last. At length she said, “If, my lord,
you will let me go and fulfil my vow, and my intention, as I have
already declared it, I will bestow upon you what will be to you of more
value than a hundred women’s hearts. I know an herb, and I have seen it
on our way, which, rightly prepared, affords a juice of such power, that
the flesh, if laved with it, becomes impenetrable to sword or fire. This
liquor I can make, and will, to-day, if you will accept my offer; and
when you have seen its virtue you will value it more than if all Europe
were made your own.”

Rodomont, at hearing this, readily promised all that was asked, so eager
was he to learn a secret that would make him as Achilles was of yore.
Isabella, having collected such herbs as she thought proper, and boiled
them, with certain mysterious signs and words, at length declared her
labor done, and, as a test, offered to try its virtue on herself. She
bathed her neck and bosom with the liquor, and then called on Rodomont
to smite with all his force, and see whether his sword had power to
harm. The pagan, who during the preparations had taken frequent draughts
of wine, and scarce knew what he did, drew his sword at the word, and
struck across her neck with all his might, and the fair head leapt
sundered from the snowy neck and breast.

Rude and unfeeling as he was, the pagan knight lamented bitterly this
sad result. To honor her memory he resolved to do a work as unparalleled
as her devotion. From all parts round he caused laborers to be brought,
and had a tower built to enclose the chapel, within which the remains of
Zerbino and Isabella were entombed. Across the stream which flowed near
by he built a bridge, scarce two yards wide, and added neither parapet
nor rail. On the top of the tower a sentry was placed, who, when any
traveller approached the bridge, gave notice to his master. Rodomont
thereupon sallied out, and defied the approaching knight to fight him
upon the bridge, where any chance step a little aside would plunge the
rider headlong in the stream. This bridge he vowed to keep until a
thousand suits of armor should be won from conquered knights, wherewith
to build a trophy to his victim and her lord.

Within ten days the bridge was built, and the tower was in progress. In
a short time many knights, either seeking the shortest route, or tempted
by a desire of adventure, had made the attempt to pass the bridge. All,
without exception, had lost either arms or life, or both; some falling
before Rodomont’s lance, others precipitated into the river. One day, as
Rodomont stood urging his workmen, it chanced that Orlando in his
furious mood came thither, and approached the bridge. Rodomont halloed
to him, “Halt, churl; presume not to set foot upon that bridge; it was
not made for such as you!” Orlando took no notice, but pressed on. Just
then a gentle damsel rode up. It was Flordelis, who was seeking her
Florismart. She saw Orlando, and, in spite of his strange appearance,
recognized him. Rodomont, not used to have his commands disobeyed, laid
hands on the madman, and would have thrown him into the river, but to
his astonishment found himself in the grip of one not so easily disposed
of. “How can a fool have such strength?” he growled between his teeth.
Flordelis stopped to see the issue, where each of these two puissant
warriors strove to throw the other from the bridge. Orlando at last had
strength enough to lift his foe with all his armor, and fling him over
the side, but had not wit to clear himself from him, so both fell
together. High flashed the wave as they together smote its surface. Here
Orlando had the advantage; he was naked, and could swim like a fish. He
soon reached the bank, and, careless of praise or blame, stopped not to
see what came of the adventure. Rodomont, entangled with his armor,
escaped with difficulty to the bank. Meantime, Flordelis passed the
bridge unchallenged.

After long wandering without success she returned to Paris, and there
found the object of her search; for Florismart, after the fall of
Albracca, had repaired thither. The joy of meeting was clouded to
Florismart by the news which Flordelis brought of Orlando’s wretched
plight. The last she had seen of him was when he fell with Rodomont into
the stream. Florismart, who loved Orlando like a brother, resolved to
set out immediately, under the guidance of the lady, to find him, and
bring him where he might receive the treatment suited to his case. A few
days brought them to the place where they found the Tartar king still
guarding the bridge. The usual challenge and defiance was made, and the
knights rode to encounter one another on the bridge. At the first
encounter both horses were overthrown; and, having no space to regain
their footing, fell with their riders into the water. Rodomont, who knew
the soundings of the stream, soon recovered the land; but Florismart was
carried downward by the current, and landed at last on a bank of mud
where his horse could hardly find footing. Flordelis, who watched the
battle from the bridge, seeing her lover in this piteous case, exclaimed
aloud, “Ah! Rodomont, for love of her whom dead you honor, have pity on
me, who love this knight, and slay him not. Let it suffice he yields his
armor to the pile, and none more glorious will it bear than his.” Her
prayer, so well directed, touched the pagan’s heart, though hard to
move, and he lent his aid to help the knight to land. He kept him a
prisoner, however, and added his armor to the pile. Flordelis, with a
heavy heart, went her way.

We must now return to Rogero, who, when we parted with him, was engaged
in an adventure which arrested his progress to the monastery whither he
was bound with the intention of receiving baptism, and thus qualifying
himself to demand Bradamante as his bride. On his way he met with
Mandricardo, and the quarrel was revived respecting the right to wear
the badge of Hector. After a warm discussion both parties agreed to
submit the question to King Agramant, and for that purpose took their
way to the Saracen camp. Here they met Gradasso, who had his controversy
also with Mandricardo. This warrior claimed the sword of Orlando,
denying the right of Mandricardo to possess it in virtue of his having
found it abandoned by its owner. King Agramant strove in vain to
reconcile these quarrels, and was forced at last to consent that the
points in dispute should be settled by one combat, in which Mandricardo
should meet one of the other champions, to whom should be committed the
cause of both. Rogero was chosen by lot to maintain Gradasso’s cause and
his own. Great preparations were made for this signal contest. On the
appointed day it was fought in the presence of Agramant, and of the
whole army. Rogero won it; and Mandricardo, the conqueror of Hector’s
arms, the challenger of Orlando, and the slayer of Zerbino, lost his
life. Gradasso received Durindana as his prize, which lost half its
value in his eyes, since it was won by another’s prowess, not his own.

Rogero, though victorious, was severely wounded, and lay helpless many
weeks in the camp of Agramant, while Bradamante, ignorant of the cause
of his delay, expected him at Montalban. Thither he had promised to
repair in fifteen days, or twenty at furthest, hoping to have obtained
by that time an honorable discharge from his obligations to the Saracen
commander. The twenty days were passed, and a month more, and still
Rogero came not, nor did any tidings reach Bradamante accounting for his
absence. At the end of that time, a wandering knight brought news of the
famous combat, and of Rogero’s wound. He added, what alarmed Bradamante
still more, that Marphisa, a female warrior, young and fair, was in
attendance on the wounded knight. He added that the whole army expected
that, as soon as Rogero’s wounds were healed, the pair would be united
in marriage.

Bradamante, distressed by this news, though she believed it but in part,
resolved to go immediately and see for herself. She mounted Rabican, the
horse of Astolpho, which he had committed to her care, and took with her
the lance of gold, though unaware of its wonderful powers. Thus
accoutred, she left the castle, and took the road toward Paris and the
camp of the Saracens.

Marphisa, whose devotion to Rogero in his illness had so excited the
jealousy of Bradamante, was the twin sister of Rogero. She, with him,
had been taken in charge when an infant by Atlantes, the magician, but
while yet a child she had been stolen away by an Arab tribe. Adopted by
their chief, she had early learned horsemanship and skill in arms, and
at this time had come to the camp of Agramant with no other view than to
see and test for herself the prowess of the warriors of either camp,
whose fame rang through the world. Arriving at the very moment of the
late encounter, the name of Rogero, and some few facts of his story
which she learned, were enough to suggest the idea that it was her
brother whom she saw victorious in the single combat. Inquiry satisfied
the two of their near kindred, and from that moment Marphisa devoted
herself to the care of her new-found and much-loved brother.

In those moments of seclusion Rogero informed his sister of what he had
learned of their parentage from old Atlantes. Rogero, their father, a
Christian knight, had won the heart of Galaciella, daughter of the
Sultan of Africa, and sister of King Agramant, converted her to the
Christian faith, and secretly married her. The Sultan, enraged at his
daughter’s marriage, drove her husband into exile, and caused her with
her infant children, Rogero and Marphisa, to be placed in a boat and
committed to the winds and waves, to perish; from which fate they were
saved by Atlantes. On hearing this, Marphisa exclaimed, “How can you,
brother, leave our parents unavenged so long, and even submit to serve
the son of the tyrant who so wronged them?” Rogero replied that it was
but lately he had learned the full truth; that when he learned it he was
already embarked with Agramant, from whom he had received knighthood,
and that he only waited for a suitable opportunity when he might with
honor desert his standard, and at the same time return to the faith of
his fathers. Marphisa hailed this resolution with joy, and declared her
intention to join with him in embracing the Christian faith.

                                  ————

We left Bradamante when, mounted on Rabican and armed with Astolpho’s
lance, she rode forth, determined to learn the cause of Rogero’s long
absence. One day, as she rode, she met a damsel, of visage and of
manners fair, but overcome with grief. It was Flordelis, who was seeking
far and near a champion capable of liberating and avenging her lord.
Flordelis marked the approaching warrior, and, judging from appearances,
thought she had found the champion she sought. “Are you, Sir Knight,”
she said, “so daring and so kind as to take up my cause against a fierce
and cruel warrior who has made prisoner of my lord, and forced me thus
to be a wanderer and a suppliant?” Then she related the events which had
happened at the bridge. Bradamante, to whom noble enterprises were
always welcome, readily embraced this, and the rather as in her gloomy
forebodings she felt as if Rogero was forever lost to her.

Next day the two arrived at the bridge. The sentry descried them
approaching, and gave notice to his lord, who thereupon donned his armor
and went forth to meet them. Here, as usual, he called on the advancing
warrior to yield his horse and arms an oblation to the tomb. Bradamante
replied, asking by what right he called on the innocent to do penance
for his crime. “Your life and your armor,” she added, “are the fittest
offering to her tomb, and I, a woman, the fittest champion to take
them.” With that she couched her spear, spurred her horse, and ran to
the encounter. King Rodomont came on with speed. The trampling sounded
on the bridge like thunder. It took but a moment to decide the contest.
The golden lance did its office, and that fierce Moor, so renowned in
tourney, lay extended on the bridge. “Who is the loser now?” said
Bradamante; but Rodomont, amazed that a woman’s hand should have laid
him low, could not or would not answer. Silent and sad, he raised
himself, unbound his helm and mail, and flung them against the tomb;
then, sullen and on foot, left the ground; but first gave orders to one
of his squires to release all his prisoners. They had been sent off to
Africa. Besides Florismart, there were Sansonnet and Oliver, who had
ridden that way in quest of Orlando, and had both in turn been
overthrown in the encounter.

Bradamante after her victory resumed her route, and in due time reached
the Christian camp, where she readily learned an explanation of the
mystery which had caused her so much anxiety. Rogero and his fair and
brave sister, Marphisa, were too illustrious by their station and
exploits not to be the frequent topic of discourse even among their
adversaries, and all that Bradamante was anxious to know reached her
ear, almost without inquiry.

We now return to Gradasso, who by Rogero’s victory had been made
possessor of Durindana. There now only remained to him to seek the horse
of Rinaldo; and the challenge, given and accepted, was yet to be fought
with that warrior, for it had been interrupted by the arts of Malagigi.
Gradasso now sought another meeting with Rinaldo, and met with no
reluctance on his part. As the combat was for the possession of Bayard,
the knights dismounted and fought on foot. Long time the battle lasted.
Rinaldo, knowing well the deadly stroke of Durindana, used all his art
to parry or avoid its blow. Gradasso struck with might and main, but
wellnigh all his strokes were spent in air, or if they smote they fell
obliquely and did little harm.

Thus had they fought long, glancing at one another’s eyes, and seeing
naught else, when their attention was arrested perforce by a strange
noise. They turned, and beheld the good Bayard attacked by a monstrous
bird. Perhaps it was a bird, for such it seemed; but when or where such
a bird was ever seen I have nowhere read, except in Turpin; and I am
inclined to believe that it was not a bird, but a fiend, evoked from
underground by Malagigi, and thither sent on purpose to interrupt the
fight. Whether a fiend or a fowl, the monster flew right at Bayard, and
clapped his wings in his face. Thereat the steed broke loose, and ran
madly across the plain, pursued by the bird, till Bayard plunged into
the wood, and was lost to sight.

Rinaldo and Gradasso, seeing Bayard’s escape, agreed to suspend their
battle till they could recover the horse, the object of contention.
Gradasso mounted his steed, and followed the foot-marks of Bayard into
the forest. Rinaldo, never more vexed in spirit, remained at the spot,
Gradasso having promised to return thither with the horse, if he found
him. He did find him, after long search, for he had the good fortune to
hear him neigh. Thus he became possessed of both the objects for which
he had led an army from his own country, and invaded France. He did not
forget his promise to bring Bayard back to the place where he had left
Rinaldo, but only muttering, “Now I have got him, he little knows me who
expects me to give him up; if Rinaldo wants the horse let him seek him
in India, as I have sought him in France,”—he made the best of his way
to Arles, where his vessels lay; and in possession of the two objects of
his ambition, the horse and the sword, sailed away to his own country.

                                  ————


                         ASTOLPHO IN ABYSSINIA

When we last parted with the adventurous paladin Astolpho, he was just
commencing that flight over the countries of the world from which he
promised himself so much gratification. Our readers are aware that the
eagle and the falcon have not so swift a flight as the Hippogriff on
which Astolpho rode. It was not long, therefore, before the paladin,
directing his course toward the southeast, arrived over that part of
Africa where the great river Nile has its source. Here he alighted, and
found himself in the neighborhood of the capital of Abyssinia, ruled by
Senapus, whose riches and power were immense. His palace was of
surpassing splendor; the bars of the gates, the hinges and locks, were
all of pure gold; in fact, this metal, in that country, is put to all
those uses for which we employ iron. It is so common that they prefer
for ornamental purposes rock crystal, of which all the columns were
made. Precious stones of different kinds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires,
and topazes were set in ornamental designs, and the walls and ceilings
were adorned with pearls.

It is in this country those famous balms grow of which there are some
few plants in that part of Judæa called Gilead. Musk, ambergris, and
numerous gums, so precious in Europe, are here in their native climate.
It is said the Sultan of Egypt pays a vast tribute to the monarch of
this country to hire him not to cut off the source of the Nile, which he
might easily do, and cause the river to flow in some other direction,
thus depriving Egypt of the source of its fertility.

At the time of Astolpho’s arrival in his dominions, this monarch was in
great affliction. In spite of his riches and the precious productions of
his country, he was in danger of dying of hunger. He was a prey to a
flock of obscene birds called Harpies, which attacked him whenever he
sat at meat, and with their claws snatched, tore, and scattered
everything, overturning the vessels, devouring the food, and infecting
what they left with their filthy touch. It was said this punishment was
inflicted upon the king because when young, and filled with pride and
presumption, he had attempted to invade with an army the terrestrial
paradise, which is situated on the top of a mountain whence the Nile
draws its source. Nor was this his only punishment. He was struck blind.

Astolpho, on arriving in the dominions of this monarch, hastened to pay
him his respects. King Senapus received him graciously, and ordered a
splendid repast to be prepared in honor of his arrival. While the guests
were seated at table, Astolpho filling the place of dignity at the
king’s right hand, the horrid scream of the Harpies was heard in the
air, and soon they approached, hovering over the tables, seizing the
food from the dishes, and overturning everything with the flapping of
their broad wings. In vain the guests struck at them with knives and any
weapons which they had, and Astolpho drew his sword and gave them
repeated blows, which seemed to have no more effect upon them than if
their bodies had been made of tow.

At last Astolpho thought of his horn. He first gave warning to the king
and his guests to stop their ears; then blew a blast. The Harpies,
terrified at the sound, flew away as fast as their wings could carry
them. The paladin mounted his Hippogriff, and pursued them, blowing his
horn as often as he came near them. They stretched their flight towards
the great mountain, at the foot of which there is a cavern, which is
thought to be the mouth of the infernal abodes. Hither those horrid
birds flew, as if to their home. Having seen them all disappear in the
recess, Astolpho cared not to pursue them farther, but alighting, rolled
huge stones into the mouth of the cave, and piled branches of trees
therein, so that he effectually barred their passage out, and we have no
evidence of their ever having been seen since in the outer air.

After this labor Astolpho refreshed himself by bathing in a fountain
whose pure waters bubbled from a cleft of the rock. Having rested
awhile, an earnest desire seized him of ascending the mountain which
towered above him. The Hippogriff bore him swiftly upwards, and landed
him on the top of the mountain, which he found to be an extensive plain.

A splendid palace rose in the middle of this plain, whose walls shone
with such brilliancy that mortal eyes could hardly bear the sight.
Astolpho guided the winged horse towards this edifice, and made him
poise himself in the air while he took a leisurely survey of this
favored spot and its environs. It seemed as if nature and art had
striven with one another to see which could do the most for its
embellishment.

Astolpho, on approaching the edifice, saw a venerable man advance to
meet him. This personage was clothed in a long vesture as white as snow,
while a mantle of purple covered his shoulders, and hung down to the
ground. A white beard descended to his middle, and his hair, of the same
color, overshadowed his shoulders. His eyes were so brilliant that
Astolpho felt persuaded that he was a blessed inhabitant of the heavenly
mansions.

The sage, smiling benignantly upon the paladin, who from respect had
dismounted from his horse, said to him: “Noble chevalier, know that it
is by the Divine will you have been brought to the terrestrial paradise.
Your mortal nature could not have borne to scale these heights and reach
these seats of bliss if it were not the will of Heaven that you should
be instructed in the means to succor Charles, and to sustain the glory
of our holy faith. I am prepared to impart the needed counsels; but
before I begin let me welcome you to our sojourn. I doubt not your long
fast and distant journey have given you a good appetite.”

The aspect of the venerable man filled the prince with admiration; but
his surprise ceased when he learned from him that he was that one of the
Apostles of our Lord to whom he said, “I will that thou tarry till I
come.”

St. John, conducting Astolpho, rejoined his companions. These were the
patriarch Enoch and the prophet Elijah; neither of whom had yet seen his
dying day, but, taken from our lower world, were dwelling in a region of
peace and joy, in a climate of eternal spring, till the last trumpet
shall sound.

The three holy inhabitants of the terrestrial paradise received Astolpho
with the greatest kindness, carried him to a pleasant apartment, and
took great care of the Hippogriff, to whom they gave such food as suited
him, while to the prince they presented fruits so delicious that he felt
inclined to excuse our first parents for their sin in eating them
without permission.

Astolpho, having recruited his strength, not only by these excellent
fruits, but also by sweet sleep, roused himself at the first blush of
dawn, and as soon as he left his chamber met the beloved Apostle coming
to seek him. St. John took him by the hand, and told him many things
relating to the past and the future. Among others, he said, “Son, let me
tell you what is now going on in France. Orlando, the illustrious prince
who received at his birth the endowment of strength and courage more
than mortal, raised up as was Samson of old to be the champion of the
true faith, has been guilty of the basest ingratitude in leaving the
Christian camp when it most needed the support of his arm, to run after
a Saracen princess, whom he would fain marry, though she scorns him. To
punish him his reason has been taken away, so that he runs naked through
the land, over mountains and through valleys, without a ray of
intelligence. The duration of his punishment has been fixed at three
months, and that time having nearly expired, you have been brought
hither to learn from us the means by which the reason of Orlando may be
restored. True, you will be obliged to make a journey with me, and we
must even leave the earth, and ascend to the moon, for it is in that
planet we are to seek the remedy for the madness of the paladin. I
propose to make our journey this evening, as soon as the moon appears
over our head.”

As soon as the sun sunk beneath the seas, and the moon presented its
luminous disk, the holy man had the chariot brought out in which he was
accustomed to make excursions among the stars, the same which was
employed long ago to convey Elijah up from earth. The saint made
Astolpho seat himself beside him, took the reins, and giving the word to
the coursers, they bore them upward with astonishing celerity.

At length they reached the great continent of the Moon. Its surface
appeared to be of polished steel, with here and there a spot which, like
rust, obscured its brightness. The paladin was astonished to see that
the earth, with all its seas and rivers, seemed but an insignificant
spot in the distance.

The prince discovered in this region so new to him rivers, lakes,
plains, hills, and valleys. Many beautiful cities and castles enriched
the landscape. He saw also vast forests, and heard in them the sound of
horns and the barking of dogs, which led him to conclude that the nymphs
were following the chase.

The knight, filled with wonder at all he saw, was conducted by the saint
to a valley, where he stood amazed at the riches strewed all around him.
Well he might be so, for that valley was the receptacle of things lost
on earth, either by men’s fault, or by the effect of time and chance.
Let no one suppose we speak here of kingdoms or of treasures; they are
the toys of Fortune, which she dispenses in turning her wheel; we speak
of things which she can neither give nor take away. Such are
reputations, which appear at one time so brilliant, and a short time
after are heard of no more. Here, also, are countless vows and prayers
for unattainable objects, lovers’ sighs and tears, time spent in gaming,
dressing, and doing nothing, the leisure of the dull and the intentions
of the lazy, baseless projects, intrigues, and plots; these and such
like things fill all the valley.

Astolpho had a great desire to understand all that he saw, and which
appeared to him so extraordinary. Among the rest, he observed a great
mountain of blown bladders, from which issued indistinct noises. The
saint told him these were the dynasties of Assyrian and Persian kings,
once the wonder of the earth, of which now scarce the name remains.

Astolpho could not help laughing when the saint said to him, “All these
hooks of silver and gold that you see are the gifts of courtiers to
princes, made in the hope of getting something better in return.” He
also showed him garlands of flowers in which snares were concealed;
these were flatteries and adulations, meant to deceive. But nothing was
so comical as the sight of numerous grasshoppers which had burst their
lungs with chirping. These, he told him, were sonnets, odes, and
dedications, addressed by venal poets to great people.

The paladin beheld with wonder what seemed a lake of spilled milk. “It
is,” said the saint, “the charity done by frightened misers on their
death-beds.” It would take too long to tell all that the valley
contained: meanness, affectations, pretended virtues, and concealed
vices were there in abundance.

Among the rest Astolpho perceived many days of his own lost, and many
imprudent sallies which he had made, and would have been glad not to
have been reminded of. But he also saw among so many lost things a great
abundance of one thing which men are apt to think they all possess, and
do not think it necessary to pray for,—good sense. This commodity
appeared under the form of a liquor, most light and apt to evaporate. It
was therefore kept in vials, firmly sealed. One of these was labelled,
“The sense of the Paladin Orlando.”

All the bottles were ticketed, and the sage placed one in Astolpho’s
hand, which he found was his own. It was more than half full. He was
surprised to find there many other vials which contained almost the
whole of the wits of many persons who passed among men for wise. Ah, how
easy it is to lose one’s reason! Some lose theirs by yielding to the
sway of the passions; some in braving tempests and shoals in search of
wealth; some by trusting too much to the promises of the great; some by
setting their hearts on trifles. As might have been expected, the
bottles which held the wits of astrologers, inventors, metaphysicians,
and above all, of poets, were in general the best filled of all.

Astolpho took his bottle, put it to his nose, and inhaled it all; and
Turpin assures us that he was for a long time afterwards as sage as one
could wish; but the Archbishop adds that there was reason to fear that
some of the precious fluid afterwards found its way back into the
bottle. The paladin took also the bottle which belonged to Orlando. It
was a large one, and quite full.

Before quitting the planetary region Astolpho was conducted to an
edifice on the borders of a river. He was shown an immense hall full of
bundles of silk, linen, cotton, and wool. A thousand different colors,
brilliant or dull, some quite black, were among these skeins. In one
part of the hall an old woman was busy winding off yarns from all these
different bundles. When she had finished a skein another ancient dame
took it and placed it with others; a third selected from the fleeces
spun, and mingled them in due proportions. The paladin inquired what all
this might be. “These old women,” said the saint, “are the Fates, who
spin, measure, and terminate the lives of mortals. As long as the thread
stretches in one of those skeins, so long does the mortal enjoy the
light of day; but nature and death are on the alert to shut the eyes of
those whose thread is spun.”

Each one of the skeins had a label of gold, silver, or iron, bearing the
name of the individual to whom it belonged. An old man, who, in spite of
the burden of years, seemed brisk and active, ran without ceasing to
fill his apron with these labels, and carried them away to throw them
into the river, whose name was Lethe. When he reached the shore of the
river the old man shook out his apron, and the labels sunk to the
bottom. A small number only floated for a time, hardly one in a
thousand. Numberless birds, hawks, crows, and vultures hovered over the
stream, with clamorous cries, and strove to snatch from the water some
of these names; but they were too heavy for them, and after a while the
birds were forced to let them drop into the river of oblivion. But two
beautiful swans, of snowy whiteness, gathered some few of the names, and
returned with them to the shore, where a lovely nymph received them from
their beaks, and carried them to a temple placed upon a hill, and
suspended them for all time upon a sacred column, on which stood the
statue of Immortality.

Astolpho was amazed at all this, and asked his guide to explain it. He
replied, “The old man is Time. All the names upon the tickets would be
immortal if the old man did not plunge them into the river of oblivion.
Those clamorous birds which make vain efforts to save certain of the
names are flatterers, pensioners, venal rhymesters, who do their best to
rescue from oblivion the unworthy names of their patrons; but all in
vain; they may keep them from their fate a little while, but ere long
the river of oblivion must swallow them all.

“The swans, that with harmonious strains carry certain names to the
temple of Eternal Memory, are the great poets, who save from oblivion
worse than death the names of those they judge worthy of immortality.
Swans of this kind are rare. Let monarchs know the true breed, and fail
not to nourish with care such as may chance to appear in their time.”

                                  ————


                           THE WAR IN AFRICA

When Astolpho had descended to the earth with the precious phial, St.
John showed him a plant of marvellous virtues, with which he told him he
had only to touch the eyes of the king of Abyssinia to restore him to
sight. “That important service,” said the saint, “added to your having
delivered him from the Harpies, will induce him to give you an army
wherewith to attack the Africans in their rear, and force them to return
from France to defend their own country.” The saint also instructed him
how to lead his troops in safety across the great deserts, where
caravans are often overwhelmed with moving columns of sand. Astolpho,
fortified with ample instructions, remounted the Hippogriff, thanked the
saint, received his blessing, and took his flight down to the level
country.

Keeping the course of the river Nile, he soon arrived at the capital of
Abyssinia, and rejoined Senapus. The joy of the king was great when he
heard again the voice of the hero who had delivered him from the
Harpies. Astolpho touched his eyes with the plant which he had brought
from the terrestrial paradise, and restored their sight. The king’s
gratitude was unbounded. He begged him to name a reward, promising to
grant it, whatever it might be. Astolpho asked an army to go to the
assistance of Charlemagne, and the king not only granted him a hundred
thousand men, but offered to lead them himself.

The night before the day appointed for the departure of the troops
Astolpho mounted his winged horse, and directed his flight towards a
mountain, whence the fierce South-wind issues, whose blast raises the
sands of the Nubian desert, and whirls them onward in overwhelming
clouds. The paladin, by the advice of St. John, had prepared himself
with a leather bag, which he placed adroitly, with its mouth open, over
the vent whence issues this terrible wind. At the first dawn of morning
the wind rushed from its cavern to resume its daily course, and was
caught in the bag, and securely tied up. Astolpho, delighted with his
prize, returned to his army, placed himself at their head, and commenced
his march. The Abyssinians traversed without danger or difficulty those
vast fields of sand which separate their country from the kingdoms of
Northern Africa, for the terrible South-wind, taken completely captive,
had not force enough left to blow out a candle.

Senapus was distressed that he could not furnish any cavalry, for his
country, rich in camels and elephants, was destitute of horses. This
difficulty the saint had foreseen, and had taught Astolpho the means of
remedying. He now put those means in operation. Having reached a place
whence he beheld a vast plain and the sea, he chose from his troops
those who appeared to be the best made and the most intelligent. These
he caused to be arranged in squadrons at the foot of a lofty mountain
which bordered the plain, and he himself mounted to the summit to carry
into effect his great design. Here he found vast quantities of fragments
of rock and pebbles. These he set rolling down the mountain’s side, and,
wonderful to relate, as they rolled they grew in size, made themselves
bodies, legs, necks, and long faces. Next they began to neigh, to
curvet, to scamper on all sides over the plain. Some were bay, some
roan, some dapple, some chestnut. The troops at the foot of the mountain
exerted themselves to catch these new-created horses, which they easily
did, for the miracle had been so considerate as to provide all the
horses with bridles and saddles. Astolpho thus suddenly found himself
supplied with an excellent corps of cavalry, not fewer (as Archbishop
Turpin asserts) than eighty thousand strong. With these troops Astolpho
reduced all the country to subjection, and at last arrived before the
walls of Agramant’s capital city, Biserta, to which he laid siege.

We must now return to the camp of the Christians, which lay before
Arles, to which city the Saracens had retired after being defeated in a
night attack led on by Rinaldo. Agramant here received the tidings of
the invasion of his country by a fresh enemy, the Abyssinians, and
learned that Biserta was in danger of falling into their hands. He took
counsel of his officers, and decided to send an embassy to Charles,
proposing that the whole quarrel should be submitted to the combat of
two warriors, one from each side, according to the issue of which it
should be decided which party should pay tribute to the other, and the
war should cease. Charlemagne, who had not heard of the favorable turn
which affairs had taken in Africa, readily agreed to this proposal, and
Rinaldo was selected on the part of the Christians to sustain the
combat.

The Saracens selected Rogero for their champion. Rogero was still in the
Saracen camp, kept there by honor alone, for his mind had been opened to
the truth of the Christian faith by the arguments of Bradamante, and he
had resolved to leave the party of the infidels on the first favorable
opportunity, and to join the Christian side. But his honor forbade him
to do this while his former friends were in distress; and thus he waited
for what time might bring forth, when he was startled by the
announcement that he had been selected to uphold the cause of the
Saracens against the Christians, and that his foe was to be Rinaldo, the
brother of Bradamante.

While Rogero was overwhelmed with this intelligence Bradamante on her
side felt the deepest distress at hearing of the proposed combat. If
Rogero should fall she felt that no other man living was worthy of her
love; and if, on the other hand, Heaven should resolve to punish France
by the death of her chosen champion, Bradamante would have to deplore
her brother, so dear to her, and be no less completely severed from the
object of her affections.

While the fair lady gave herself up to these sad thoughts, the sage
enchantress, Melissa, suddenly appeared before her. “Fear not, my
daughter,” said she, “I shall find a way to interrupt this combat which
so distresses you.”

Meanwhile Rinaldo and Rogero prepared their weapons for the conflict.
Rinaldo had the choice, and decided that it should be on foot, and with
no weapons but the battle-axe and poniard. The place assigned was a
plain between the camp of Charlemagne and the walls of Arles.

Hardly had the dawn announced the day appointed for this memorable
combat, when heralds proceeded from both sides to mark the lists.
Erelong the African troops were seen to advance from the city, Agramant
at their head; his brilliant arms adorned in the Moorish fashion, his
horse a bay, with a white star on his forehead. Rogero marched at his
side, and some of the greatest warriors of the Saracen camp attended
him, bearing the various parts of his armor and weapons. Charlemagne, on
his part, proceeded from his intrenchments, ranged his troops in
semicircle, and stood surrounded by his peers and paladins. Some of them
bore portions of the armor of Rinaldo, the celebrated Ogier, the Dane,
bearing the helmet which Rinaldo took from Mambrino. Duke Namo of
Bavaria and Salomon of Bretagne bore two axes, of equal weight, prepared
for the occasion.

The terms of the combat were then sworn to with the utmost solemnity by
all parties. It was agreed that if from either part any attempt was made
to interrupt the battle both combatants should turn their arms against
the party which should be guilty of the interruption; and both monarchs
assented to the condition that in such case the champion of the
offending party should be discharged from his allegiance, and at liberty
to transfer his arms to the other side.

When all the preparations were concluded the monarchs and their
attendants retired each to his own side, and the champions were left
alone. The two warriors advanced with measured steps towards each other,
and met in the middle of the space. They attacked one another at the
same moment, and the air resounded with the blows they gave. Sparks flew
from their battle-axes, while the velocity with which they managed their
weapons astonished the beholders. Rogero, always remembering that his
antagonist was the brother of his betrothed, could not aim a deadly
wound; he strove only to ward off those levelled against himself.
Rinaldo, on the other hand, much as he esteemed Rogero, spared not his
blows, for he eagerly desired victory for his own sake, and for the sake
of his country and his faith.

The Saracens soon perceived that their champion fought feebly, and gave
not to Rinaldo such blows as he received from him. His disadvantage was
so marked that anxiety and shame were manifest on the countenance of
Agramant. Melissa, one of the most acute enchantresses that ever lived,
seized this moment to disguise herself under the form of Rodomont, that
rude and impetuous warrior, who had now for some time been absent from
the Saracen camp. Approaching Agramant, she said, “How could you, my
lord, have the imprudence of selecting a young man without experience to
oppose the most redoubtable warrior of France? Surely you must have been
regardless of the honor of your arms, and of the fate of your empire!
But it is not too late. Break without delay the agreement which is sure
to result in your ruin.” So saying, she addressed the troops who stood
near, “Friends,” said she, “follow me; under my guidance every one of
you will be a match for a score of those feeble Christians.” Agramant,
delighted at seeing Rodomont once more at his side, gave his consent,
and the Saracens, at the instant, couched their lances, set spurs to
their steeds, and swept down upon the French. Melissa, when she saw her
work successful, disappeared.

Rinaldo and Rogero, seeing the truce broken, and the two armies engaged
in general conflict, stopped their battle; their martial fury ceased at
once, they joined hands, and resolved to act no more on either side
until it should be clearly ascertained which party had failed to observe
its oath. Both renewed their promise to abandon forever the party which
had been thus false and perjured.

Meanwhile, the Christians, after the first moment of surprise, met the
Saracens with courage redoubled by rage at the treachery of their foes.
Guido the Wild, brother and rival of Rinaldo, Griffon and Aquilant, sons
of Oliver, and numerous others whose names have already been celebrated
in our recitals, beat back the assailants, and at last, after prodigious
slaughter, forced them to take shelter within the walls of Arles.

We will now return to Orlando, whom we last heard of as furiously mad,
and doing a thousand acts of violence in his senseless rage. One day he
came to the borders of a stream which intercepted his course. He swam
across it, for he could swim like an otter, and on the other side saw a
peasant watering his horse. He seized the animal, in spite of the
resistance of the peasant, and rode it with furious speed till he
arrived at the sea-coast, where Spain is divided from Africa by only a
narrow strait. At the moment of his arrival a vessel had just put off to
cross the strait. She was full of people who, with glass in hand, seemed
to be taking a merry farewell of the land, wafted by a favorable breeze.

The frantic Orlando cried out to them to stop and take him in; but they,
having no desire to admit a madman to their company, paid him no
attention. The paladin thought this behavior very uncivil; and by force
of blows made his horse carry him into the water in pursuit of the ship.
The wretched animal soon had only his head above water; but as Orlando
urged him forward, nothing was left for the poor beast but either to die
or swim over to Africa.

Already Orlando had lost sight of the bark; distance and the swell of
the sea completely hid it from his sight. He continued to press his
horse forward, till at last it could struggle no more, and sunk beneath
him. Orlando, nowise concerned, stretched out his nervous arms, puffing
the salt water from before his mouth, and carried his head above the
waves. Fortunately they were not rough, scarce a breath of wind agitated
the surface; otherwise, the invincible Orlando would then have met his
death. But fortune, which it is said favors fools, delivered him from
this danger, and landed him safe on the shore of Ceuta. Here he rambled
along the shore till he came to where the black army of Astolpho held
its camp.

Now it happened, just before this time, that a vessel filled with
prisoners which Rodomont had taken at the bridge had arrived, and, not
knowing of the presence of the Abyssinian army, had sailed right into
port, where of course the prisoners and their captors changed places,
the former being set at liberty and received with all joy, the latter
sent to serve in the galleys. Astolpho thus found himself surrounded
with Christian knights, and he and his friends were exchanging greetings
and felicitations, when a noise was heard in the camp, and seemed to
increase every moment.

Astolpho and his friends seized their weapons, mounted their horses, and
rode to the quarter whence the noise proceeded. Imagine their
astonishment when they saw that the tumult was caused by a single man,
perfectly naked, and browned with dirt and exposure, but of a force and
fury so terrible that he overturned all that offered to lay hands on
him.

Astolpho, Dudon, Oliver, and Florismart gazed at him with amazement. It
was with difficulty they knew him. Astolpho, who had been warned of his
condition by his holy monitor, was the first to recognize him. As the
paladins closed round Orlando, the madman dealt one and another a blow
of his fist, which, if they had not been in armor, or he had had any
weapon, would probably have despatched them; as it was, Dudon and
Astolpho measured their length on the sand. But Florismart seized him
from behind, Sansonnet and another grasped his legs, and at last they
succeeded in securing him with ropes. They took him to the water-side
and washed him well, and then Astolpho, having first bandaged his mouth
so that he could not breathe except through his nose, brought the
precious phial, uncorked it, and placed it adroitly under his nostrils,
when the good Orlando took it all up in one breath. O marvellous
prodigy! The paladin recovered in an instant all his intelligence. He
felt like one who had awakened from a painful dream, in which he had
believed that monsters were about to tear him to pieces. He seemed
prostrated, silent, and abashed. Florismart, Oliver, and Astolpho stood
gazing upon him, while he turned his eyes around and on himself. He
seemed surprised to find himself naked, bound, and stretched on the
sea-shore. After a few moments he recognized his friends, and spoke to
them in a tone so tender that they hastened to unbind him, and to supply
him with garments. Then they exerted themselves to console him, to
diminish the weight with which his spirits were oppressed, and to make
him forget the wretched condition into which he had been sunk.

Orlando, in recovering his reason, found himself also delivered from his
insane attachment to the queen of Cathay. His heart felt now no further
influenced by the recollection of her than to be moved with an ardent
desire to retrieve his fame by some distinguished exploit. Astolpho
would gladly have yielded to him the chief command of the army, but
Orlando would not take from the friend to whom he owed so much the glory
of the campaign; but in everything the two paladins acted in concert,
and united their counsels. They proposed to make a general assault on
the city of Biserta, and were only waiting a favorable moment, when
their plan was interrupted by new events.

Agramant, after the bloody battle which followed the infraction of the
truce, found himself so weak that he saw it was in vain to attempt to
remain in France. So, in concert with Sobrino, the bravest and most
trusted of his chiefs, he embarked to return to his own country, having
previously sent off his few remaining troops in the same direction. The
vessel which carried Agramant and Sobrino approached the shore where the
army of Astolpho lay encamped before Biserta, and having discovered this
fact before it was too late, the king commanded the pilot to steer
eastward, with a view to seek protection of the King of Egypt. But the
weather becoming rough, he consented to the advice of his companions,
and sought harbor in an island which lies between Sicily and Africa.
There he found Gradasso, the warlike king of Sericane, who had come to
France to possess himself of the horse Bayard and the sword Durindana;
and having procured both these prizes was returning to his own country.

The two kings, who had been companions in arms under the walls of Paris,
embraced one another affectionately. Gradasso learned with regret the
reverses of Agramant, and offered him his troops and his person. He
strongly deprecated resorting to Egypt for aid. “Remember the great
Pompey,” said he, “and shun that fatal shore. My plan,” he continued,
“is this: I mean to challenge Orlando to single combat. Possessed of
such a sword and steed as mine, if he were made of steel or bronze, he
could not escape me. He being removed, there will be no difficulty in
driving back the Abyssinians. We will rouse against them the Moslem
nations from the other side of the Nile, the Arabians, Persians, and
Chaldeans, who will soon make Senapus recall his army to defend his own
territories.”

Agramant approved this advice except in one particular. “It is for me,”
said he, “to combat Orlando; I cannot with honor devolve that duty on
another.”

“Let us adopt a third course,” said the aged warrior Sobrino. “I would
not willingly remain a simple spectator of such a contest. Let us send
three squires to the shore of Africa to challenge Orlando and any two of
his companions in arms to meet us three in this island of Lampedusa.”

This counsel was adopted; the three squires sped on their way; and now
presented themselves, and rehearsed their message to the Christian
knights.

Orlando was delighted, and rewarded the squires with rich gifts. He had
already resolved to seek Gradasso and compel him to restore Durindana,
which he had learned was in his possession. For his two companions the
Count chose his faithful friend Florismart and his cousin Oliver.

The three warriors embarked, and sailing with a favorable wind, the
second morning showed them, on their right, the island where this
important battle was to be fought. Orlando and his two companions,
having landed, pitched their tent. Agramant had placed his opposite.

Next morning, as soon as Aurora brightened the edges of the horizon, the
warriors of both parties armed themselves and mounted their horses. They
took their positions, face to face, lowered their lances, placed them in
rest, clapped spurs to their horses, and flew to the charge. Orlando met
the charge of Gradasso. The paladin was unmoved, but his horse could not
sustain the terrible shock of Bayard. He recoiled, staggered, and fell
some paces behind. Orlando tried to raise him, but, finding his efforts
unavailing, seized his shield, and drew his famous Balisardo. Meanwhile
Agramant and the brave Oliver gained no advantage, one or the other; but
Florismart unhorsed the King Sobrino. Having brought his foe to the
ground, he would not pursue his victory, but hastened to attack
Gradasso, who had overthrown Orlando. Seeing him thus engaged, Orlando
would not interfere, but ran with sword upraised upon Sobrino, and with
one blow deprived him of sense and motion. Believing him dead, he next
turned to aid his beloved Florismart. That brave paladin, neither in
horse nor arms equal to his antagonist, could but parry and evade the
blows of the terrible Durindana. Orlando, eager to succor him, was
delayed for a moment in securing and mounting the horse of the King
Sobrino. It was but an instant, and with sword upraised, he rushed upon
Gradasso who, noways disconcerted at the onset of this second foe,
shouted his defiance, and thrust at him with his sword, but, having
miscalculated the distance, scarcely reached him, and failed to pierce
his mail. Orlando, in return, dealt him a blow with Balisardo, which
wounded as it fell face, breast, and thigh, and, if he had been a little
nearer, would have cleft him in twain. Sobrino, by this time recovered
from his swoon, though severely wounded, raised himself on his legs, and
looked to see how he might aid his friends. Observing Agramant hard
pressed by Oliver, he thrust his sword into the bowels of the latter’s
horse, which fell, and bore down his master, entangling his leg as he
fell, so that Oliver could not extricate himself. Florismart saw the
danger of his friend, and ran upon Sobrino with his horse, overthrew
him, and then turned to defend himself from Agramant. They were not
unequally matched, for though Agramant, mounted on Brigliadoro, had an
advantage over Florismart, whose horse was but indifferent, yet Agramant
had received a serious wound in his encounter with Oliver.

Nothing could exceed the fury of the encounter between Orlando and
Gradasso. Durindana, in the hands of Gradasso, clove asunder whatever it
struck; but such was the skill of Orlando, who perfectly knew the danger
to which he was exposed from a stroke of that weapon, it had not yet
struck him in such a way as to inflict a wound. Meanwhile, Gradasso was
bleeding from many wounds, and his rage and incaution increased every
moment. In his desperation he lifted Durindana with both hands, and
struck so terrible a blow full on the helmet of Orlando, that for a
moment it stunned the paladin. He dropped the reins, and his frightened
horse scoured with him over the plain. Gradasso turned to pursue him,
but at that moment saw Florismart in the very act of striking a fatal
blow at Agramant, whom he had unhorsed. While Florismart was wholly
intent upon completing his victory, Gradasso plunged his sword into his
side. Florismart fell from his horse, and bathed the plain with his
blood.

Orlando recovered himself just in time to see the deed. Whether rage or
grief predominated in his breast, I cannot tell; but, seizing Balisardo
with fury, his first blow fell upon Agramant, who was nearest to him,
and smote his head from his shoulders. At this sight Gradasso for the
first time felt his courage sink, and a dark presentiment of death came
over him. He hardly stood on his defence when Orlando cast himself upon
him, and gave him a fatal thrust. The sword penetrated his ribs, and
came out a palm’s breadth on the other side of his body.

Thus fell beneath the sword of the most illustrious paladin of France
the bravest warrior of the Saracen host. Orlando then, as if despising
his victory, leaped lightly to the ground, and ran to his dear friend
Florismart, embraced him, and bathed him with his tears. Florismart
still breathed. He could even command his voice to utter a few parting
words: “Dear friend, do not forget me,—give me your prayers,—and oh!
be a brother to Flordelis.” He died in uttering her name.

After a few moments given to grief Orlando turned to look for his other
companion and his late foes. Oliver lay oppressed with the weight of his
horse, from which he had in vain struggled to liberate himself. Orlando
extricated him with difficulty; he then raised Sobrino from the earth,
and committed him to his squire, treating him as gently as if he had
been his own brother. For this terrible warrior was the most generous of
men to a fallen foe. He took Bayard and Brigliadoro, with the arms of
the conquered knights; their bodies and their other spoils he remitted
to their attendants.

But who can tell the grief of Flordelis when she saw the warriors
return, and found not Florismart as usual after absence hasten to her
side. She knew by the aspect of the others that her lord was slain. At
the thought, and before the question could pass her lips, she fell
senseless upon the ground. When life returned, and she learned the truth
of her worst fears, she bitterly upbraided herself that she had let him
depart without her. “I might have saved him by a single cry when his
enemy dealt him that treacherous blow, or I might have thrown myself
between and given my worthless life for his. Or if no more, I might have
heard his last words, I might have given him a last kiss.” So she
lamented, and could not be comforted.

                                  ————


                         ROGERO AND BRADAMANTE

After the interruption of the combat with Rinaldo, as we have related,
Rogero was perplexed with doubts what course to take. The terms of the
treaty required him to abandon Agramant, who had broken it, and to
transfer his allegiance to Charlemagne; and his love for Bradamante
called him in the same direction; but unwillingness to desert his prince
and leader in the hour of distress forbade this course. Embarking,
therefore, for Africa, he took his way to rejoin the Saracen army; but
was arrested midway by a storm which drove the vessel on a rock. The
crew took to their boat, but that was quickly swamped in the waves, and
Rogero with the rest were compelled to swim for their lives. Then while
buffeting the waves Rogero bethought him of his sin in so long delaying
his Christian profession, and vowed in his heart that, if he should live
to reach the land, he would no longer delay to be baptized. His vows
were heard and answered; he succeeded in reaching the shore, and was
aided and relieved on landing by a pious hermit, whose cell overlooked
the sea. From him he received baptism, having first passed some days
with him, partaking his humble fare, and receiving instruction in the
doctrines of the Christian faith.

While these things were going on, Rinaldo, who had set out on his way to
seek Gradasso and recover Bayard from him, hearing on his way of the
great things which were doing in Africa, repaired thither to bear his
part in them. He arrived too late to do more than join his friends in
lamenting the loss of Florismart, and to rejoice with them in their
victory over the Pagan knights. On the death of their king the Africans
gave up the contest, Biserta submitted, and the Christian knights had
only to dismiss their forces, and return home. Astolpho took leave of
his Abyssinian army, and sent them back laden with spoil to their own
country, not forgetting to intrust to them the bag which held the winds,
by means of which they were enabled to cross the sandy desert again
without danger, and did not untie it till they reached their own
country.

Orlando now, with Oliver, who much needed the surgeon’s care, and
Sobrino, to whom equal attention was shown, sailed in a swift vessel to
Sicily, bearing with him the body of Florismart, to be laid in Christian
earth. Rinaldo accompanied them, as did Sansonnet and the other
Christian leaders. Arrived at Sicily, the funeral was solemnized with
all the rites of religion, and with the profound grief of those who had
known Florismart, or had heard of his fame. Then they resumed their
course, steering for Marseilles. But Oliver’s wound grew worse instead
of better, and his sufferings so distressed his friends that they
conferred together, not knowing what to do. Then said the pilot, “We are
not far from an isle where a holy hermit dwells alone in the midst of
the sea. It is said none seek his counsel or his aid in vain. He hath
wrought marvellous cures, and if you resort to that holy man without
doubt he can heal the knight.” Orlando bade him steer thither, and soon
the bark was laid safely beside the lonely rock; the wounded man was
lowered into their boat, and carried by the crew to the hermit’s cell.
It was the same hermit with whom Rogero had taken refuge after his
shipwreck, by whom he had been baptized, and with whom he was now
staying, absorbed in sacred studies and meditations.

The holy man received Orlando and the rest with kindness, and inquired
their errand; and being told that they had come for help for one who,
warring for the Christian faith, was brought to perilous pass by a sad
wound, he straightway undertook the cure. His applications were simple,
but they were seconded by his prayers. The paladin was soon relieved
from pain, and in a few days his foot was perfectly restored to
soundness. Sobrino, as soon as he perceived the holy monk perform that
wonder, cast aside his false prophet, and with contrite heart owned the
true God, and demanded baptism at his hands. The hermit granted his
request, and also by his prayers restored him to health, while all the
Christian knights rejoiced in his conversion almost as much as at the
restoration of Oliver. More than all Rogero felt joy and gratitude, and
daily grew in grace and faith.

Rogero was known by fame to all the Christian knights, but not even
Rinaldo knew him by sight, though he had proved his prowess in combat.
Sobrino made him known to them, and great was the joy of all when they
found one whose valor and courtesy were renowned through the world no
longer an enemy and unbeliever, but a convert and champion of the true
faith. All press about the knight; one grasps his hand, another locks
him fast in his embrace; but more than all the rest, Rinaldo cherished
him, for he more than any knew his worth.

It was not long before Rogero confided to his friend the hopes he
entertained of a union with his sister, and Rinaldo frankly gave his
sanction to the proposal. But causes unknown to the paladin were at that
very time interposing obstacles to its success.

The fame of the beauty and worth of Bradamante had reached the ears of
the Grecian Emperor, Constantine, and he had sent to Charlemagne to
demand the hand of his niece for Leo, his son, and the heir to his
dominions. Duke Aymon, her father, had only reserved his consent until
he should first have spoken with his son Rinaldo, now absent.

The warriors now prepared to resume their voyage. Rogero took a tender
farewell of the good hermit who had taught him the true faith. Orlando
restored to him the horse and arms which were rightly his, not even
asserting his claim to Balisarda, that sword which he himself had won
from the enchantress.

The hermit gave his blessing to the band, and they re-embarked. The
passage was speedy, and very soon they arrived in the harbor of
Marseilles.

Astolpho, when he had dismissed his troops, mounted the Hippogriff, and
at one flight shot over to Sardinia, thence to Corsica, thence, turning
slightly to the left, hovered over Provence, and alighted in the
neighborhood of Marseilles. There he did what he had been commanded to
do by the holy saint; he unbridled the Hippogriff, and turned him loose
to seek his own retreats, never more to be galled with saddle or bit.
The horn had lost its marvellous power ever since the visit to the moon.

Astolpho reached Marseilles the very day when Orlando, Rinaldo, Oliver,
Sobrino, and Rogero arrived there. Charles had already heard the news of
the defeat of the Saracen kings, and all the accompanying events. On
learning the approach of the gallant knights, he sent forward some of
his most illustrious nobles to receive them, and himself, with the rest
of his court, kings, dukes, and peers, the queen, and a fair and
gorgeous band of ladies, set forward from Arles to meet them.

No sooner were the mutual greetings interchanged, than Orlando and his
friends led forward Rogero, and presented him to the Emperor. They vouch
him son of Rogero, Duke of Risa, one of the most renowned of Christian
warriors, by adverse fortune stolen in his infancy, and brought up by
Saracens in the false faith, now by a kind Providence converted, and
restored to fill the place his father once held among the foremost
champions of the throne and Church.

Rogero had alighted from his horse, and stood respectfully before the
Emperor. Charlemagne bade him remount and ride beside him; and omitted
nothing which might do him honor in sight of his martial train. With
pomp triumphal and with festive cheer the troop returned to the city;
the streets were decorated with garlands, the houses hung with rich
tapestry, and flowers fell like rain upon the conquering host from the
hands of fair dames and damsels, from every balcony and window. So
welcomed, the mighty Emperor passed on till he reached the royal palace,
where many days he feasted, high in hall, with his lords, amid tourney,
revel, dance, and song.

When Rinaldo told his father, Duke Aymon, how he had promised his sister
to Rogero, his father heard him with indignation, having set his heart
on seeing her united to the Grecian Emperor’s son. The Lady Beatrice,
her mother, also appealed to Bradamante herself to reject a knight who
had neither title nor lands, and give the preference to one who would
make her Empress of the wide Levant. But Bradamante, though respect
forbade her to refuse her mother’s entreaty, would not promise to do
what her heart repelled, and answered only with a sigh, until she was
alone, and then gave a loose to tears.

Meanwhile Rogero, indignant that a stranger should presume to rob him of
his bride, determined to seek the Prince of Greece, and defy him to
mortal combat. With this design he donned his armor, but exchanged his
crest and emblazonment, and bore instead a white unicorn upon a crimson
field. He chose a trusty squire, and, commanding him not to address him
as Rogero, rode on his quest. Having crossed the Rhine and the Austrian
countries into Hungary, he followed the course of the Danube till he
reached Belgrade. There he saw the imperial ensigns spread, and white
pavilions, thronged with troops, before the town. For the Emperor
Constantine was laying siege to the city to recover it from the
Bulgarians, who had taken it from him not long before.

A river flowed between the camp of the Emperor and the Bulgarians, and
at the moment when Rogero approached, a skirmish had begun between the
parties from either camp, who had approached the stream for the purpose
of watering. The Greeks in that affray were four to one, and drove back
the Bulgarians in precipitate rout. Rogero, seeing this, and animated
only by his hatred of the Grecian prince, dashed into the middle of the
flying mass, calling aloud on the fugitives to turn. He encountered
first a leader of the Grecian host in splendid armor, a nephew of the
Emperor, as dear to him as a son. Rogero’s lance pierced shield and
armor, and stretched the warrior breathless on the plain. Another and
another fell before him, and astonishment and terror arrested the
advance of the Greeks, while the Bulgarians, catching courage from the
cavalier, rally, change front, and chase the Grecian troops, who fly in
their turn. Leo, the prince, was at a distance when this sudden skirmish
rose, but not so far but that he could see distinctly, from an elevated
position which he held, how the changed battle was all the work of one
man, and could not choose but admire the bravery and prowess with which
it was done. He knew by the blazonry displayed that the champion was not
of the Bulgarian army, though he furnished aid to them. Although he
suffered by his valor, the prince could not wish him ill, for his
admiration surpassed his resentment. By this time the Greeks had
regained the river, and crossing it by fording or swimming, some made
their escape, leaving many more prisoners in the hands of the
Bulgarians. Rogero, learning from some of the captives that Leo was at a
point some distance down the river, rode thither with a view to meet
him, but arrived not before the Greek prince had retired beyond the
stream, and broken up the bridge. Day was spent, and Rogero, wearied,
looked round for a shelter for the night. He found it in a cottage,
where he soon yielded himself to repose. It so happened, a knight who
had narrowly escaped Rogero’s sword in the late battle also found
shelter in the same cottage, and, recognizing the armor of the unknown
knight, easily found means of securing him as he slept, and next morning
carried him in chains and delivered him to the Emperor. By him he was in
turn delivered to his sister Theodora, mother of the young knight, the
first victim of Rogero’s spear. By her he was cast into a dungeon, till
her ingenuity could devise a death sufficiently painful to satiate her
revenge.

Bradamante, meanwhile, to escape her father’s and mother’s importunity,
had begged a boon of Charlemagne, which the monarch pledged his royal
word to grant; it was that she should not be compelled to marry any one
unless he should first vanquish her in single combat. The Emperor
therefore proclaimed a tournament in these words: “He that would wed
Duke Aymon’s daughter must contend with the sword against that dame,
from the sun’s rise to his setting; and if, in that time, he is not
overcome the lady shall be his.”

Duke Aymon and the Lady Beatrice, though much incensed at the course
things had taken, brought their daughter to court, to await the day
appointed for the tournament. Bradamante, not finding there him whom her
heart required, distressed herself with doubts what could be the cause
of his absence. Of all fancies, the most painful one was that he had
gone away to learn to forget her, knowing her father’s and her mother’s
opposition to their union, and despairing to contend against them. But
oh, how much worse would be the maiden’s woe, if it were known to her
what her betrothed was then enduring!

He was plunged in a dungeon where no ray of daylight ever penetrated,
loaded with chains, and scantily supplied with the coarsest food. No
wonder despair took possession of his heart, and he longed for death as
a relief, when one night (or one day, for both were equally dark to him)
he was roused with the glare of a torch and saw two men enter his cell.
It was the Prince Leo, with an attendant, who had come as soon as he had
learned the wretched fate of the brave knight whose valor he had seen
and admired on the field of battle. “Cavalier,” said he, “I am one whom
thy valor hath so bound to thee, that I willingly peril my own safety to
lend thee aid.” “Infinite thanks I owe you,” replied Rogero, “and the
life you give me I promise faithfully to render back upon your call, and
promptly to stake it at all times for your service.” The prince then
told Rogero his name and rank, at hearing which a tide of contending
emotions almost overwhelmed Rogero. He was set at liberty, and had his
horse and arms restored to him.

Meanwhile, tidings arrived of King Charles’ decree that whoever aspired
to the hand of Bradamante must first encounter her with sword and lance.
This news made the Grecian prince turn pale, for he knew he was no match
for her in fight. Communing with himself, he sees how he may make his
wit supply the place of valor, and employ the French knight, whose name
was still unknown to him, to fight the battle for him. Rogero heard the
proposal with extreme distress; yet it seemed worse than death to deny
the first request of one to whom he owed his life. Hastily he gave his
assent “to do in all things that which Leo should command.” Afterward,
bitter repentance came over him; yet, rather than confess his change of
mind, death itself would be welcome. Death seems his only remedy; but
how to die? Sometimes he thinks to make none but a feigned resistance,
and allow her sword a ready access, for never can death come more
happily than if her hand guide the weapon. Yet this will not avail, for,
unless he wins the maid for the Greek prince, his debt remains unpaid.
He had promised to maintain a real, not a feigned encounter. He will
then keep his word, and banish every thought from his bosom except that
which moved him to maintain his truth.

The young prince, richly attended, set out, and with him Rogero. They
arrived at Paris, but Leo preferred not to enter the city, and pitched
his tents without the walls, making known his arrival to Charlemagne by
an embassy. The monarch was pleased, and testified his courtesy by
visits and gifts. The prince set forth the purpose of his coming, and
prayed the Emperor to dispatch his suit—“to send forth the damsel who
refused ever to take in wedlock any lord inferior to herself in fight;
for she should be his bride, or he would perish beneath her sword.”

Rogero passed the night before the day assigned for the battle like that
which the felon spends, condemned to pay the forfeit of his life on the
ensuing day. He chose to fight with sword only, and on foot, for he
would not let her see Frontino, knowing that she would recognize the
steed. Nor would he use Balisarda, for against that enchanted blade all
armor would be of no avail, and the sword that he did take he hammered
well upon the edge to abate its sharpness. He wore the surcoat of Prince
Leo, and his shield, emblazoned with a golden, double-headed eagle. The
prince took care to let himself be seen by none.

Bradamante, meanwhile, prepared herself for the combat far differently.
Instead of blunting the edge of her falchion she whets the steel, and
would fain infuse into it her own acerbity. As the moment approached she
seemed to have fire within her veins, and waited impatiently for the
trumpet’s sound. At the signal she drew her sword, and fell with fury
upon her Rogero. But as a well-built wall or aged rock stands unmoved
the fury of the storm, so Rogero, clad in those arms which Trojan Hector
once wore, withstood the strokes which stormed about his head and breast
and flank. Sparks flew from his shield, his helm, his cuirass; from
direct and back strokes, aimed now high, now low, falling thick and
fast, like hailstones on a cottage roof; but Rogero, with skilful ward,
turns them aside, or receives them where his armor is a sure protection,
careful only to protect himself, and with no thought of striking in
return. Thus the hours passed away, and, as the sun approached the west,
the damsel began to despair. But so much the more her anger increases,
and she redoubles her efforts, like the craftsman who sees his work
unfinished while the day is wellnigh spent. O miserable damsel! didst
thou know whom thou wouldst kill,—if, in that cavalier matched against
thee thou didst but know Rogero, on whom thy very life-threads hang,
rather than kill him thou wouldst kill thyself, for he is dearer to thee
than life.

King Charles and the peers, who thought the cavalier to be the Grecian
prince, viewing such force and skill exhibited, and how without
assaulting her the knight defended himself, were filled with admiration,
and declared the champions well matched, and worthy of each other.

When the sun was set Charlemagne gave the signal for terminating the
contest, and Bradamante was awarded to Prince Leo as a bride. Rogero, in
deep distress, returned to his tent. There Leo unlaced his helmet, and
kissed him on both cheeks. “Henceforth,” said he, “do with me as you
please, for you cannot exhaust my gratitude.” Rogero replied little,
laid aside the ensigns he had worn, and resumed the unicorn, then hasted
to withdraw himself from all eyes. When it was midnight he rose, saddled
Frontino, and sallied from his tent, taking that direction which pleased
his steed. All night he rode absorbed in bitter woe, and called on Death
as alone capable of relieving his sufferings. At last he entered a
forest, and penetrated into its deepest recesses. There he unharnessed
Frontino, and suffered him to wander where he would. Then he threw
himself down on the ground, and poured forth such bitter wailings that
the birds and beasts, for none else heard him, were moved to pity with
his cries.

Not less was the distress of the lady Bradamante, who, rather than wed
any one but Rogero, resolved to break her word, and defy kindred, court,
and Charlemagne himself; and, if nothing else would do, to die. But
relief came from an unexpected quarter. Marphisa, sister of Rogero, was
a heroine of warlike prowess equal to Bradamante. She had been the
confidante of their loves, and felt hardly less distress than themselves
at seeing the perils which threatened their union. “They are already
united by mutual vows,” she said, “and in the sight of Heaven what more
is necessary?” Full of this thought she presented herself before
Charlemagne, and declared that she herself was witness that the maiden
had spoken to Rogero those words which they who marry swear; and that
the compact was so sealed between the pair that they were no longer
free, nor could forsake the one the other to take another spouse. This
her assertion she offered to prove, in single combat, against Prince
Leo, or any one else.

Charlemagne, sadly perplexed at this, commanded Bradamante to be called,
and told her what the bold Marphisa had declared. Bradamante neither
denied nor confirmed the statement, but hung her head, and kept silence.
Duke Aymon was enraged, and would fain have set aside the pretended
contract on the ground that, if made at all, it must have been made
before Rogero was baptized, and therefore void. But not so thought
Rinaldo, nor the good Orlando, and Charlemagne knew not which way to
decide, when Marphisa spoke thus:

“Since no one else can marry the maiden while my brother lives, let the
prince meet Rogero in mortal combat, and let him who survives take her
for his bride.”

This saying pleased the Emperor, and was accepted by the prince, for he
thought that, by the aid of his unknown champion, he should surely
triumph in the fight. Proclamation was therefore made for Rogero to
appear and defend his suit; and Leo, on his part, caused search to be
made on all sides for the knight of the Unicorn.

Meanwhile Rogero, overwhelmed with despair, lay stretched on the ground
in the forest night and day without food, courting death. Here he was
discovered by one of Leo’s people, who, finding him resist all attempts
to remove him, hastened to his master, who was not far off, and brought
him to the spot. As he approached he heard words which convinced him
that love was the cause of the knight’s despair; but no clew was given
to guide him to the object of that love. Stooping down, the prince
embraced the weeping warrior, and, in the tenderest accents, said:
“Spare not, I entreat you, to disclose the cause of your distress, for
few such desperate evils betide mankind as are wholly past cure. It
grieves me much that you would hide your grief from me, for I am bound
to you by ties that nothing can undo. Tell me, then, your grief, and
leave me to try if wealth, art, cunning, force, or persuasion cannot
relieve you. If not, it will be time enough after all has been tried in
vain to die.”

He spoke in such moving accents that Rogero could not choose but yield.
It was some time before he could command utterance; at last he said, “My
lord, when you shall know me for what I am, I doubt not you, like
myself, will be content that I should die. Know, then, I am that Rogero
whom you have so much cause to hate, and who so hated you that, intent
on putting you to death, he went to seek you at your father’s court.
This I did because I could not submit to see my promised bride borne off
by you. But, as man proposes and God disposes, your great courtesy, well
tried in time of sore need, so moved my fixed resolve, that I not only
laid aside the hate I bore, but purposed to be your friend forever. You
then asked of me to win for you the lady Bradamante, which was all one
as to demand of me my heart and soul. You know whether I served you
faithfully or not. Yours is the lady; possess her in peace; but ask me
not to live to see it. Be content rather that I die; for vows have
passed between myself and her which forbid that while I live she can
lawfully wive with another.”

So filled was gentle Leo with astonishment at these words that for a
while he stood silent, with lips unmoved and steadfast gaze, like a
statue. And the discovery that the stranger was Rogero not only abated
not the good will he bore him, but increased it, so that his distress
for what Rogero suffered seemed equal to his own. For this, and because
he would appear deservedly an Emperor’s son, and, though in other things
outdone, would not be surpassed in courtesy, he says: “Rogero, had I
known that day when your matchless valor routed my troops that you were
Rogero, your virtue would have made me your own, as then it made me
while I knew not my foe, and I should have no less gladly rescued you
from Theodora’s dungeon. And if I would willingly have done so then, how
much more gladly will I now restore the gift of which you would rob
yourself to confer it upon me. The damsel is more due to you than to me,
and though I know her worth, I would forego not only her, but life
itself, rather than distress a knight like you.”

This and much more he said to the same intent; till at last Rogero
replied, “I yield, and am content to live, and thus a second time owe my
life to you.”

But several days elapsed before Rogero was so far restored as to return
to the royal residence, where an embassy had arrived from the Bulgarian
princes to seek the knight of the unicorn, and tender to him the crown
of that country, in place of their king, fallen in battle.

Thus were things situated when Prince Leo, leading by the hand Rogero,
clad in the battered armor in which he had sustained the conflict with
Bradamante, presented himself before the king. “Behold,” he said “the
champion who maintained from dawn to setting sun the arduous contest; he
comes to claim the guerdon of the fight.” King Charlemagne, with all his
peerage, stood amazed; for all believed that the Grecian prince himself
had fought with Bradamante. Then stepped forth Marphisa, and said,
“Since Rogero is not here to assert his rights, I, his sister, undertake
his cause, and will maintain it against whoever shall dare dispute his
claim.” She said this with so much anger and disdain that the prince
deemed it no longer wise to feign, and withdrew Rogero’s helmet from his
brow, saying, “Behold him here!” Who can describe the astonishment and
joy of Marphisa! She ran and threw her arms about her brother’s neck,
nor would give way to let Charlemagne and Rinaldo, Orlando, Dudon, and
the rest, who crowded round, embrace him, and press friendly kisses on
his brow. The joyful tidings flew fast by many a messenger to
Bradamante, who in her secret chamber lay lamenting. The blood that
stagnated about her heart flowed at that notice so fast, that she had
wellnigh died for joy. Duke Aymon and the Lady Beatrice no longer
withheld their consent, and pledged their daughter to the brave Rogero
before all that gallant company.

Now came the Bulgarian ambassadors, and, kneeling at the feet of Rogero,
besought him to return with them to their country, where, in Adrianople,
the crown and sceptre were awaiting his acceptance. Prince Leo united
his persuasions to theirs, and promised, in his royal father’s name,
that peace should be restored on their part. Rogero gave his consent,
and it was surmised that none of the virtues which shone so
conspicuously in him so availed to recommend Rogero to the Lady Beatrice
as the hearing her future son-in-law saluted as a sovereign prince.

                                  ————


                       THE BATTLE OF RONCESVALLES

After the expulsion of the Saracens from France Charlemagne led his army
into Spain, to punish Marsilius, the king of that country, for having
sided with the African Saracens in the late war. Charlemagne succeeded
in all his attempts, and compelled Marsilius to submit, and pay tribute
to France. Our readers will remember Gano, otherwise called Gan, or
Ganelon, whom we mentioned in one of our early chapters as an old
courtier of Charlemagne, and a deadly enemy of Orlando, Rinaldo, and all
their friends. He had great influence over Charles, from equality of age
and long intimacy; and he was not without good qualities: he was brave
and sagacious, but envious, false, and treacherous. Gan prevailed on
Charles to send him as ambassador to Marsilius, to arrange the tribute.
He embraced Orlando over and over again at taking leave, using such
pains to seem loving and sincere, that his hypocrisy was manifest to
every one but the old monarch. He fastened with equal tenderness on
Oliver, who smiled contemptuously in his face, and thought to himself,
“You may make as many fair speeches as you choose, but you lie.” All the
other paladins who were present thought the same, and they said as much
to the Emperor, adding that Gan should on no account be sent ambassador
to the Spaniards. But Charles was infatuated.

Gan was received with great honor by Marsilius. The king, attended by
his lords, came fifteen miles out of Saragossa to meet him, and then
conducted him into the city with acclamations. There was nothing for
several days but balls, games, and exhibitions of chivalry, the ladies
throwing flowers on the heads of the French knights, and the people
shouting, “France! Mountjoy and St. Denis!”

After the ceremonies of the first reception the king and the ambassador
began to understand one another. One day they sat together in a garden
on the border of a fountain. The water was so clear and smooth it
reflected every object around, and the spot was encircled with
fruit-trees which quivered with the fresh air. As they sat and talked,
as if without restraint, Gan, without looking the king in the face, was
enabled to see the expression of his countenance in the water, and
governed his speech accordingly. Marsilius was equally adroit, and
watched the face of Gan while he addressed him. Marsilius began by
lamenting, not as to the ambassador, but as to the friend, the injuries
which Charles had done him by invading his dominions, charging him with
wishing to take his kingdom from him and give it to Orlando; till at
length he plainly uttered his belief that if that ambitious paladin were
but dead good men would get their rights.

Gan heaved a sigh, as if he was unwillingly compelled to allow the force
of what the king said; but unable to contain himself long he lifted up
his face, radiant with triumphant wickedness, and exclaimed: “Every word
you utter is truth; die he must, and die also must Oliver, who struck me
that foul blow at court. Is it treachery to punish affronts like these?
I have planned everything,—I have settled everything already with their
besotted master. Orlando will come to your borders—to Roncesvalles—for
the purpose of receiving the tribute. Charles will await him at the foot
of the mountains. Orlando will bring but a small band with him: you,
when you meet him, will have secretly your whole army at your back. You
surround him, and who receives tribute then?”

The new Judas had scarcely uttered these words when his exultation was
interrupted by a change in the face of nature. The sky was suddenly
overcast, there was thunder and lightning, a laurel was split in two
from head to foot, and the Carob-tree under which Gan was sitting, which
is said to be the species of tree on which Judas Iscariot hung himself,
dropped one of its pods on his head.

Marsilius, as well as Gan, was appalled at this omen; but on assembling
his soothsayers they came to the conclusion that the laurel-tree turned
the omen against the Emperor, the successor of the Cæsars, though one of
them renewed the consternation of Gan by saying that he did not
understand the meaning of the tree of Judas, and intimating that perhaps
the ambassador could explain it. Gan relieved his vexation by anger; the
habit of wickedness prevailed over all other considerations; and the
king prepared to march to Roncesvalles at the head of all his forces.

Gan wrote to Charlemagne to say how humbly and submissively Marsilius
was coming to pay the tribute into the hands of Orlando, and how
handsome it would be of the Emperor to meet him half-way, and so be
ready to receive him after the payment at his camp. He added a brilliant
account of the tribute, and the accompanying presents. The good Emperor
wrote in turn to say how pleased he was with the ambassador’s diligence,
and that matters were arranged precisely as he wished. His court,
however, had its suspicion still, though they little thought Gan’s
object in bringing Charles into the neighborhood of Roncesvalles was to
deliver him into the hands of Marsilius, after Orlando should have been
destroyed by him.

Orlando, however, did as his lord and sovereign desired. He went to
Roncesvalles, accompanied by a moderate train of warriors, not dreaming
of the atrocity that awaited him. Gan, meanwhile, had hastened back to
France, in order to show himself free and easy in the presence of
Charles, and secure the success of his plot; while Marsilius, to make
assurance doubly sure, brought into the passes of Roncesvalles no less
than three armies, which were successively to fall on the paladin in
case of the worst, and so extinguish him with numbers. He had also, by
Gan’s advice, brought heaps of wine and good cheer to be set before his
victims in the first instance; “for that,” said the traitor, “will
render the onset the more effective, the feasters being unarmed. One
thing, however, I must not forget,” added he; “my son Baldwin is sure to
be with Orlando; you must take care of his life for my sake.”

“I give him this vesture off my own body,” said the king; “let him wear
it in the battle, and have no fear. My soldiers shall be directed not to
touch him.”

Gan went away rejoicing to France. He embraced the sovereign and the
court all round with the air of a man who had brought them nothing but
blessings, and the old king wept for very tenderness and delight.

“Something is going on wrong, and looks very black,” thought Malagigi,
the good wizard; “Rinaldo is not here, and it is indispensably necessary
that he should be. I must find out where he is, and Ricciardetto too,
and send for them with all speed.”

Malagigi called up by his art a wise, terrible, and cruel spirit, named
Ashtaroth. “Tell me, and tell me truly, of Rinaldo,” said Malagigi to
the spirit. The demon looked hard at the paladin, and said nothing. His
aspect was clouded and violent.

The enchanter, with an aspect still cloudier, bade Ashtaroth lay down
that look, and made signs as if he would resort to angrier compulsion;
and the devil, alarmed, loosened his tongue, and said, “You have not
told me what you desire to know of Rinaldo.”

“I desire to know what he has been doing, and where he is.”

“He has been conquering and baptizing the world, east and west,” said
the demon, “and is now in Egypt with Ricciardetto.”

“And what has Gan been plotting with Marsilius?” inquired Malagigi; “and
what is to come of it?”

“I know not,” said the devil. “I was not attending to Gan at the time,
and we fallen spirits know not the future. All I discern is that by the
signs and comets in the heavens something dreadful is about to
happen—something very strange, treacherous, and bloody; and that Gan
has a seat ready prepared for him in hell.”

“Within three days,” cried the enchanter, loudly, “bring Rinaldo and
Ricciardetto into the pass of Roncesvalles. Do it, and I hereby
undertake to summon thee no more.”

“Suppose they will not trust themselves with me?” said the spirit.

“Enter Rinaldo’s horse, and bring him, whether he trust thee or not.”

“It shall be done,” returned the demon.

There was an earthquake, and Ashtaroth disappeared.

                                  ————

Marsilius now made his first movement towards the destruction of
Orlando, by sending before him his vassal, King Blanchardin, with his
presents of wines and other luxuries. The temperate but courteous hero
took them in good part, and distributed them as the traitor wished; and
then Blanchardin, on pretence of going forward to salute Charlemagne,
returned, and put himself at the head of the second army, which was the
post assigned him by his liege-lord. King Falseron, whose son Orlando
had slain in battle, headed the first army, and King Balugante the
third. Marsilius made a speech to them, in which he let them into his
design, and concluded by recommending to their good will the son of his
friend Gan, whom they would know by the vest he had sent him, and who
was the only soul amongst the Christian they were to spare.

This son of Gan, meanwhile, and several of the paladins, who distrusted
the misbelievers, and were anxious at all events to be with Orlando, had
joined the hero in the fatal valley; so that the little Christian host,
considering the tremendous valor of their lord and his friends, were not
to be sold for nothing. Rinaldo, alas! the second thunderbolt of
Christendom, was destined not to be there in time to meet the issue. The
paladins in vain begged Orlando to be on his guard against treachery,
and send for a more numerous body of men. The great heart of the
Champion of the Faith was unwilling to harbor suspicion as long as he
could help it. He refused to summon aid which might be superfluous;
neither would he do anything but what his liege-lord had directed. And
yet he could not wholly repress a misgiving. A shadow had fallen on his
heart, great and cheerful as it was. The anticipations of his friends
disturbed him, in spite of the face with which he met them. Perhaps by a
certain foresight he felt his death approaching; but he felt bound not
to encourage the impression. Besides, time pressed; the moment of the
looked-for tribute was at hand, and little combinations of circumstances
determine often the greatest events.

King Marsilius was to arrive early next day with the tribute, and
Oliver, with the morning sun, rode forth to reconnoitre, and see if he
could discover the peaceful pomp of the Spanish court in the distance.
He rode up the nearest height, and from the top of it beheld the first
army of Marsilius already forming in the passes. “O devil Gan,” he
exclaimed, “this then is the consummation of thy labors!” Oliver put
spurs to his horse, and galloped back down the mountain to Orlando.

“Well,” cried the hero, “what news?”

“Bad news,” said his cousin, “such as you would not hear of yesterday.
Marsilius is here in arms, and all the world is with him.”

The paladins pressed round Orlando, and entreated him to sound his horn,
in token that he needed help. His only answer was to mount his horse,
and ride up the mountain with Sansonetto.

As soon, however, as he cast forth his eyes, and beheld what was round
about him, he turned in sorrow, and looked down into Roncesvalles, and
said, “O miserable valley! the blood shed in thee this day will color
thy name forever.”

Orlando’s little camp were furious against the Saracens. They armed
themselves with the greatest impatience. There was nothing but lacing of
helmets and mounting of horses, while good Archbishop Turpin went from
rank to rank exhorting and encouraging the warriors of Christ. Orlando
and his captains withdrew for a moment to consultation. He fairly
groaned for sorrow, and at first had not a word to say, so wretched he
felt at having brought his people to die in Roncesvalles. Then he said:
“If it had entered into my heart to conceive the king of Spain to be
such a villain never would you have seen this day. He has exchanged with
me a thousand courtesies and good words; and I thought that the worse
enemies we had been before, the better friends we had become now. I
fancied every human being capable of this kind of virtue on a good
opportunity, saving, indeed, such base-hearted wretches as can never
forgive their very forgivers; and of these I did not suppose him to be
one. Let us die, if die we must, like honest and gallant men, so that it
shall be said of us it was only our bodies that died. The reason why I
did not sound the horn was partly because I thought it did not become
us, and partly because our liege lord could hardly save us, even if he
heard it.” And with these words Orlando sprang to his horse, crying,
“Away against the Saracens!” But he had no sooner turned his face than
he wept bitterly, and said, “O Holy Virgin, think not of me, the sinner
Orlando, but have pity on these thy servants!”

And now with a mighty dust, and an infinite sound of horns and tambours,
which came filling the valley, the first army of the infidels made its
appearance, horses neighing, and a thousand pennons flying in the air.
King Falseron led them on, saying to his officers: “Let nobody dare to
lay a finger on Orlando. He belongs to myself. The revenge of my son’s
death is mine. I will cut the man down that comes between us.”

“Now, friends,” said Orlando, “every man for himself, and St. Michael
for us all! There is not one here that is not a perfect knight.” And he
might well say it, for the flower of all France was there, except
Rinaldo and Ricciardetto—every man a picked man, all friends and
constant companions of Orlando.

So the captains of the little troop and of the great army sat looking at
one another, and singling one another out as the latter came on, and
then the knights put spear in rest, and ran for a while two and two in
succession, one against the other.

Astolpho was the first to move. He ran against Arlotto of Sorio, and
thrust his antagonist’s body out of the saddle, and his soul into the
other world. Oliver encountered Malprimo, and, though he received a
thrust which hurt him, sent his lance right through the heart of
Malprimo.

Falseron was daunted at this blow. “Truly,” thought he, “this is a
marvel.” Oliver did not press on among the Saracens, his wound was too
painful; but Orlando now put himself and his whole band in motion, and
you may guess what an uproar ensued. The sound of the rattling of blows
and helmets was as if the forge of Vulcan had been thrown open. Falseron
beheld Orlando coming so furiously, that he thought him a Lucifer who
had burst his chain, and was quite of another mind than when he purposed
to have him all to himself. On the contrary, he recommended himself to
his gods, and turned away, meaning to wait for a more auspicious season
of revenge. But Orlando hailed him with a terrible voice, saying, “O
thou traitor! was this the end to which old quarrels were made up?” Then
he dashed at Falseron with a fury so swift, and at the same time with a
mastery of his lance so marvellous, that, though he plunged it in the
man’s body so as instantly to kill him, and then withdrew it, the body
did not move in the saddle. The hero himself, as he rushed onwards, was
fain to see the end of a stroke so perfect, and turning his horse back,
touched the carcass with his sword, and it fell on the instant!

When the infidels beheld their leader dead such fear fell upon them that
they were for leaving the field to the paladins, but they were unable.
Marsilius had drawn the rest of his forces round the valley like a net,
so that their shoulders were turned in vain. Orlando rode into the thick
of them, and wherever he went thunderbolts fell upon helmets. Oliver was
again in the fray, with Walter and Baldwin, Avino and Avolio, while
Archbishop Turpin had changed his crosier for a lance, and chased a new
flock before him to the mountains.

Yet what could be done against foes without number? Marsilius constantly
pours them in. The paladins are as units to thousands. Why tarry the
horses of Rinaldo and Ricciardetto?

The horses did not tarry, but fate had been quicker than enchantment.
Ashtaroth had presented himself to Rinaldo in Egypt, and, after telling
his errand, he and Foul-mouth, his servant, entered the horses of
Rinaldo and Ricciardetto, which began to neigh, and snort, and leap with
the fiends within them, till off they flew through the air over the
pyramids and across the desert, and reached Spain and the scene of
action just as Marsilius brought up his third army. The two paladins on
their horses dropped right into the midst of the Saracens, and began
making such havoc among them that Marsilius, who overlooked the fight
from a mountain, thought his soldiers had turned against one another.
Orlando beheld it, and guessed it could be no other but his cousins, and
pressed to meet them. Oliver coming up at the same moment, the rapture
of the whole party is not to be expressed. After a few hasty words of
explanation they were forced to turn again upon the enemy, whose numbers
seemed perfectly without limit.

Orlando, making a bloody passage towards Marsilius, struck a youth on
the head, whose helmet was so strong as to resist the blow, but at the
same time flew off. Orlando prepared to strike a second blow, when the
youth exclaimed, “Hold! you loved my father; I am Bujaforte!” The
paladin had never seen Bujaforte, but he saw the likeness to the good
old man, his father, and he dropped his sword. “O Bujaforte,” said he,
“I loved him indeed; but what does his son do here fighting against his
friends?”

Bujaforte could not at once speak for weeping. At length he said: “I am
forced to be here by my lord and master, Marsilius; and I have made a
show of fighting, but have not hurt a single Christian. Treachery is on
every side of you. Baldwin himself has a vest given him by Marsilius,
that everybody may know the son of his friend Gan, and do him no harm.”

“Put your helmet on again,” said Orlando, “and behave just as you have
done. Never will your father’s friend be an enemy to the son.”

The hero then turned in fury to look for Baldwin, who was hastening
towards him at that moment, with friendliness in his looks.

“’Tis strange,” said Baldwin, “I have done my duty as well as I could,
yet nobody will come against me. I have slain right and left, and cannot
comprehend what it is that makes the stoutest infidels avoid me.”

“Take off your vest,” said Orlando, contemptuously, “and you will soon
discover the secret, if you wish to know it. Your father has sold us to
Marsilius, all but his honorable son.”

“If my father,” said Baldwin, impetuously tearing off the vest, “has
been such a villain, and I escape dying, I will plunge this sword
through his heart. But I am no traitor, Orlando, and you do me wrong to
say it. Think not I can live with dishonor.”

Baldwin spurred off into the fight, not waiting to hear another word
from Orlando, who was very sorry for what he had said, for he perceived
that the youth was in despair.

And now the fight raged beyond all it had done before; twenty pagans
went down for one paladin, but still the paladins fell. Sansonetto was
beaten to earth by the club of Grandonio, Walter d’Amulion had his
shoulder broken, Berlinghieri and Ottone were slain, and at last
Astolpho fell, in revenge of whose death Orlando turned the spot where
he died into a lake of Saracen blood. The luckless Bujaforte met
Rinaldo, and before he could explain how he seemed to be fighting on the
Saracen side received such a blow upon the head that he fell, unable to
utter a word. Orlando, cutting his way to a spot where there was a great
struggle and uproar, found the poor youth Baldwin, the son of Gan, with
two spears in his breast. “I am no traitor now,” said Baldwin, and those
were the last words he said. Orlando was bitterly sorry to have been the
cause of his death, and tears streamed from his eyes. At length down
went Oliver himself. He had become blinded with his own blood, and
smitten Orlando without knowing him. “How now, cousin,” cried Orlando,
“have you too gone over to the enemy?” “O my lord and master,” cried the
other, “I ask your pardon. I can see nothing; I am dying. Some traitor
has stabbed me in the back. If you love me, lead my horse into the thick
of them, so that I may not die unavenged.”

“I shall die myself before long,” said Orlando, “out of very toil and
grief; so we will go together.”

Orlando led his cousin’s horse where the press was thickest, and
dreadful was the strength of the dying man and his tired companion. They
made a street through which they passed out of the battle, and Orlando
led his cousin away to his tent, and said, “Wait a little till I return,
for I will go and sound the horn on the hill yonder.”

“’Tis of no use,” said Oliver, “my spirit is fast going and desires to
be with its Lord and Saviour.”

He would have said more, but his words came from him imperfectly, like
those of a man in a dream, and so he expired.

When Orlando saw him dead he felt as if he was alone on the earth, and
he was quite willing to leave it, only he wished that King Charles, at
the foot of the mountains, should know how the case stood before he
went. So he took up the horn and blew it three times, with such force
that the blood burst out of his nose and mouth. Turpin says that at the
third blast the horn broke in two.

In spite of all the noise of the battle, the sound of the horn broke
over it like a voice out of the other world. They say that birds fell
dead at it, and that the whole Saracen army drew back in terror.
Charlemagne was sitting in the midst of his court when the sound reached
him, and Gan was there. The Emperor was the first to hear it.

“Do you hear that?” said he to his nobles. “Did you hear the horn as I
heard it?”

Upon this they all listened, and Gan felt his heart misgive him. The
horn sounded a second time.

“What is the meaning of this?” said Charles.

“Orlando is hunting,” observed Gan, “and the stag is killed.”

But when the horn sounded yet a third time, and the blast was one of so
dreadful a vehemence, everybody looked at the other, and then they all
looked at Gan in a fury. Charles rose from his seat.

“This is no hunting of the stag,” said he. “The sound goes to my very
heart. O Gan! O Gan! Not for thee do I blush, but for myself. O foul and
monstrous villain! Take him, gentleman, and keep him in close prison.
Would to God I had not lived to see this day!”

But it was no time for words. They put the traitor in prison and then
Charles, with all his court, took his way to Roncesvalles, grieving and
praying.

It was afternoon when the horn sounded, and half an hour after it when
the Emperor set out; and meantime Orlando had returned to the fight that
he might do his duty, however hopeless, as long as he could sit his
horse. At length he found his end approaching, for toil and fever, and
rode all alone to a fountain where he had before quenched his thirst.
His horse was wearier than he, and no sooner had his master alighted
than the beast, kneeling down as if to take leave, and to say, “I have
brought you to a place of rest,” fell dead at his feet. Orlando cast
water on him from the fountain, not wishing to believe him dead; but
when he found it to no purpose, he grieved for him as if he had been a
human being, and addressed him by name with tears, and asked forgiveness
if he had ever done him wrong. They say that the horse, at these words,
opened his eyes a little, and looked kindly at his master, and then
stirred never more. They say also that Orlando then summoning all his
strength, smote a rock near him with his beautiful sword Durindana,
thinking to shiver the steel in pieces, and so prevent its falling into
the hands of the enemy, but though the rock split like a slate, and a
great cleft remained ever after to astonish the eyes of pilgrims, the
sword remained uninjured.

And now Rinaldo and Ricciardetto came up, with Turpin, having driven
back the Saracens, and told Orlando that the battle was won. Then
Orlando knelt before Turpin and begged remission of his sins, and Turpin
gave him absolution. Orlando fixed his eyes on the hilt of his sword as
on a crucifix, and embraced it, and he raised his eyes and appeared like
a creature seraphical and transfigured, and bowing his head, he breathed
out his pure soul.

And now King Charles and his nobles came up. The Emperor, at sight of
the dead Orlando, threw himself, as if he had been a reckless youth,
from his horse, and embraced and kissed the body, and said: “I bless
thee, Orlando; I bless thy whole life, and all that thou wast, and all
that thou ever didst, and the father that begat thee; and I ask pardon
of thee for believing those who brought thee to thine end. They shall
have their reward, O thou beloved one! But indeed it is thou that
livest, and I who am worse than dead.”

Horrible to the Emperor’s eyes was the sight of the field of
Roncesvalles. The Saracens indeed had fled, conquered; but all his
paladins but two were left on it dead, and the whole valley looked like
a great slaughterhouse, trampled into blood and dirt, and reeking to the
heat. Charles trembled to his heart’s core for wonder and agony. After
gazing dumbly on the place he cursed it with a solemn curse, and wished
that never grass might grow in it again, nor seed of any kind, neither
within it nor on any of its mountains around, but the anger of Heaven
abide over it forever.

Charles and his warriors went after the Saracens into Spain. They took
and fired Saragossa, and Marsilius was hung to the carob-tree under
which he had planned his villainy with Gan; and Gan was hung and drawn
and quartered in Roncesvalles, amidst the execrations of the country.

                                  ————


                           RINALDO AND BAYARD

Charlemagne was overwhelmed with grief at the loss of so many of his
bravest warriors at the disaster of Roncesvalles, and bitterly
reproached himself for his credulity in resigning himself so completely
to the counsels of the treacherous Count Gan. Yet he soon fell into a
similar snare when he suffered his unworthy son, Charlot, to acquire
such an influence over him, that he constantly led him into acts of
cruelty and injustice that in his right mind he would have scorned to
commit. Rinaldo and his brothers, for some slight offence to the
imperious young prince, were forced to fly from Paris, and to take
shelter in their castle of Montalban; for Charles had publicly said, if
he could take them he would hang them all. He sent numbers of his
bravest knights to arrest them, but all without success. Either Rinaldo
foiled their efforts and sent them back, stripped of their armor and of
their glory, or, after meeting and conferring with him, they came back
and told the king they could not be his instruments for such a work.

At last Charles himself raised a great army, and went in person to
compel the paladin to submit. He ravaged all the country round about
Montalban, so that supplies of food should be cut off, and he threatened
death to any who should attempt to issue forth, hoping to compel the
garrison to submit for want of food.

Rinaldo’s resources had been brought so low that it seemed useless to
contend any longer. His brothers had been taken prisoners in a skirmish,
and his only hope of saving their lives was in making terms with the
king.

So he sent a messenger, offering to yield himself and his castle if the
king would spare his and his brothers’ lives. While the messenger was
gone Rinaldo, impatient to learn what tidings he might bring, rode out
to meet him. When he had ridden as far as he thought prudent he stopped
in a wood, and alighting, tied Bayard to a tree. Then he sat down, and,
as he waited, he fell asleep. Bayard meanwhile got loose, and strayed
away where the grass tempted him. Just then came along some country
people, who said to one another, “Look, is not that the great horse
Bayard that Rinaldo rides? Let us take him, and carry him to King
Charles, who will pay us well for our trouble.” They did so, and the
king was delighted with his prize, and gave them a present that made
them rich to their dying day.

When Rinaldo woke he looked round for his horse, and, finding him not,
he groaned, and said, “O unlucky hour that I was born! how fortune
persecutes me!” So desperate was he that he took off his armor and his
spurs, saying, “What need have I of these, since Bayard is lost?” While
he stood thus lamenting, a man came from the thicket, seemingly bent
with age. He had a long beard hanging over his breast, and eyebrows that
almost covered his eyes. He bade Rinaldo good day. Rinaldo thanked him,
and said, “A good day I have hardly had since I was born.” Then said the
old man, “Signor Rinaldo, you must not despair, for God will make all
things turn to the best.” Rinaldo answered, “My trouble is too heavy for
me to hope relief. The king has taken my brothers, and means to put them
to death. I thought to rescue them by means of my horse Bayard, but
while I slept some thief has stolen him.” The old man replied, “I will
remember you and your brothers in my prayers. I am a poor man, have you
not something to give me?” Rinaldo said, “I have nothing to give,” but
then he recollected his spurs. He gave them to the beggar, and said,
“Here, take my spurs. They are the first present my mother gave me when
my father, Count Aymon, dubbed me knight. They ought to bring you ten
pounds.”

The old man took the spurs, and put them into his sack, and said, “Noble
sir, have you nothing else you can give me?” Rinaldo replied, “Are you
making sport of me? I tell you truly if it were not for shame to beat
one so helpless, I would teach you better manners.” The old man said,
“Of a truth, sir, if you did so you would do a great sin. If all had
beaten me of whom I have begged I should have been killed long ago, for
I ask alms in churches and convents, and wherever I can.” “You say
true,” replied Rinaldo, “if you did not ask, none would relieve you.”
The old man said, “True, noble sir, therefore I pray if you have
anything more to spare, give it me.” Rinaldo gave him his mantle, and
said, “Take it, pilgrim. I give it you for the love of Christ, that God
would save my brothers from a shameful death, and help me to escape out
of King Charles’s power.”

The pilgrim took the mantle, folded it up, and put it into his bag. Then
a third time he said to Rinaldo, “Sir, have you nothing left to give me
that I may remember you in my prayers?” “Wretch!” exclaimed Rinaldo, “do
you make me your sport?” and he drew his sword, and struck at him; but
the old man warded off the blow with his staff, and said, “Rinaldo,
would you slay your cousin, Malagigi?” When Rinaldo heard that he stayed
his hand, and gazed doubtingly on the old man, who now threw aside his
disguise, and appeared to be indeed Malagigi. “Dear cousin,” said
Rinaldo, “pray forgive me. I did not know you. Next to God, my trust is
in you. Help my brothers to escape out of prison, I entreat you. I have
lost my horse, and therefore cannot render them any assistance.”
Malagigi answered, “Cousin Rinaldo, I will enable you to recover your
horse. Meanwhile, you must do as I say.”

Then Malagigi took from his sack a gown, and gave it to Rinaldo to put
on over his armor, and a hat that was full of holes, and an old pair of
shoes to put on. They looked like two pilgrims, very old and poor. Then
they went forth from the wood, and after a little while saw four monks
riding along the road. Malagigi said to Rinaldo, “I will go meet the
monks, and see what news I can learn.”

Malagigi learned from the monks that on the approaching festival there
would be a great crowd of people at court, for the prince was going to
show the ladies the famous horse Bayard that used to belong to Rinaldo.
“What!” said the pilgrim; “is Bayard there?” “Yes,” answered the monks;
“the king has given him to Charlot, and, after the prince has ridden him
the king means to pass sentence on the brothers of Rinaldo, and have
them hanged.” Then Malagigi asked alms of the monks, but they would give
him none, till he threw aside his pilgrim garb, and let them see his
armor, when, partly for charity and partly for terror, they gave him a
golden cup, adorned with precious stones that sparkled in the sunshine.

Malagigi then hastened back to Rinaldo, and told him what he had
learned.

The morning of the feast-day Rinaldo and Malagigi came to the place
where the sports were to be held. Malagigi gave Rinaldo his spurs back
again, and said, “Cousin, put on your spurs, for you will need them.”
“How shall I need them,” said Rinaldo, “since I have lost my horse?” Yet
he did as Malagigi directed him.

When the two had taken their stand on the border of the field among the
crowd the princes and ladies of the court began to assemble. When they
were all assembled the king came also, and Charlot with him, near whom
the horse Bayard was led, in the charge of grooms, who were expressly
enjoined to guard him safely. The king, looking round on the circle of
spectators, saw Malagigi and Rinaldo, and observed the splendid cup that
they had, and said to Charlot, “See, my son, what a brilliant cup those
two pilgrims have got. It seems to be worth a hundred ducats.” “That is
true,” said Charlot; “Let us go and ask where they got it.” So they rode
to the place where the pilgrims stood, and Charlot stopped Bayard close
to them.

The horse snuffed at the pilgrims, knew Rinaldo, and caressed his
master. The king said to Malagigi, “Friend, where did you get that
beautiful cup?” Malagigi replied, “Honorable sir, I paid for it all the
money I have saved from eleven years’ begging in churches and convents.
The Pope himself has blessed it, and given it the power that whosoever
eats or drinks out of it shall be pardoned of all his sins.” Then said
the king to Charlot, “My son, these are right holy men; see how the dumb
beast worships them.”

Then the king said to Malagigi, “Give me a morsel from your cup, that I
may be cleared of my sins.” Malagigi answered, “Illustrious lord, I dare
not do it, unless you will forgive all who have at any time offended
you. You know that Christ forgave all those who had betrayed and
crucified him.” The king replied, “Friend, that is true; but Rinaldo has
so grievously offended me, that I cannot forgive him, nor that other
man, Malagigi, the magician. These two shall never live in my kingdom
again. If I catch them I will certainly have them hanged. But tell me,
pilgrim, who is that man who stands beside you?” “He is deaf, dumb, and
blind,” said Malagigi. Then the king said again, “Give me to drink of
your cup, to take away my sins.” Malagigi answered, “My lord king, here
is my poor brother, who for fifty days has not heard, spoken, nor seen.
This misfortune befell him in a house where we found shelter, and the
day before yesterday we met with a wise woman, who told him the only
hope of a cure for him was to come to some place where Bayard was to be
ridden, and to mount and ride him; that would do him more good than
anything else.” Then said the king, “Friend, you have come to the right
place, for Bayard is to be ridden here to-day. Give me a draught from
your cup, and your companion shall ride upon Bayard.” Malagigi, hearing
these words, said, “Be it so.” Then the king, with great devotion, took
a spoon, and dipped a portion from the pilgrim’s cup, believing that his
sins should be thereby forgiven.

When this was done, the king said to Charlot, “Son, I request that you
will let this sick pilgrim sit on your horse, and ride if he can, for by
so doing he will be healed of all his infirmities.” Charlot replied,
“That will I gladly do.” So saying, he dismounted, and the servants took
the pilgrim in their arms, and helped him on the horse.

When Rinaldo was mounted, he put his feet in the stirrups, and said, “I
would like to ride a little.” Malagigi, hearing him speak, seemed
delighted, and asked him whether he could see and hear also. “Yes,” said
Rinaldo, “I am healed of all my infirmities.” When the king heard it he
said to Bishop Turpin, “My lord bishop, we must celebrate this with a
procession, with crosses and banners, for it is a great miracle.”

When Rinaldo remarked that he was not carefully watched, he spoke to the
horse, and touched him with the spurs. Bayard knew that his master was
upon him, and he started off upon a rapid pace, and in a few moments was
a good way off. Malagigi pretended to be in great alarm. “O noble king
and master,” he cried, “my poor companion is run away with; he will fall
and break his neck.” The king ordered his knights to ride after the
pilgrim, and bring him back, or help him if need were. They did so, but
it was in vain. Rinaldo left them all behind him, and kept on his way
till he reached Montalban. Malagigi was suffered to depart, unsuspected,
and he went his way, making sad lamentation for the fate of his comrade,
who he pretended to think must surely be dashed to pieces.

Malagigi did not go far, but having changed his disguise, returned to
where the king was, and employed his best art in getting the brothers of
Rinaldo out of prison. He succeeded; and all three got safely to
Montalban, where Rinaldo’s joy at the rescue of his brothers and the
recovery of Bayard was more than tongue can tell.

                                  ————


                            DEATH OF RINALDO

The distress in Rinaldo’s castle for want of food grew more severe every
day, under the pressure of the siege. The garrison were forced to kill
their horses, both to save the provision they would consume, and to make
food of their flesh. At last all the horses were killed except Bayard,
and Rinaldo said to his brothers, “Bayard must die, for we have nothing
else to eat.” So they went to the stable and brought out Bayard to kill
him. But Alardo said, “Brother, let Bayard live a little longer; who
knows what God may do for us?”

Bayard heard these words, and understood them as if he was a man, and
fell on his knees, as if he would beg for mercy. When Rinaldo saw the
distress of his horse his heart failed him, and he let him live.

Just at this time Aya, Rinaldo’s mother, who was the sister of the
Emperor, came to the camp, attended by knights and ladies, to intercede
for her sons. She fell on her knees before the king, and besought him
that he would pardon Rinaldo and his brothers: and all the peers and
knights took her side, and entreated the king to grant her prayer. Then
said the king, “Dear sister, you act the part of a good mother, and I
respect your tender heart, and yield to your entreaties. I will spare
your sons their lives if they submit implicitly to my will.”

When Charlot heard this he approached the king and whispered in his ear.
And the king turned to his sister and said, “Charlot must have Bayard,
because I have given the horse to him. Now go, my sister, and tell
Rinaldo what I have said.”

When the Lady Aya heard these words she was delighted, thanked God in
her heart, and said, “Worthy king and brother, I will do as you bid me.”
So she went into the castle, where her sons received her most joyfully
and affectionately, and she told them the king’s offer. Then Alardo
said, “Brother, I would rather have the king’s enmity than give Bayard
to Charlot, for I believe he will kill him.” Likewise said all the
brothers. When Rinaldo heard them he said, “Dear brothers, if we may win
our forgiveness by giving up the horse, so be it. Let us make our peace,
for we cannot stand against the king’s power.” Then he went to his
mother, and told her they would give the horse to Charlot, and more,
too, if the king would pardon them, and forgive all that they had done
against his crown and dignity. The lady returned to Charles and told him
the answer of her sons.

When the peace was thus made between the king and the sons of Aymon, the
brothers came forth from the castle, bringing Bayard with them, and,
falling at the king’s feet, begged his forgiveness. The king bade them
rise, and received them into favor in the sight of all his noble knights
and counsellors, to the great joy of all especially of the Lady Aya,
their mother. Then Rinaldo took the horse Bayard, gave him to Charlot,
and said, “My lord and prince, this horse I give to you; do with him as
to you seems good.” Charlot took him, as had been agreed on. Then he
made the servants take him to the bridge, and throw him into the water.
Bayard sank to the bottom, but soon came to the surface again and swam,
saw Rinaldo looking at him, came to land, ran to his old master, and
stood by him as proudly as if he had understanding, and would say, “Why
did you treat me so?” When the prince saw that he said, “Rinaldo, give
me the horse again, for he must die.” Rinaldo replied, “My lord and
prince, he is yours without dispute,” and gave him to him. The prince
then had a millstone tied to each foot, and two to his neck, and made
them throw him again into the water. Bayard struggled in the water,
looked up to his master, threw off the stones, and came back to Rinaldo.

When Alardo saw that, he said, “Now must thou be disgraced forever,
brother, if thou give up the horse again.” But Rinaldo answered,
“Brother, be still. Shall I for the horse’s life provoke the anger of
the king again?” Then Alardo said, “Ah, Bayard! what a return do we make
for all thy true love and service!” Rinaldo gave the horse to the prince
again, and said, “My lord, if the horse comes out again I cannot return
him to you any more, for it wrings my heart too much.” Then Charlot had
Bayard loaded with the stones as before, and thrown into the water; and
commanded Rinaldo that he should not stand where the horse would see
him. When Bayard rose to the surface he stretched his neck out of the
water and looked round for his master, but saw him not. Then he sunk to
the bottom.

Rinaldo was so distressed for the loss of Bayard that he made a vow to
ride no horse again all his life long, nor to bind a sword to his side,
but to become a hermit. He resolved to betake himself to some wild wood,
but first to return to his castle, to see his children, and to appoint
to each his share of his estate.

So he took leave of the king and of his brothers, and returned to
Montalban, and his brothers remained with the king. Rinaldo called his
children to him, and he made his eldest born, Aymeric, a knight, and
made him lord of his castle and of his land. He gave to the rest what
other goods he had, and kissed and embraced them all, commended them to
God, and then departed from them with a heavy heart.

He had not travelled far when he entered a wood, and there met with a
hermit, who had long been retired from the world. Rinaldo greeted him,
and the hermit replied courteously, and asked him who he was and what
was his purpose. Rinaldo replied, “Sir, I have led a sinful life; many
deeds of violence have I done, and many men have I slain, not always in
a good cause, but often under the impulse of my own headstrong passions.
I have also been the cause of the death of many of my friends, who took
my part, not because they thought me in the right, but only for love of
me. And now I come to make confession of all my sins, and to do penance
for the rest of my life, if perhaps the mercy of God will forgive me.”
The hermit said, “Friend, I perceive you have fallen into great sins,
and have broken the commandments of God, but his mercy is greater than
your sins; and if you repent from your heart, and lead a new life, there
is yet hope for you that he will forgive you what is past.” So Rinaldo
was comforted, and said, “Master, I will stay with you, and what you bid
me I will do.” The hermit replied, “Roots and vegetables will be your
food; shirt or shoes you may not wear; your lot must be poverty and want
if you stay with me.” Rinaldo replied, “I will cheerfully bear all this,
and more.” So he remained three whole years with the hermit, and after
that his strength failed, and it seemed as if he was like to die.

One night the hermit had a dream, and heard a voice from heaven, which
commanded him to say to his companion that he must without delay go to
the Holy Land, and fight against the heathen. The hermit, when he heard
that voice, was glad, and calling Rinaldo, he said, “Friend, God’s angel
has commanded me to say to you that you must without delay go to
Jerusalem, and help our fellow-Christians in their struggle with the
Infidels.” Then said Rinaldo, “Ah! master, how can I do that? It is over
three years since I made a vow no more to ride a horse, nor take a sword
or spear in my hand.” The hermit answered, “Dear friend, obey God, and
do what the angel commanded.” “I will do so,” said Rinaldo, “and pray
for me, my master, that God may guide me right.” Then he departed, and
went to the seaside, and took ship and came to Tripoli in Syria.

And as he went on his way his strength returned to him, till it was
equal to what it was in his best days. And though he never mounted a
horse, nor took a sword in his hand, yet with his pilgrim’s staff he did
good service in the armies of the Christians; and it pleased God that he
escaped unhurt, though he was present in many battles, and his courage
inspired the men with the same. At last a truce was made with the
Saracens, and Rinaldo, now old and infirm, wishing to see his native
land again before he died, took ship and sailed for France. When he
arrived he shunned to go to the resorts of the great, and preferred to
live among the humble folk, where he was unknown. He did country work,
and lived on milk and bread, drank water, and was therewith content.
While he so lived he heard that the city of Cologne was the holiest and
best of cities, on account of the relics and bodies of saints who had
there poured out their blood for the faith. This induced him to betake
himself thither. When the pious hero arrived at Cologne he went to the
monastery of St. Peter, and lived a holy life, occupied night and day in
devotion. It so happened that at that time in the next town to Cologne
there raged a dreadful pestilence. Many people came to Rinaldo, to beg
him to pray for them, that the plague might be stayed. The holy man
prayed fervently, and besought the Lord to take away the plague from the
people, and his prayer was heard. The stroke of the pestilence was
arrested, and all the people thanked the holy man and praised God.

Now there was at this time at Cologne a bishop, called Agilolphus, who
was a wise and understanding man, who led a pure and secluded life, and
set a good example to others. This bishop undertook to build the Church
of St. Peter, and gave notice to all stonemasons and other workmen round
about to come to Cologne, where they should find work and wages. Among
others came Rinaldo; and he worked among the laborers and did more than
four or five common workmen. When they went to dinner he brought stone
and mortar so that they had enough for the whole day. When the others
went to bed he stretched himself out on the stones. He ate bread only,
and drank nothing but water; and had for his wages but a penny a day.
The head workman asked him his name, and where he belonged. He would not
tell, but said nothing and pursued his work. They called him St. Peter’s
workman, because he was so devoted to his work.

When the overseer saw the diligence of this holy man he chid the
laziness of the other workmen, and said, “You receive more pay than this
good man, but do not do half as much work.” For this reason the other
workmen hated Rinaldo, and made a secret agreement to kill him. They
knew that he made it a practice to go every night to a certain church to
pray and give alms. So they agreed to lay wait for him, with the purpose
to kill him. When he came to the spot, they seized him, and beat him
over the head till he was dead. Then they put his body into a sack, and
stones with it, and cast it into the Rhine, in the hope the sack would
sink to the bottom, and be there concealed. But God willed not that it
should be so, but caused the sack to float on the surface, and be thrown
upon the bank. And the soul of the holy martyr was carried by angels,
with songs of praise, up to the heavens.

Now at that time the people of Dortmund had become converted to the
Christian faith; and they sent to the Bishop of Cologne, and desired him
to give them some of the holy relics that are in such abundance in that
city. So the Bishop called together his clergy to deliberate what answer
they should give to this request. And it was determined to give to the
people of Dortmund the body of the holy man who had just suffered
martyrdom.

When now the body with the coffin was put on the cart, the cart began to
move toward Dortmund without horses or help of men, and stopped not till
it reached the place where the church of St. Rinaldo now stands. The
Bishop and his clergy followed the holy man to do him honor, with
singing of hymns, for a space of three miles. And St. Rinaldo has ever
since been the patron of that place, and many wonderful works has God
done through him, as may be seen in the legends.

                                  ————


                            HUON OF BORDEAUX

When Charlemagne grew old he felt the burden of government become
heavier year by year, till at last he called together his high barons
and peers to propose to abdicate the empire and the throne of France in
favor of his sons, Charlot and Lewis.

The Emperor was unreasonably partial to his eldest son; he would have
been glad to have had the barons and peers demand Charlot for their only
sovereign; but that prince was so infamous, for his falsehood and
cruelty, that the council strenuously opposed the Emperor’s proposal of
abdicating, and implored him to continue to hold a sceptre which he
wielded with so much glory.

Amaury of Hauteville, cousin of Ganelon, and now head of the wicked
branch of the house of Maganza, was the secret partisan of Charlot, whom
he resembled in his loose morals and bad dispositions. Amaury nourished
the most bitter resentment against the house of Guienne, of which the
former Duke, Sevinus, had often rebuked his misdeeds. He took advantage
of this occasion to do an injury to the two young children whom the Duke
Sevinus had left under the charge of the Duchess Alice, their mother;
and at the same time, to advance his interest with Charlot by increasing
his wealth and power. With this view he suggested to the prince a new
idea.

He pretended to agree with the opinion of the barons; he said that it
would be best to try Charlot’s capacity for government by giving him
some rich provinces before placing him upon the throne; and that the
Emperor, without depriving himself of any part of his realm, might give
Charlot the investiture of Guienne. For although seven years had passed
since the death of Sevinus, the young Duke, his son, had not yet
repaired to the court of Charlemagne to render the homage due to his
lawful sovereign.

We have often had occasion to admire the justice and wisdom of the
advice which on all occasions the Duke Namo of Bavaria gave to
Charlemagne, and he now discountenanced, with indignation, the selfish
advice of Amaury. He represented to the Emperor the early age of the
children of Sevinus, and the useful and glorious services of their late
father, and proposed to Charlemagne to send two knights to the Duchess
at Bordeaux, to summon her two sons to the court of the Emperor, to pay
their respects and render homage.

Charlemagne approved this advice, and sent two chevaliers to demand the
two young princes of their mother. No sooner had the Duchess learned the
approach of the two knights, than she sent distinguished persons to
receive them; and as soon as they entered the palace she presented
herself before them, with her elder and younger sons, Huon and Girard.

The deputies, delighted with the honors and caresses they received,
accompanied with rich presents, left Bordeaux with regret and on their
return represented to Charlemagne that the young Duke Huon seemed born
to tread in the footsteps of his brave father, informing him that in
three months the young princes of Guienne would present themselves at
his court.

The Duchess employed the short interval in giving her sons her last
instructions. Huon received them in his heart, and Girard gave as much
heed to them as could be expected from one so young.

The preparations for their departure having been made, the Duchess
embraced them tenderly, commending them to the care of Heaven, and
charged them to call, on their way, at the celebrated monastery of
Cluny, to visit the Abbot, the brother of their father. This Abbot,
worthy of his high dignity, had never lost an opportunity of doing good,
setting an example of every excellence, and making virtue attractive by
his example.

He received his nephews with the greatest magnificence; and, aware how
useful his presence might be to them with Charlemagne, whose valued
counsellor he was, he took with them the road to Paris.

When Amaury learned what reception the two deputies of Charlemagne had
received at Bordeaux, and the arrangements made for the visit of the
young princes to the Emperor’s court, he suggested to Charlot to give
him a troop of his guards, with which he proposed to lay wait for the
young men in the wood of Montlery, put them to death, and thereby give
the prince Charlot possession of the duchy of Guienne.

A plan of treachery and violence agreed but too well with Charlot’s
disposition. He not only adopted the suggestion of Amaury, but insisted
upon taking a part in it. They went out secretly, by night, followed by
a great number of attendants, all armed in black, to lie in ambuscade in
the wood where the brothers were to pass.

Girard, the younger of the two, having amused himself as he rode by
flying his hawk at such game as presented itself, had ridden in advance
of his brother and the Abbot of Cluny. Charlot, who saw him coming,
alone and unarmed, went forth to meet him, sought a quarrel with him,
and threw him from his horse with a stroke of his lance. Girard uttered
a cry as he fell; Huon heard it, and flew to his defence, with no other
weapon than his sword. He came up with him, and saw the blood flowing
from his wound. “What has this child done to you, wretch!” he exclaimed
to Charlot. “How cowardly to attack him when unprepared to defend
himself!” “By my faith,” said Charlot, “I mean to do the same by you.
Know that I am the son of Duke Thierry of Ardennes, from whom your
father, Sevinus, took three castles; I have sworn to avenge him, and I
defy you.” “Coward,” answered Huon, “I know well the baseness that
dwells in your race; worthy son of Thierry, use the advantage that your
armor gives you; but know that I fear you not.” At these words Charlot
had the wickedness to put his lance in rest, and to run upon Huon, who
had barely time to wrap his arm in his mantle. With this feeble buckler
he received the thrust of the lance. It penetrated the mantle, but
missed his body. Then, rising upon his stirrups, Sir Huon struck Charlot
so terrible a blow with his sword that the helmet was cleft asunder, and
his head too. The dastardly prince fell dead upon the ground.

Huon now perceived that the wood was full of armed men. He called the
men of his suite, and they hastily put themselves in order, but nobody
issued from the wood to attack him. Amaury, who saw Charlot’s fall, had
no desire to compromit himself; and, feeling sure that Charlemagne would
avenge the death of his son, he saw no occasion for his doing anything
more at present. He left Huon and the Abbot of Cluny to bind up the
wound of Girard, and, having seen them depart and resume their way to
Paris, he took up the body of Charlot, and, placing it across a horse,
had it carried to Paris, where he arrived four hours after Huon.

The Abbot of Cluny presented his nephew to Charlemagne, but Huon
refrained from paying his obeisance, complaining grievously of the
ambush which had been set for him, which he said could not have been
without the Emperor’s permission. Charlemagne, surprised at a charge
which his magnanimous soul was incapable of meriting, asked eagerly of
the Abbot what were the grounds of the complaints of his nephew. The
Abbot told him faithfully all that had happened, informing him that a
coward knight, who called himself the son of Thierry of Ardennes, had
wounded Girard, and run upon Huon, who was unarmed; but by his force and
valor he had overcome the traitor, and left him dead upon the plain.

Charlemagne indignantly disavowed any connection with the action of the
infamous Thierry, congratulated the young Duke upon his victory, himself
conducted the two brothers to a rich apartment, stayed to see the first
dressing applied to the wound of Girard, and left the brothers in charge
of Duke Namo of Bavaria, who, having been a companion in arms of the
Duke Sevinus, regarded the young men almost as if they were his own
sons.

Charlemagne had hardly quitted them when, returning to his chamber, he
heard cries, and saw through the window a party of armed men just
arrived. He recognized Amaury, who bore a dead knight stretched across a
horse; and the name of Charlot was heard among the exclamations of the
people assembled in the courtyard.

Charles’s partiality for this unworthy son was one of his weaknesses. He
descended in trepidation to the courtyard, ran to Amaury, and uttered a
cry of grief on recognizing Charlot. “It is Huon of Bordeaux,” said the
traitor Amaury, “who has massacred your son before it was in my power to
defend him.” Charlemagne, furious at these words, seized a sword, and
flew to the apartment of the two brothers to plunge it into the heart of
the murderer of his son. Duke Namo stopped his hand for an instant,
while Charles told him the crime of which Huon was accused. “He is a
peer of the realm,” said Namo, “and if he is guilty, is he not here in
your power, and are not we peers the proper judges to condemn him to
death? Let not your hand be stained with his blood.” The Emperor, calmed
by the wisdom of Duke Namo, summoned Amaury to his presence. The peers
assembled to hear his testimony, and the traitor accused Huon of
Bordeaux of having struck the fatal blow without allowing Charlot an
opportunity to defend himself, and though he knew that his opponent was
the Emperor’s eldest son.

The Abbot of Cluny, indignant at the false accusation of Amaury,
advanced, and said, “By Saint Benedict, sire, the traitor lies in his
throat. If my nephew has slain Charlot it was in his own defence, and
after having seen his brother wounded by him, and also in ignorance that
his adversary was the prince. Though I am a son of the Church,” added
the good Abbot, “I forget not that I am a knight by birth. I offer to
prove with my body the lie upon Amaury, if he dares sustain it, and I
shall feel that I am doing a better work to punish a disloyal traitor,
than to sing lauds and matins.”

Huon to this time had kept silent, amazed at the black calumny of
Amaury; but now he stepped forth, and, addressing Amaury, said:
“Traitor! darest thou maintain in arms the lie thou hast uttered?”
Amaury, a knight of great prowess, despising the youth and slight figure
of Huon, hesitated not to offer his glove, which Huon seized; then,
turning again to the peers, he said: “I pray you let the combat be
allowed me, for never was there a more legitimate cause.” The Duke Namo
and the rest, deciding that the question should be remitted to the
judgment of Heaven, the combat was ordained, to which Charlemagne
unwillingly consented. The young Duke was restored to the charge of Duke
Namo, who the next morning invested him with the honors of knighthood,
and gave him armor of proof, with a white shield. The Abbot of Cluny,
delighted to find in his nephew sentiments worthy of his birth, embraced
him, gave him his blessing, and hastened to the church of St. Germains
to pray for him, while the officers of the king prepared the lists for
the combat.

The battle was long and obstinate. The address and agility of Huon
enabled him to avoid the terrible blows which the ferocious Amaury aimed
at him. But Huon had more than once drawn blood from his antagonist. The
effect began to be perceived in the failing strength of the traitor; at
last he threw himself from his horse, and kneeling, begged for mercy.
“Spare me,” he said, “and I will confess all. Aid me to rise, and lead
me to Charlemagne.” The brave and loyal Huon, at these words, put his
sword under his left arm, and stretched out his right to raise the
prostrate man, who seized the opportunity to give him a thrust in the
side. The hauberk of Huon resisted the blow, and he was wounded but
slightly. Transported with rage at this act of baseness, he forgot how
necessary for his complete acquittal the confession of Amaury was, and
without delay dealt him the fatal blow.

Duke Namo and the other peers approached, had the body of Amaury dragged
forth from the lists, and conducted Huon to Charlemagne. The Emperor,
however, listening to nothing but his resentment and grief for the death
of his son, refused to be satisfied; and under the plea that Huon had
not succeeded in making his accuser retract his charge seemed resolved
to confiscate his estates and to banish him forever from France. It was
not till after long entreaties on the part of Duke Namo and the rest
that he consented to grant Huon his pardon, under conditions which he
should impose.

Huon approached, and knelt before the Emperor, rendered his homage, and
cried him mercy for the involuntary killing of his son. Charlemagne
would not receive the hands of Huon in his own, but touched him with his
sceptre, saying, “I receive thy homage, and pardon thee the death of my
son, but only on one condition. You shall go immediately to the court of
the Sultan Gaudisso; you shall present yourself before him as he sits at
meat; you shall cut off the head of the most illustrious guest whom you
shall find sitting nearest to him; you shall kiss three times on the
mouth the fair princess, his daughter, and you shall demand of the
Sultan, as token of tribute to me, a handful of the white hair of his
beard, and four grinders from his mouth.”

These conditions caused a murmur from all the assembly. “What!” said the
Abbot of Cluny; “slaughter a Saracen prince without first offering him
baptism?” “The second condition is not so hard,” said the young peers,
“but the demand that Huon is bound to make of the old Sultan is very
uncivil, and will be hard to obtain.”

The Emperor’s obstinacy when he had once resolved upon a thing is well
known. To the courage of Huon nothing seemed impossible. “I accept the
conditions,” said he, silencing the intercessions of the old Duke of
Bavaria; “my liege, I accept my pardon at this price. I go to execute
your commands, as your vassal and a peer of France.”

The Duke Namo and Abbot of Cluny, being unable to obtain any relaxation
of the sentence passed by Charlemagne, led forth the young Duke, who
determined to set out at once on his expedition. All that the good Abbot
could obtain of him was, that he should prepare for this perilous
undertaking by going first to Rome, to pay his homage to the Pope, who
was the brother of the Duchess Alice, Huon’s mother, and from him demand
absolution and his blessing. Huon promised it, and forthwith set out on
his way to Rome.

                                  ————


                     HUON OF BORDEAUX (_Continued_)

Huon, having traversed the Apennines and Italy, arrived at the environs
of Rome, where, laying aside his armor, he assumed the dress of a
pilgrim. In this attire he presented himself before the Pope, and not
till after he had made a full confession of his sins did he announce
himself as his nephew. “Ah! my dear nephew,” exclaimed the Holy Father,
“what harder penance could I impose than the Emperor has already done?
Go in peace, my son,” he added, absolving him, “I go to intercede for
you with the Most High.” Then he led his nephew into his palace, and
introduced him to all the Cardinals and Princes of Rome as the Duke of
Guienne, son of the Duchess Alice, his sister.

Huon, at setting out, had made a vow not to stop more than three days in
a place. The Holy Father took advantage of this time to inspire him with
zeal for the glory of Christianity, and with confidence in the
protection of the Most High. He advised him to embark for Palestine, to
visit the Holy Sepulchre, and to depart thence for the interior of Asia.

Loaded with the blessings of the Holy Father, Huon, obeying his
counsels, embarked for Palestine, arrived, and visited with the greatest
reverence the holy places. He then departed, and took his way toward the
east.

But, ignorant of the country and of the language, he lost himself in a
forest, and remained three days without seeing a human creature, living
on honey and wild fruits which he found on the trees. The third day,
seeking a passage through a rocky defile, he beheld a man in tattered
clothing, whose beard and hair covered his breast and shoulders. This
man stopped on seeing him, observed him, and recognized the arms and
bearing of a French knight. He immediately approached, and exclaimed, in
the language of the South of France, “God be praised! Do I indeed behold
a chevalier of my own country, after fifteen years passed in this desert
without seeing the face of a fellow-countryman?”

Huon, to gratify him still more, unlaced his helmet, and came towards
him with a smiling countenance. The other regarded him with more
surprise than at first. “Good Heaven!” he exclaimed, “was there ever
such a resemblance? Ah, noble sir,” he added, “tell me, I beseech you,
of what country and race you come?” “I require,” replied Huon, “before
telling you mine, that you first reveal your own; let it suffice you at
present to know that I am a Christian, and that in Guienne I was born.”
“Ah! Heaven grant that my eyes and my heart do not deceive me,”
exclaimed the unknown; “my name is Sherasmin; I am brother to Guire, the
Mayor of Bordeaux. I was taken prisoner in the battle where my dear and
illustrious master, Sevinus, lost his life. For three years I endured
the miseries of slavery; at length I broke my chains and escaped to this
desert, where I have sustained myself in solitude ever since. Your
features recall to me my beloved sovereign, in whose service I was from
my infancy till his death.” Huon made no reply but by embracing the old
man, with tears in his eyes. Then Sherasmin learned that his arms
enfolded the son of the Duke Sevinus. He led him to his cabin, and
spread before him the dry fruits and honey which formed his only
aliment.

Huon recounted his adventures to Sherasmin, who was moved to tears at
the recital. He then consulted him on means of conducting his
enterprise. Sherasmin hesitated not to confess that success seemed
impossible; nevertheless he swore a solemn oath never to abandon him.
The Saracen language, which he was master of, would be serviceable to
them when they should leave the desert, and mingle with men.

They took the route of the Red Sea, and entered Arabia. Their way lay
through a region which Sherasmin described as full of terrors. It was
inhabited by Oberon, King of the Fairies, who made captive such knights
as were rash enough to penetrate into it, and transformed them into
Hobgoblins. It was possible to avoid this district at the expense of
somewhat lengthening their route; but no dangers could deter Huon of
Bordeaux; and the brave Sherasmin, who had now resumed the armor of a
knight, reluctantly consented to share with him the dangers of the
shorter route.

They entered a wood, and arrived at a spot whence alleys branched off in
various directions. One of them seemed to be terminated by a superb
palace, whose gilded roofs were adorned with brilliant weathercocks
covered with diamonds. A superb chariot issued from the gate of the
palace, and drove toward Huon and his companion, as if to meet them
half-way. The prince saw no one in the chariot but a child apparently
about five years old, very beautiful, and clad in a robe which glittered
with precious stones. At the sight of him, Sherasmin’s terror was
extreme. He seized the reins of Huon’s horse, and turned him about,
hurrying the prince away, and assuring him that they were lost if they
stopped to parley with the mischievous dwarf, who, though he appeared a
child, was full of years and of treachery. Huon was sorry to lose sight
of the beautiful dwarf, whose aspect had nothing in it to alarm; yet he
followed his friend, who urged on his horse with all possible speed.
Presently a storm began to roar through the forest, the daylight grew
dim, and they found their way with difficulty. From time to time they
seemed to hear an infantine voice, which said, “Stop, Duke Huon; listen
to me: it is in vain you fly me!”

Sherasmin only fled the faster, and stopped not until he had reached the
gate of a monastery of monks and nuns, the two communities of which were
assembled at that time in a religious procession. Sherasmin, feeling
safe from the malice of the dwarf in the presence of so many holy
persons and the sacred banners, stopped to ask an asylum, and made Huon
dismount also. But at that moment they were joined by the dwarf, who
blew a blast upon an ivory horn which hung from his neck. Immediately
the good Sherasmin, in spite of himself, began to dance like a young
collegian, and seizing the hand of an aged nun, who felt as if it would
be her death, they footed it briskly over the grass, and were imitated
by all the other monks and nuns, mingled together, forming the strangest
dancing-party ever beheld. Huon alone felt no disposition to dance; but
he came near dying of laughter at seeing the ridiculous postures and
leaps of the others.

The dwarf, approaching Huon, said, in a sweet voice, and in Huon’s own
language, “Duke of Guienne, why do you shun me? I conjure you, in
Heaven’s name, speak to me.” Huon, hearing himself addressed in this
serious manner, and knowing that no evil spirit would dare to use the
holy name in aid of his schemes, replied, “Sir, whoever you are, I am
ready to hear and answer you.” “Huon, my friend,” continued the dwarf,
“I always loved your race, and you have been dear to me ever since your
birth. The gracious state of conscience in which you were when you
entered my wood has protected you from all enchantments, even if I had
intended to practise any upon you. If these monks, these nuns, and even
your friend Sherasmin, had had a conscience as pure as yours, my horn
would not have set them dancing; but where is the monk or the nun who
can always be deaf to the voice of the tempter, and Sherasmin in the
desert has often doubted the power of Providence.”

At these words Huon saw the dancers overcome with exertion. He begged
mercy for them, the dwarf granted it, and the effect of the horn ceased
at once; the nuns got rid of their partners, smoothed their dresses, and
hastened to resume their places in the procession. Sherasmin, overcome
with heat, panting, and unable to stand on his legs, threw himself upon
the grass, and began, “Did not I tell you”—He was going on in an angry
tone, but the dwarf, approaching, said, “Sherasmin, why have you
murmured against Providence? Why have you thought evil of me? You
deserved this light punishment; but I know you to be good and loyal; I
mean to show myself your friend, as you shall soon see.” At these words
he presented him a rich goblet. “Make the sign of the cross on this
cup,” said he, “and then believe that I hold my power from the God you
adore, whose faithful servant I am, as well as you.” Sherasmin obeyed,
and on the instant the cup was filled with delicious wine, a draught of
which restored vigor to his limbs, and made him feel young again.
Overcome with gratitude, he threw himself on his knees, but the dwarf
raised him, and bade him sit beside him, and thus commenced his history:

“Julius Cæsar, going by sea to join his army, was driven by a storm to
take shelter in the island of Celea, where dwelt the fairy Glorianda.
From this renowned pair I draw my birth. I am the inheritor of that
which was most admirable in each of my parents: my father’s heroic
qualities, and my mother’s beauty and magic art. But a malicious sister
of my mother’s, in revenge for some slight offence, touched me with her
wand when I was only five years old, and forbade me to grow any bigger;
and my mother, with all her power, was unable to annul the sentence. I
have thus continued infantile in appearance, though full of years and
experience. The power which I derive from my mother I use sometimes for
my own diversion, but always to promote justice and to reward virtue. I
am able and willing to assist you, Duke of Guienne, for I know the
errand on which you come hither. I presage for you, if you follow my
counsels, complete success; and the beautiful Clarimunda for a wife.”

When he had thus spoken he presented to Huon the precious and useful
cup, which had the faculty of filling itself when a good man took it in
his hand. He gave him also his beautiful horn of ivory, saying to him,
“Huon, when you sound this gently, you will make the hearers dance, as
you have seen; but if you sound it forcibly, fear not that I shall hear
it, though at a hundred leagues’ distance, and will fly to your relief;
but be careful not to sound it in that way, unless upon the most urgent
occasion.”

Oberon directed Huon what course he should take to reach the country of
the Sultan Gaudisso. “You will encounter great perils,” said he, “before
arriving there, and I fear me,” he added, with tears in his eyes, “that
you will not in everything obey my directions, and in that case you will
suffer much calamity.” Then he embraced Huon and Sherasmin, and left
them.

Huon and his follower travelled many days through the desert before they
reached any inhabited place, and all this while the wonderful cup
sustained them, furnishing them not only wine, but food also. At last
they came to a great city. As day was declining, they entered its
suburbs, and Sherasmin, who spoke the Saracen language perfectly,
inquired for an inn where they could pass the night. A person who
appeared to be one of the principal inhabitants, seeing two strangers of
respectable appearance making this inquiry, stepped forward and begged
them to accept the shelter of his mansion. They entered, and their host
did the honors of his abode with a politeness which they were astonished
to see in a Saracen. He had them served with coffee and sherbet, and all
was conducted with great decorum, till one of the servants awkwardly
overturned a cup of hot coffee on the host’s legs, when he started up,
exclaiming in very good Gascon, “Blood and thunder! you blockhead, you
deserve to be thrown over the mosque!”

Huon could not help laughing to see the vivacity and the language of his
country thus break out unawares. The host, who had no idea that his
guests understood his words, was astonished when Huon addressed him in
the dialect of his country. Immediately confidence was established
between them; especially when the domestics had retired. The host,
seeing that he was discovered, and that the two pretended Saracens were
from the borders of the Garonne, embraced them, and disclosed that he
was a Christian. Huon, who had learned prudence from the advice of
Oberon, to test his host’s sincerity, drew from his robe the cup which
the Fairy-king had given him, and presented it empty to the host. “A
fair cup,” said he, “but I should like it better if it was full.”
Immediately it was so. The host, astonished, dared not put it to his
lips. “Drink boldly, my dear fellow-countryman,” said Huon; “your truth
is proved by this cup, which only fills itself in the hands of an honest
man.” The host did not hesitate longer; the cup passed freely from hand
to hand; their mutual cordiality increased as it passed, and each
recounted his adventures. Those of Huon redoubled his host’s respect;
for he recognized in him his legitimate sovereign: while the host’s
narrative was in these words:

“My name is Floriac; this great and strong city, you will hear with
surprise and grief, is governed by a brother of Duke Sevinus, and your
uncle. You have no doubt heard that a young brother of the Duke of
Guienne was stolen away from the sea-shore, with his companions, by some
corsairs. I was then his page, and we were carried by those corsairs to
Barbary, where we were sold for slaves. The Barbary prince sent us as
part of the tribute which he yearly paid to his sovereign, the Sultan
Gaudisso. Your uncle, who had been somewhat puffed up by the flattery of
his attendants, thought to increase his importance with his new master
by telling him his rank. The Sultan, who, like a true Mussulman,
detested all Christian princes, exerted himself from that moment to
bring him over to the Saracen faith. He succeeded but too well. Your
uncle, seduced by the arts of the Santons, and by the pleasures and
indulgences which the Sultan allowed him, committed the horrid crime of
apostasy; he renounced his baptism, and embraced Mahometanism. Gaudisso
then loaded him with honors, made him espouse one of his nieces, and
sent him to reign over this city and adjoining country. Your uncle
preserved for me the same friendship which he had had when a boy; but
all his caresses and efforts could not make me renounce my faith.
Perhaps he respected me in his heart for my resistance to his
persuasions, perhaps he had hopes of inducing me in time to imitate him.
He made me accompany him to this city, of which he was master, he gave
me his confidence, and permits me to keep in my service some Christians,
whom I protect for the sake of their faith.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Huon, “take me to this guilty uncle. A prince of the
house of Guienne, must he not blush at the cowardly abandonment of the
faith of his fathers?”

“Alas!” replied Floriac, “I fear he will neither be sensible of shame at
your reproaches, nor of pleasure at the sight of a nephew so worthy of
his lineage. Brutified by sensuality, jealous of his power, which he
often exercises with cruelty, he will more probably restrain you by
force or put you to death.”

“Be it so,” said the brave and fervent Huon, “I could not die in a
better cause; and I demand of you to conduct me to him to-morrow, after
having told him of my arrival and my birth.” Floriac still objected, but
Huon would take no denial, and he promised obedience.

Next morning Floriac waited upon the Governor and told him of the
arrival of his nephew, Huon of Bordeaux; and of the intention of the
prince to present himself at his court that very day. The Governor,
surprised, did not immediately answer; though he at once made up his
mind what to do. He knew that Floriac loved Christians and the princes
of his native land too well to aid in any treason to one of them; he
therefore feigned great pleasure at hearing of the arrival of the eldest
born of his family at his court. He immediately sent Floriac to find
him; he caused his palace to be put in festal array, his divan to be
assembled, and after giving some secret orders, went himself to meet his
nephew, whom he introduced under his proper name and title to all the
great officers of his court.

Huon burned with indignation at seeing his uncle with forehead encircled
with a rich turban, surmounted with a crescent of precious stones. His
natural candor made him receive with pain the embraces which the
treacherous Governor lavished upon him. Meanwhile the hope of finding a
suitable moment to reproach him for his apostasy made him submit to
those honors which his uncle caused to be rendered to him. The Governor
evaded with address the chance of being alone with Huon and spent all
the morning in taking him through his gardens and palace. At last, when
the hour of dinner approached, and the Governor took him by the hand to
lead him into the dining-hall, Huon seized the opportunity and said to
him in a low voice, “O my uncle! O Prince, brother of the Duke Sevinus!
in what condition have I the grief and shame of seeing you!” The
Governor pretended to be moved, pressed his hand, and whispered in his
ear, “Silence! my dear nephew; to-morrow morning I will hear you fully.”

Huon, comforted a little by these words, took his seat at the table by
the side of the Governor. The Mufti, some Cadis, Agas, and Santons,
filled the other places. Sherasmin sat down with them; but Floriac, who
would not lose sight of his guests, remained standing, and passed in and
out to observe what was going on within the palace. He soon perceived a
number of armed men gliding through the passages and antechambers
connected with the dining-hall. He was about to enter to give his guests
notice of what he had seen when he heard a violent noise and commotion
in the hall. The cause was this.

Huon and Sherasmin were well enough suited with the first course and ate
with good appetite; but the people of their country not being accustomed
to drink only water at their meals, Huon and Sherasmin looked at one
another, not very well pleased at such a regimen. Huon laughed outright
at the impatience of Sherasmin, but soon, experiencing the same want
himself, he drew forth Oberon’s cup and made the sign of the cross. The
cup filled and he drank it off, and handed it to Sherasmin, who followed
his example. The Governor and his officers, seeing this abhorred sign,
contracted their brows and sat in silent consternation. Huon pretended
not to observe it, and having filled the cup again handed it to his
uncle, saying, “Pray, join us, dear uncle; it is excellent Bordeaux
wine, the drink that will be to you like mother’s milk.” The Governor,
who often drank in secret with his own favorite Sultanas the wines of
Greece and Shiraz, never in public drank anything but water. He had not
for a long time tasted the excellent wines of his native land; he was
sorely tempted to drink what was now handed to him, it looked so bright
in the cup, outshining the gold itself. He stretched forth his hand,
took the brimming goblet, and raised it to his lips, when immediately it
dried up and disappeared. Huon and Sherasmin, like Gascons as they were,
laughed at his astonishment. “Christian dogs!” he exclaimed, “do you
dare to insult me at my own table? But I will soon be revenged.” At
these words he threw the cup at the head of his nephew, who caught it
with his left hand, while with the other he snatched the turban, with
its crescent, from the Governor’s head and threw it on the floor. All
the Saracens started up from table, with loud outcries, and prepared to
avenge the insult. Huon and Sherasmin put themselves on their defence,
and met with their swords the scimitars directed against them. At this
moment the doors of the hall opened and a crowd of soldiers and armed
eunuchs rushed in, who joined in the attack upon Huon and Sherasmin. The
Prince and his followers took refuge on a broad shelf or sideboard,
where they kept at bay the crowd of assailants, making the most forward
of them smart for their audacity. But more troops came pressing in and
the brave Huon, inspired by the wine of Bordeaux, and not angry enough
to lose his relish for a joke, blew a gentle note on his horn, and no
sooner was it heard than it quelled the rage of the combatants and set
them to dancing. Huon and Sherasmin, no longer attacked, looked down
from their elevated position on a scene the most singular and amusing.
Very soon the Sultanas, hearing the sound of the dance and finding their
guards withdrawn, came into the hall and mixed with the dancers. The
favorite Sultana seized upon a young Santon, who performed jumps two
feet high; but soon the long dresses of this couple got intermingled and
threw them down. The Santon’s beard was caught in the Sultana’s
necklace, and they could not disentangle them. The Governor by no means
approved this familiarity, and took two steps forward to get at the
Santon, but he stumbled over a prostrate Dervise and measured his length
on the floor. The dancing continued till the strength of the performers
was exhausted, and they fell, one after the other, and lay helpless. The
Governor at length made signs to Huon that he would yield everything if
he would but allow him to rest. The bargain was ratified; the Governor
allowed Huon and Sherasmin to depart on their way, and even gave them a
ring which would procure them safe passage through his country and
access to the Sultan Gaudisso. The two friends hastened to avail
themselves of this favorable turn, and taking leave of Floriac, pursued
their journey.

                                  ————


                     HUON OF BORDEAUX (_Continued_)

Huon had seen many beauties at his mother’s court, but his heart had
never been touched with love. Honor had been his mistress, and in
pursuit of that he had never found time to give a thought to softer
cares. Strange that a heart so insensible should first be touched by
something so unsubstantial as a dream; but so it was.

The day after the adventure with his uncle night overtook the travellers
as they passed through a forest. A grotto offered them shelter from the
night dews. The magic cup supplied their evening meal; for such was its
virtue that it afforded not only wine, but more solid fare when desired.
Fatigue soon threw them into profound repose. Lulled by the murmur of
the foliage, and breathing the fragrance of the flowers, Huon dreamed
that a lady more beautiful than he had ever before seen hung over him
and imprinted a kiss upon his lips. As he stretched out his arms to
embrace her a sudden gust of wind swept her away.

Huon awoke in an agony of regret. A few moments sufficed to afford some
consolation in showing him that what had passed was but a dream; but his
perplexity and sadness could not escape the notice of Sherasmin. Huon
hesitated not to inform his faithful follower of the reason of his
pensiveness; and got nothing in return but his rallyings for allowing
himself to be disturbed by such a cause. He recommended a draught from
the fairy goblet, and Huon tried it with good effect.

At early dawn they resumed their way. They travelled till high noon, but
said little to one another. Huon was musing on his dream, and
Sherasmin’s thoughts flew back to his early days on the banks of the
flowery Garonne.

On a sudden they were startled by the cry of distress, and turning an
angle of the wood, came where a knight hard pressed was fighting with a
furious lion. The knight’s horse lay dead, and it seemed as if another
moment would end the combat, for terror and fatigue had quite disabled
the knight for further resistance. He fell, and the lion’s paw was
raised over him, when a blow from Huon’s sword turned the monster’s rage
upon a new enemy. His roar shook the forest, and he crouched in act to
spring, when, with the rapidity of lightning, Huon plunged his sword
into his side. He rolled over on the plain in the agonies of death.

They raised the knight from the ground, and Sherasmin hastened to offer
him a draught from the fairy cup. The wine sparkled to the brim, and the
warrior put forth his lips to quaff it, but it shrunk away, and did not
even wet his lips. He dashed the goblet angrily on the ground, with an
exclamation of resentment. This incident did not tend to make either
party more acceptable to the other; and what followed was worse. For
when Huon said, “Sir knight, thank God for your deliverance,”—“Thank
Mahomet, rather, yourself,” said he, “for he has led you this day to
render service to no less a personage than the Prince of Hyrcania.”

At the sound of this blasphemy Huon drew his sword and turned upon the
miscreant, who, little disposed to encounter the prowess of which he had
so lately seen proof, betook himself to flight. He ran to Huon’s horse,
and lightly vaulting on his back, clapped spurs to his side, and
galloped out of sight.

The adventure was vexatious, yet there was no remedy. The prince and
Sherasmin continued their journey with the aid of the remaining horse as
they best might. At length, as evening set in, they descried the
pinnacles and towers of a great city full before them, which they knew
to be the famous city of Bagdad.

They were well-nigh exhausted with fatigue when they arrived at its
precincts, and in the darkness, not knowing what course to take, were
glad to meet an aged woman, who, in reply to their inquiries, offered
them such accommodations as her cottage could supply. They thankfully
accepted the offer, and entered the low door. The good dame busily
prepared the best fare her stores supplied,—milk, figs, and
peaches,—deeply regretting that the bleak winds had nipped her
almond-trees.

Sir Huon thought he had never in his life tasted any fare so good. The
old lady talked while her guests ate. She doubted not, she said, they
had come to be present at the great feast in honor of the marriage of
the Sultan’s daughter, which was to take place on the morrow. They asked
who the bridegroom was to be, and the old lady answered, “The Prince of
Hyrcania,” but added, “Our princess hates him, and would rather wed a
dragon than him.” “How know you that?” asked Huon; and the dame informed
him that she had it from the princess herself, who was her foster-child.
Huon inquired the reason of the princess’s aversion; and the woman
pleased to find her chat excite so much interest, replied that it was
all in consequence of a dream. “A dream!” exclaimed Huon. “Yes! a dream.
She dreamed that she was a hind, and that the Prince, as a hunter, was
pursuing her, and had almost overtaken her, when a beautiful dwarf
appeared in view, drawn in a golden car, having by his side a young man
of yellow hair and fair complexion, like one from a foreign land. She
dreamed that the car stopped where she stood, and that, having resumed
her own form, she was about to ascend it, when suddenly it faded from
her view, and with it the dwarf and the fair-haired youth. But from her
heart that vision did not fade, and from that time her affianced
bridegroom, the Hyrcanian prince, had become odious to her sight. Yet
the Sultan, her father, by no means regarding such a cause as sufficient
to prevent the marriage, had named the morrow as the time when it should
be solemnized, in presence of his court and many princes of the
neighboring countries, whom the fame of the princess’s beauty and the
bridegroom’s splendor had brought to the scene.”

We may suppose this conversation woke a tumult of thoughts in the breast
of Huon. Was it not clear that Providence led him on, and cleared the
way for his happy success? Sleep did not early visit the eyes of Huon
that night; but, with the sanguine temper of youth, he indulged his
fancy in imagining the sequel of his strange experience.

The next day, which he could not but regard as the decisive day of his
fate, he prepared to deliver the message of Charlemagne. Clad in his
armor, fortified with his ivory horn and his ring, he reached the palace
of Gaudisso when the guests were assembled at the banquet. As he
approached the gate a voice called on all true believers to enter; and
Huon, the brave and faithful Huon, in his impatience passed in under
that false pretention. He had no sooner passed the barrier than he felt
ashamed of his baseness, and was overwhelmed with regret. To make amends
for his fault he ran forward to the second gate, and cried to the
porter, “Dog of a misbeliever, I command you in the name of Him who died
on the cross, open to me!” The points of a hundred weapons immediately
opposed his passage. Huon then remembered for the first time the ring he
had received from his uncle, the Governor. He produced it, and demanded
to be led to the Sultan’s presence. The officer of the guard recognized
the ring, made a respectful obeisance, and allowed him free entrance. In
the same way he passed the other doors to the rich saloon where the
great Sultan was at dinner with his tributary princes. At sight of the
ring the chief attendant led Huon to the head of the hall, and
introduced him to the Sultan and his princes as the ambassador of
Charlemagne. A seat was provided for him near the royal party.

The Prince of Hyrcania, the same whom Huon had rescued from the lion,
and who was the destined bridegroom of the beautiful Clarimunda, sat on
the Sultan’s right hand, and the princess herself on his left. It
chanced that Huon found himself near the seat of the princess, and
hardly were the ceremonies of reception over before he made haste to
fulfill the commands of Charlemagne by imprinting a kiss upon her rosy
lips, and after that a second, not by command, but by good will. The
Prince of Hyrcania cried out, “Audacious infidel! take the reward of thy
insolence!” and aimed a blow at Huon, which, if it had reached him,
would have brought his embassy to a speedy termination. But the ingrate
failed of his aim, and Huon punished his blasphemy and ingratitude at
once by a blow which severed his head from his body.

So suddenly had all this happened that no hand had been raised to arrest
it; but now Gaudisso cried out, “Seize the murderer!” Huon was hemmed in
on all sides, but his redoubtable sword kept the crowd of courtiers at
bay. But he saw new combatants enter, and could not hope to maintain his
ground against so many. He recollected his horn, and raising it to his
lips, blew a blast almost as loud as that of Roland at Roncesvalles. It
was in vain. Oberon heard it; but the sin of which Huon had been guilty
in bearing, though but for a moment, the character of a believer in the
false prophet, had put it out of Oberon’s power to help him. Huon,
finding himself deserted, and conscious of the cause, lost his strength
and energy, was seized, loaded with chains, and plunged into a dungeon.

His life was spared for the time, merely that he might be reserved for a
more painful death. The Sultan meant that, after being made to feel all
the torments of hunger and despair, he should be flayed alive.

But an enchanter more ancient and more powerful than Oberon himself
interested himself for the brave Huon. The enchanter was Love. The
Princess Clarimunda learned with horror the fate to which the young
prince was destined. By the aid of her governante she gained over the
keeper of the prison, and went herself to lighten the chains of her
beloved. It was her hand that removed his fetters, from her he received
supplies of food to sustain a life which he devoted from thenceforth
wholly to her. After the most tender explanations the princess departed,
promising to repeat her visit on the morrow.

The next day she came according to promise, and again brought supplies
of food. These visits were continued during a whole month. Huon was too
good a son of the Church to forget that the amiable princess was a
Saracen, and he availed himself of these interviews to instruct her in
the true faith. How easy it is to believe the truth when uttered by the
lips of those we love! Clarimunda ere long professed her entire belief
in the Christian doctrines, and desired to be baptized.

Meanwhile the Sultan had repeatedly inquired of the jailer how his
prisoner bore the pains of famine, and learned to his surprise that he
was not yet much reduced thereby. On his repeating the inquiry, after a
short interval, the keeper replied that the prisoner had died suddenly,
and had been buried in the cavern. The Sultan could only regret that he
had not sooner ordered the execution of the sentence.

While these things were going on the faithful Sherasmin, who had not
accompanied Huon in his last adventure, but had learned by common rumor
the result of it, came to the court in hopes of doing something for the
rescue of his master. He presented himself to the Sultan as Solario, his
nephew. Guadisso received him with kindness, and all the courtiers
loaded him with attentions. He soon found means to inform himself how
the Princess regarded the brave but unfortunate Huon, and having made
himself known to her, confidence was soon established between them.
Clarimunda readily consented to assist in the escape of Huon, and to
quit with him her father’s court to repair to that of Charlemagne. Their
united efforts had nearly perfected their arrangement, a vessel was
secretly prepared, and all things in forwardness for the flight, when an
unlooked-for obstacle presented itself. Huon himself positively refused
to go leaving the orders of Charlemagne unexecuted.

Sherasmin was in despair. Bitterly he complained of the fickleness and
cruelty of Oberon in withdrawing his aid at the very crisis when it was
most necessary. Earnestly he urged every argument to satisfy the prince
that he had done enough for honor, and could not be held bound to
achieve impossibilities. But all was of no avail, and he knew not which
way to turn, when one of those events occurred which are so frequent
under Turkish despotisms. A courier arrived at the court of the Sultan,
bearing the ring of his sovereign, the mighty Agrapard, Caliph of
Arabia, and bringing the bow-string for the neck of Gaudisso. No reason
was assigned; none but the pleasure of the Caliph is ever required in
such cases; but it was suspected that the bearer of the bow-string had
persuaded the Caliph that Gaudisso, whose rapacity was well known, had
accumulated immense treasures, which he had not duly shared with his
sovereign, and thus had obtained an order to supersede him in his
Emirship.

The body of Gaudisso would have been cast out a prey to dogs and
vultures, had not Sherasmin, under the character of nephew of the
deceased, been permitted to receive it, and give it decent burial, which
he did, but not till he had taken possession of the beard and grinders,
agreeably to the orders of Charlemagne.

No obstacle now stood in the way of the lovers and their faithful
follower in returning to France. They sailed, taking Rome in their way,
where the Holy Father himself blessed the union of his nephew, Duke Huon
of Bordeaux, with the Princess Clarimunda.

Soon afterward they arrived in France, where Huon laid his trophies at
the feet of Charlemagne, and, being restored to the favor of the
Emperor, hastened to present himself and his bride to the Duchess, his
mother, and to the faithful liegemen of his province of Guienne and his
city of Bordeaux, where the pair were received with transports of joy.

                                  ————


                            OGIER, THE DANE

Ogier, the Dane, was the son of Geoffroy, who wrested Denmark from the
Pagans, and reigned the first Christian king of that country. When Ogier
was born, and before he was baptized, six ladies of ravishing beauty
appeared all at once in the chamber of the infant. They encircled him,
and she who appeared the eldest took him in her arms, kissed him, and
laid her hand upon his heart. “I give you,” said she, “to be the bravest
warrior of your times.” She delivered the infant to her sister, who
said, “I give you abundant opportunities to display your valor.”
“Sister,” said the third lady, “you have given him a dangerous boon; I
give him that he shall never be vanquished.” The fourth sister added, as
she laid her hand upon his eyes and his mouth, “I give you the gift of
pleasing.” The fifth said, “Lest all these gifts serve only to betray, I
give you sensibility to return the love you inspire.” Then spoke
Morgana, the youngest and handsomest of the group. “Charming creature, I
claim you for my own; and I give you not to die till you shall have come
to pay me a visit in my isle of Avalon.” Then she kissed the child and
departed with her sisters.

After this the king had the child carried to the font and baptized with
the name of Ogier.

In his education nothing was neglected to elevate him to the standard of
a perfect knight, and render him accomplished in all the arts necessary
to make him a hero.

He had hardly reached the age of sixteen years when Charlemagne, whose
power was established over all the sovereigns of his time, recollected
that Geoffroy, Ogier’s father, had omitted to render the homage due to
him as Emperor, and sovereign lord of Denmark, one of the grand fiefs of
the empire. He accordingly sent an embassy to demand of the king of
Denmark this homage, and on receiving a refusal, couched in haughty
terms, sent an army to enforce the demand. Geoffroy, after an
unsuccessful resistance, was forced to comply, and as a pledge of his
sincerity delivered Ogier, his eldest son, a hostage to Charles, to be
brought up at his court. He was placed in charge of the Duke Namo of
Bavaria, the friend of his father, who treated him like his own son.

Ogier grew up more and more handsome and amiable every day. He surpassed
in form, strength, and address all the noble youths his companions; he
failed not to be present at all tourneys; he was attentive to the elder
knights, and burned with impatience to imitate them. Yet his heart rose
sometimes in secret against his condition as a hostage, and as one
apparently forgotten by his father.

The King of Denmark, in fact, was at this time occupied with new loves.
Ogier’s mother having died, he had married a second wife, and had a son
named Guyon. The new queen had absolute power over her husband, and
fearing that, if he should see Ogier again, he would give him the
preference over Guyon, she had adroitly persuaded him to delay rendering
his homage to Charlemagne, till now four years had passed away since the
last renewal of that ceremony. Charlemagne, irritated at this
delinquency, drew closer the bonds of Ogier’s captivity until he should
receive a response from the king of Denmark to a fresh summons which he
caused to be sent to him.

The answer of Geoffroy was insulting and defiant, and the rage of
Charlemagne was roused in the highest degree. He was at first disposed
to wreak his vengeance upon Ogier, his hostage; but at the entreaties of
Duke Namo, who felt towards his pupil like a father, consented to spare
his life, if Ogier would swear fidelity to him as his liege-lord, and
promise not to quit his court without his permission. Ogier accepted
these terms, and was allowed to retain all the freedom he had before
enjoyed.

The Emperor would have immediately taken arms to reduce his disobedient
vassal, if he had not been called off in another direction by a message
from Pope Leo, imploring his assistance. The Saracens had landed in the
neighborhood of Rome, occupied Mount Janiculum, and prepared to pass the
Tiber and carry fire and sword to the capital of the Christian world.
Charlemagne hesitated not to yield to the entreaties of the Pope. He
speedily assembled an army, crossed the Alps, traversed Italy, and
arrived at Spoleto, a strong place to which the Pope had retired. Leo,
at the head of his Cardinals, advanced to meet him, and rendered him
homage, as to the son of Pepin, the illustrious protector of the Holy
See, coming, as his father had done, to defend it in the hour of need.

Charlemagne stopped but two days at Spoleto, and learning that the
Infidels, having rendered themselves masters of Rome, were besieging the
Capitol, which could not long hold out against them, marched promptly to
attack them.

The advanced posts of the army were commanded by Duke Namo, on whom
Ogier waited as his squire. He did not yet bear arms, not having
received the order of knighthood. The Oriflamme, the royal standard, was
borne by a knight named Alory, who showed himself unworthy of the honor.

Duke Namo, seeing a strong body of the Infidels advancing to attack him,
gave the word to charge them. Ogier remained in the rear, with the other
youths, grieving much that he was not permitted to fight. Very soon he
saw Alory lower the Oriflamme, and turn his horse in flight. Ogier
pointed him out to the young men, and seizing a club, rushed upon Alory
and struck him from his horse. Then, with his companions, he disarmed
him, clothed himself in his armor, raised the Oriflamme, and mounting
the horse of the unworthy knight, flew to the front rank, where he
joined Duke Namo, drove back the Infidels, and carried the Oriflamme
quite through their broken ranks. The Duke, thinking it was Alory, whom
he had not held in high esteem, was astonished at his strength and
valor. Ogier’s young companions imitated him, supplying themselves with
armor from the bodies of the slain; they followed Ogier and carried
death into the ranks of the Saracens, who fell back in confusion upon
their main body.

Duke Namo now ordered a retreat, and Ogier obeyed with reluctance, when
they perceived Charlemagne advancing to their assistance. The combat now
became general, and was more terrible than ever. Charlemagne had
overthrown Corsuble, the commander of the Saracens, and had drawn his
famous sword, Joyeuse, to cut off his head, when two Saracen knights set
upon him at once, one of whom slew his horse, and the other overthrew
the Emperor on the sand. Perceiving by the eagle on his casque who he
was, they dismounted in haste to give him his deathblow. Never was the
life of the Emperor in such peril. But Ogier, who saw him fall, flew to
his rescue. Though embarrassed with the Oriflamme, he pushed his horse
against one of the Saracens and knocked him down; and with his sword
dealt the other so vigorous a blow that he fell stunned to the earth.
Then helping the Emperor to rise, he remounted him on the horse of one
of the fallen knights. “Brave and generous Alory!” Charles exclaimed, “I
owe to you my honor and my life!” Ogier made no answer; but, leaving
Charlemagne surrounded by a great many of the knights who had flown to
his succor, he plunged into the thickest ranks of the enemy, and carried
the Oriflamme, followed by a gallant train of youthful warriors till the
standard of Mahomet turned in retreat, and the Infidels sought safety in
their intrenchments.

Then the good Archbishop Turpin laid aside his helmet and his bloody
sword (for he always felt that he was clearly in the line of his duty
while slaying Infidels), took his mitre and his crosier, and intoned Te
Deum.

At this moment Ogier, covered with blood and dust, came to lay the
Oriflamme at the feet of the Emperor. He was followed by a train of
warriors of short stature, who walked ill at ease loaded with armor too
heavy for them. Ogier knelt at the feet of Charlemagne, who embraced
him, calling him Alory, while Turpin from the height of the altar,
blessed him with all his might. Then young Orlando, son of the Count
Milone, and nephew of Charlemagne, no longer able to endure this
misapprehension, threw down his helmet, and ran to unlace Ogier’s, while
the other young men laid aside theirs. Our author says he cannot express
the surprise, the admiration, and the tenderness of the Emperor and his
peers. Charles folded Ogier in his arms, and the happy fathers of those
brave youths embraced them with tears of joy. The good Duke Namo stepped
forward, and Charlemagne yielded Ogier to his embrace. “How much do I
owe you,” he said, “good and wise friend, for having restrained my
anger! My dear Ogier! I owe you my life! My sword leaps to touch your
shoulder, yours and those of your brave young friends.” At these words
he drew that famous sword, Joyeuse, and while Ogier and the rest knelt
before him, gave them the accolade conferring on them the order of
knighthood. The young Orlando and his cousin Oliver could not refrain,
even in the presence of the Emperor, from falling upon Ogier’s neck, and
pledging with him that brotherhood in arms, so dear and so sacred to the
knights of old times; but Charlot, the Emperor’s son, at the sight of
the glory with which Ogier had covered himself, conceived the blackest
jealousy and hate.

The rest of the day and the next were spent in the rejoicings of the
army. Turpin in a solemn service implored the favor of Heaven upon the
youthful knights, and blessed the white armor which was prepared for
them. Duke Namo presented them with golden spurs, Charles himself girded
on their swords. But what was his astonishment when he examined that
intended for Ogier! The loving Fairy, Morgana, had had the art to change
it, and to substitute one of her own procuring, and when Charles drew it
out of the scabbard, these words appeared written on the steel: “My name
is Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durindana.”
Charles saw that a superior power watched over the destinies of Ogier;
he vowed to love him as a father would, and Ogier promised him the
devotion of a son. Happy had it been for both if they had always
continued mindful of their promises.

The Saracen army had hardly recovered from its dismay when Carahue, King
of Mauritania, who was one of the knights overthrown by Ogier at the
time of the rescue of Charlemagne, determined to challenge him to single
combat. With that view he assumed the dress of a herald, resolved to
carry his own message. The French knights admired his air, and said to
one another that he seemed more fit to be a knight than a bearer of
messages.

Carahue began by passing the warmest eulogium upon the knight who bore
the Oriflamme on the day of the battle, and concluded by saying that
Carahue, King of Mauritania, respected that knight so much that he
challenged him to the combat.

Ogier had risen to reply, when he was interrupted by Charlot, who said
that the gage of the King of Mauritania could not fitly be received by a
vassal, living in captivity; by which he meant Ogier, who was at that
time serving as hostage for his father. Fire flashed from the eyes of
Ogier, but the presence of the Emperor restrained his speech, and he was
calmed by the kind looks of Charlemagne, who said, with an angry voice,
“Silence, Charlot! By the life of Bertha, my queen, he who has saved my
life is as dear to me as yourself. Ogier,” he continued, “you are no
longer a hostage. Herald! report my answer to your master, that never
does knight of my court refuse a challenge on equal terms. Ogier, the
Dane, accepts of his, and I myself am his security.”

Carahue, profoundly bowing, replied, “My lord, I was sure that the
sentiments of so great a sovereign as yourself would be worthy of your
high and brilliant fame; I shall report your answer to my master, who I
know admires you, and unwillingly takes arms against you.” Then, turning
to Charlot, whom he did not know as the son of the Emperor, he
continued, “As for you, Sir Knight, if the desire of battle inflames
you, I have it in charge from Sadon, cousin of the King of Mauritania,
to give the like defiance to any French knights who will grant him the
honor of the combat.”

Charlot, inflamed with rage and vexation at the public reproof which he
had just received, hesitated not to deliver his gage. Carahue received
it with Ogier’s, and it was agreed that the combat should be on the next
day in a meadow environed by woods and equally distant from both armies.

The perfidious Charlot meditated the blackest treason. During the night
he collected some knights unworthy of the name, and like himself in
their ferocious manners; he made them swear to avenge his injuries,
armed them in black armor, and sent them to lie in ambush in the wood,
with orders to make a pretended attack upon the whole party, but in
fact, to lay heavy hands upon Ogier and the two Saracens.

At the dawn of day Sadon and Carahue, attended only by two pages to
carry their spears, took their way to the appointed meadow; and Charlot
and Ogier repaired thither also, but by different paths. Ogier advanced
with a calm air, saluted courteously the two Saracen knights, and joined
them in arranging the terms of combat.

While this was going on the perfidious Charlot remained behind and gave
his men the signal to advance. That cowardly troop issued from the wood
and encompassed the three knights. All three were equally surprised at
the attack, but neither of them suspected the other to have any hand in
the treason. Seeing the attack made equally upon them all, they united
their efforts to resist it, and made the most forward of the assailants
bite the dust. Cortana fell on no one without inflicting a mortal wound,
but the sword of Carahue was not of equal temper and broke in his hands.
At the same instant his horse was slain, and Carahue fell, without a
weapon, and entangled with his prostrate horse. Ogier, who saw it, ran
to his defence and leaping to the ground covered the prince with his
shield, supplied him with the sword of one of the fallen ruffians, and
would have him mount his own horse. At that moment Charlot, inflamed
with rage, pushed his horse upon Ogier, knocked him down, and would have
run him through with his lance if Sadon, who saw the treason, had not
sprung upon him and thrust him back. Carahue leapt lightly upon the
horse which Ogier presented him, and had time only to exclaim, “Brave
Ogier, I am no longer your enemy, I pledge to you an eternal
friendship,” when numerous Saracen knights were seen approaching, having
discovered the treachery, and Charlot with his followers took refuge in
the wood.

The troop which advanced was commanded by Dannemont, the exiled king of
Denmark, whom Geoffroy, Ogier’s father, had driven from his throne and
compelled to take refuge with the Saracens. Learning who Ogier was, he
instantly declared him his prisoner, in spite of the urgent
remonstrances and even threats of Carahue and Sadon, and carried him
under a strong guard to the Saracen camp. Here he was at first subjected
to the most rigorous captivity, but Carahue and Sadon insisted so
vehemently on his release, threatening to turn their arms against their
own party if it was not granted, while Dannemont as eagerly opposed the
measure, that Corsuble, the Saracen commander, consented to a middle
course, and allowed Ogier the freedom of his camp, upon his promise not
to leave it without permission.

Carahue was not satisfied with this partial concession. He left the city
next morning, proceeded to the camp of Charlemagne, and demanded to be
led to the Emperor. When he reached his presence he dismounted from his
horse, took off his helmet, drew his sword, and holding it by the blade
presented it to Charlemagne as he knelt before him.

“Illustrious prince,” he said, “behold before you the herald who brought
the challenge to your knights from the King of Mauritania. The cowardly
old King Dannemont has made the brave Ogier prisoner, and has prevailed
on our general to refuse to give him up. I come to make amends for this
ungenerous conduct by yielding myself, Carahue, King of Mauritania, your
prisoner.”

Charlemagne, with all his peers, admired the magnanimity of Carahue; he
raised him, embraced him, and restored to him his sword. “Prince,” said
he, “your presence and the bright example you afford my knights consoles
me for the loss of Ogier. Would to God you might receive our holy faith,
and be wholly united with us.” All the lords of the court, led by Duke
Namo, paid their respects to the King of Mauritania. Charlot only failed
to appear, fearing to be recognized as a traitor; but the heart of
Carahue was too noble to pierce that of Charlemagne by telling him the
treachery of his son.

Meanwhile the Saracen army was rent by discord. The troops of Carahue
clamored against the commander-in-chief because their king was left in
captivity. They even threatened to desert the cause and turn their arms
against their allies. Charlemagne pressed the siege vigorously, till at
length the Saracen leaders found themselves compelled to abandon the
city and betake themselves to their ships. A truce was made; Ogier was
exchanged for Carahue, and the two friends embraced one another with
vows of perpetual brotherhood. The Pope was reëstablished in his
dominions, and Italy being tranquil, Charlemagne returned with his peers
and their followers to France.

                                  ————


                     OGIER, THE DANE (_Continued_)

Charlemagne had not forgotten the offence of Geoffroy, the King of
Denmark, in withholding homage, and now prepared to enforce submission.
But at this crisis he was waited upon by an embassy from Geoffroy,
acknowledging his fault, and craving assistance against an army of
invaders who had attacked his states with a force which he was unable to
repel. The soul of Charlemagne was too great to be implacable, and he
took this opportunity to test that of Ogier, who had felt acutely the
unkindness of his father, in leaving him, without regard or notice,
fifteen years in captivity. Charles asked Ogier whether, in spite of his
father’s neglect, he was disposed to lead an army to his assistance. He
replied, “A son can never be excused from helping his father by any
cause short of death.” Charlemagne placed an army of a thousand knights
under the command of Ogier, and great numbers more volunteered to march
under so distinguished a leader. He flew to the succor of his father,
repelled the invaders, and drove them in confusion to their vessels.
Ogier then hastened to the capital, but as he drew near the city he
heard all the bells sounding a knell. He soon learned the cause; it was
the obsequies of Geoffroy, the King. Ogier felt keenly the grief of not
having been permitted to embrace his father once more, and to learn his
latest commands; but he found that his father had declared him heir to
his throne. He hastened to the church where the body lay; he knelt and
bathed the lifeless form with his tears. At that moment a celestial
light beamed all around, and a voice of an angel said, “Ogier, leave thy
crown to Guyon, thy brother, and bear no other title than that of ‘The
Dane.’ Thy destiny is glorious, and other kingdoms are reserved for
thee.” Ogier obeyed the divine behest. He saluted his stepmother
respectfully, and embracing his brother, told him that he was content
with his lot in being reckoned among the paladins of Charlemagne, and
resigned all claims to the crown of Denmark.

Ogier returned covered with glory to the court of Charlemagne, and the
Emperor, touched with this proof of his attachment, loaded him with
caresses, and treated him almost as an equal.

We pass in silence the adventures of Ogier for several ensuing years, in
which the fairy-gifts of his infancy showed their force in making him
successful in all enterprises, both of love and war. He married the
charming Belicene, and became the father of young Baldwin, a youth who
seemed to inherit in full measure the strength and courage of his father
and the beauty of his mother. When the lad was old enough to be
separated from his mother, Ogier took him to court and presented him to
Charlemagne, who embraced him and took him into his service. It seemed
to Duke Namo, and all the elder knights, as if they saw in him Ogier
himself, as he was when a youth; and this resemblance won for the lad
their kind regards. Even Charlot at first seemed to be fond of him,
though after a while the resemblance to Ogier which he noticed had the
effect to excite his hatred.

Baldwin was attentive to Charlot, and lost no occasion to be
serviceable. The Prince loved to play chess, and Baldwin, who played
well, often made a party with him.

One day Chariot was nettled at losing two pieces in succession; he
thought he could, by taking a piece from Baldwin, get some amends for
his loss; but Baldwin, seeing him fall into a trap which he had set for
him, could not help a slight laugh, as he said, “Check-mate.” Charlot
rose in a fury, seized the rich and heavy chessboard, and dashed it with
all his strength on the head of Baldwin, who fell, and died where he
fell.

Frightened at his own crime, and fearing the vengeance of the terrible
Ogier, Charlot concealed himself in the interior of the palace. A young
companion of Baldwin hastened and informed Ogier of the event. He ran to
the chamber, and beheld the body of his child bathed in blood, and it
could not be concealed from him that Charlot gave the blow. Transported
with rage, Ogier sought Charlot through the palace, and Charlot, feeling
safe nowhere else, took refuge in the hall of Charlemagne, where he
seated himself at table with Duke Namo and Salomon, Duke of Brittany.
Ogier, with sword drawn, followed him to the very table of the Emperor.
When a cupbearer attempted to bar his way he struck the cup from his
hand and dashed the contents in the Emperor’s face. Charles rose in a
passion, seized a knife, and would have plunged it into his breast, had
not Salomon and another baron thrown themselves between, while Namo, who
had retained his ancient influence over Ogier, drew him out of the room.
Foreseeing the consequence of this violence, pitying Ogier, and in his
heart excusing him, Namo hurried him away before the guards of the
palace could arrest him, made him mount his horse, and leave Paris.

Charlemagne called together his peers, and made them take an oath to do
all in their power to arrest Ogier, and bring him to condign punishment.
Ogier on his part sent messages to the Emperor, offering to give himself
up on condition that Charlot should be punished for his atrocious crime.
The Emperor would listen to no conditions, and went in pursuit of Ogier
at the head of a large body of soldiers. Ogier, on the other hand, was
warmly supported by many knights, who pledged themselves in his defence.
The contest raged long, with no decisive results. Ogier more than once
had the Emperor in his power, but declined to avail himself of his
advantage, and released him without conditions. He even implored pardon
for himself, but demanded at the same time the punishment of Charlot.
But Charlemagne was too blindly fond of his unworthy son to subject him
to punishment for the sake of conciliating one who had been so deeply
injured.

At length, distressed at the blood which his friends had lost in his
cause, Ogier dismissed his little army, and slipping away from those who
wished to attend him, took his course to rejoin the Duke Guyon, his
brother. On his way, having reached the forest of Ardennes, weary with
long travel, the freshness of a retired valley tempted him to lie down
to take some repose. He unsaddled Beiffror, relieved himself of his
helmet, lay down on the turf, rested his head on his shield, and slept.

It so happened that Turpin, who occasionally recalled to mind that he
was Archbishop of Rheins, was at that time in the vicinity, making a
pastoral visit to the churches under his jurisdiction. But his dignity
of peer of France, and his martial spirit, which caused him to be
reckoned among the “preux chevaliers” of his time, forbade him to travel
without as large a retinue of knights as he had of clergymen. One of
these was thirsty, and knowing the fountain on the borders of which
Ogier was reposing, he rode to it, and was struck by the sight of a
knight stretched on the ground. He hastened back, and let the Archbishop
know, who approached the fountain, and recognized Ogier.

The first impulse of the good and generous Turpin was to save his
friend, for whom he felt the warmest attachment; but his archdeacons and
knights, who also recognized Ogier, reminded the Archbishop of the oath
which the Emperor had exacted of them all. Turpin could not be false to
his oath; but it was not without a groan that he permitted his followers
to bind the sleeping knight. The Archbishop’s attendants secured the
horse and arms of Ogier, and conducted their prisoner to the Emperor at
Soissons.

The Emperor had become so much embittered by Ogier’s obstinate
resistance, added to his original fault, that he was disposed to order
him to instant death. But Turpin, seconded by the good Dukes Namo and
Salomon, prayed so hard for him that Charlemagne consented to remit a
violent death, but sentenced him to close imprisonment, under the charge
of the Archbishop, strictly limiting his food to one quarter of a loaf
of bread per day, with one piece of meat, and a quarter of a cup of
wine. In this way he hoped to quickly put an end to his life without
bringing on himself the hostility of the King of Denmark, and other
powerful friends of Ogier. He exacted a new oath of Turpin to obey his
order strictly.

The good Archbishop loved Ogier too well not to cast about for some
means of saving his life, which he foresaw he would soon lose if
subjected to such scanty fare, for Ogier was seven feet tall, and had an
appetite in proportion. Turpin remembered, moreover, that Ogier was a
true son of the Church, always zealous to propagate the faith and subdue
unbelievers; so he felt justified in practising on this occasion what in
later times has been entitled “mental reservation,” without swerving
from the letter of the oath which he had taken. This is the method he
hit upon.

Every morning he had his prisoner supplied with a quarter of a loaf of
bread, made of two bushels of flour, to this he added a quarter of a
sheep or a fat calf, and he had a cup made which held forty pints of
wine, and allowed Ogier a quarter of it daily.

Ogier’s imprisonment lasted long; Charlemagne was astonished to hear,
from time to time, that he still held out; and when he inquired more
particularly of Turpin, the good Archbishop, relying on his own
understanding of the words, did not hesitate to affirm positively that
he allowed his prisoner no more than the permitted ration.

We forgot to say that, when Ogier was led prisoner to Soissons, the
Abbot of Saint Faron, observing the fine horse Beiffror, and not having
at the time any other favor to ask of Charlemagne, begged the Emperor to
give him the horse, and had him taken to his abbey. He was impatient to
try his new acquisition, and when he had arrived in his litter at the
foot of the mountain where the horse had been brought to meet him
mounted him and rode onward. The horse, accustomed to bear the enormous
weight of Ogier in his armor, when he perceived nothing on his back but
the light weight of the Abbot, whose long robes fluttered against his
sides, ran away, making prodigious leaps over the steep acclivities of
the mountain till he reached the convent of Jouaire, where, in sight of
the Abbess and her nuns, he threw the Abbot, already half dead with
fright, to the ground. The Abbot, bruised and mortified, revenged
himself on poor Beiffror, whom he condemned, in his wrath, to be given
to the workmen to drag stones for a chapel that he was building near the
abbey. Thus, ill-fed, hard-worked, and often beaten, the noble horse
Beiffror passed the time while his master’s imprisonment lasted.

That imprisonment would have been as long as his life if it had not been
for some important events which forced the Emperor to set Ogier at
liberty.

The Emperor learned at the same time that Carahue, King of Mauritania,
was assembling an army to come and demand the liberation of Ogier; that
Guyon, King of Denmark, was prepared to second the enterprise with all
his forces; and, worse than all, that the Saracens, under Bruhier,
Sultan of Arabia, had landed in Gascony, taken Bordeaux, and were
marching with all speed for Paris.

Charlemagne now felt how necessary the aid of Ogier was to him. But, in
spite of the representations of Turpin, Namo, and Salomon, he could not
bring himself to consent to surrender Charlot to such punishment as
Ogier should see fit to impose. Besides, he believed that Ogier was
without strength and vigor, weakened by imprisonment and long
abstinence.

At this crisis he received a message from Bruhier, proposing to put the
issue upon the result of a combat between himself and the Emperor or his
champion: promising, if defeated, to withdraw his army. Charlemagne
would willingly have accepted the challenge, but his counsellors all
opposed it. The herald was therefore told that the Emperor would take
time to consider his proposition, and give his answer the next day.

It was during this interval that the three Dukes succeeded in prevailing
upon Charlemagne to pardon Ogier, and to send for him to combat the
puissant enemy who now defied him; but it was no easy task to persuade
Ogier. The idea of his long imprisonment and the recollection of his
son, bleeding and dying in his arms by the blow of the ferocious
Charlot, made him long resist the urgency of his friends. Though glory
called him to encounter Bruhier, and the safety of Christendom demanded
the destruction of this proud enemy of the faith, Ogier only yielded at
last on condition that Charlot should be delivered into his hands to be
dealt with as he should see fit.

The terms were hard, but the danger was pressing, and Charlemagne, with
a returning sense of justice, and a strong confidence in the generous
though passionate soul of Ogier, at last consented to them.

Ogier was led into the presence of Charlemagne by the three peers. The
Emperor, faithful to his word, had caused Charlot to be brought into the
hall where the high barons were assembled, his hands tied, and his head
uncovered. When the Emperor saw Ogier approach he took Charlot by the
arm, led him towards Ogier, and said these words: “I surrender the
criminal; do with him as you think fit.” Ogier, without replying, seized
Charlot by the hair, forced him on his knees, and lifted with the other
hand his irresistible sword. Charlemagne, who expected to see the head
of his son rolling at his feet, shut his eyes and uttered a cry of
horror.

Ogier had done enough. The next moment he raised Charlot, cut his bonds,
kissed him on the mouth, and hastened to throw himself at the feet of
the Emperor.

Nothing can exceed the surprise and joy of Charlemagne at seeing his son
unharmed and Ogier kneeling at his feet. He folded him in his arms,
bathed him with tears, and exclaimed to his barons, “I feel at this
moment that Ogier is greater than I.” As for Charlot, his base soul felt
nothing but the joy of having escaped death; he remained such as he had
been, and it was not till some years afterwards he received the
punishment he deserved, from the hands of Huon of Bordeaux, as we have
seen in a former chapter.

                                  ————


                     OGIER, THE DANE (_Continued_)

When Charlemagne had somewhat recovered his composure he was surprised
to observe that Ogier appeared in good case, and had a healthy color in
his cheeks. He turned to the Archbishop, who could not help blushing as
he met his eye. “By the head of Bertha, my queen,” said Charlemagne,
“Ogier has had good quarters in your castle, my Lord Archbishop; but so
much the more am I indebted to you.” All the barons laughed and jested
with Turpin, who only said, “Laugh as much as you please, my lords; but
for my part I am not sorry to see the arm in full vigor that is to
avenge us on the proud Saracen.”

Charlemagne immediately despatched his herald, accepting the challenge,
and appointing the next day but one for the encounter. The proud and
crafty Bruhier laughed scornfully when he heard the reply accepting his
challenge, for he had a reliance on certain resources besides his
natural strength and skill. However, he swore by Mahomet to observe the
conditions as proposed and agreed upon.

Ogier now demanded his armor, and it was brought to him in excellent
condition, for the good Turpin had kept it faithfully; but it was not
easy to provide a horse for the occasion. Charlemagne had the best
horses of his stables brought out, except Blanchard, his own charger;
but all in vain, the weight of Ogier bent their backs to the ground. In
this embarrassment the Archbishop remembered that the Emperor had given
Beiffror to the Abbot of St. Faron, and sent off a courier in haste to
re-demand him.

Monks are hard masters, and the one who directed the laborers at the
abbey had but too faithfully obeyed the orders of the Abbot. Poor
Beiffror was brought back, lean, spiritless, and chafed with the harness
of the vile cart that he had had to draw so long. He carried his head
down, and trod heavily before Charlemagne; but when he heard the voice
of Ogier he raised his head, he neighed, his eyes flashed, his former
ardor showed itself by the force with which he pawed the ground. Ogier
caressed him, and the good steed seemed to return his caresses; Ogier
mounted him, and Beiffror, proud of carrying his master again, leapt and
curvetted with all his youthful vigor.

Nothing being now wanted, Charlemagne, at the head of his army, marched
forth from the city of Paris, and occupied the hill of Montmartre,
whence the view extended over the plain of St. Denis, where the battle
was to be fought.

When the appointed day came the Dukes Namo and Salomon, as seconds of
Ogier, accompanied him to the place marked out for the lists, and
Bruhier, with two distinguished Emirs, presented himself on the other
side.

Bruhier was in high spirits, and jested with his friends, as he
advanced, upon the appearance of Beiffror. “Is that the horse they
presume to match with Marchevallée, the best steed that ever fed in the
vales of Mount Atlas?” But now the combatants, having met and saluted
each other, ride apart to come together in full career. Beiffror flew
over the plain, and met the adversary more than half-way. The lances of
the two combatants were shivered at the shock, and Bruhier was
astonished to see almost at the same instant the sword of Ogier gleaming
above his head. He parried it with his buckler, and gave Ogier a blow on
his helmet, who returned it with another, better aimed or better
seconded by the temper of his blade, for it cut away part of Bruhier’s
helmet, and with it his ear and part of his cheek. Ogier, seeing the
blood, did not immediately repeat his blow, and Bruhier seized the
moment to gallop off at one side. As he rode he took a vase of gold
which hung at his saddle-bow, and bathed with its contents the wounded
part. The blood instantly ceased to flow, the ear and the flesh were
restored quite whole, and the Dane was astonished to see his antagonist
return to the ground as sound as ever.

Bruhier laughed at his amazement. “Know,” said he, “that I possess the
precious balm that Joseph of Arimathea used upon the body of the
crucified one, whom you worship. If I should lose an arm I could restore
it with a few drops of this. It is useless for you to contend with me.
Yield yourself, and, as you appear to be a strong fellow, I will make
you first oarsman in one of my galleys.”

Ogier, though boiling with rage, forgot not to implore the assistance of
Heaven. “O Lord!” he exclaimed, “suffer not the enemy of thy name to
profit by the powerful help of that which owes all its virtue to thy
divine blood.” At these words he attacked Bruhier again with more vigor
than ever; both struck terrible blows, and made grievous wounds; but the
blood flowed from those of Ogier, while Bruhier stanched his by the
application of his balm. Ogier, desperate at the unequal contest,
grasped Cortana with both hands, and struck his enemy such a blow that
it cleft his buckler, and cut off his arm with it; but Bruhier at the
same time launched one at Ogier, which, missing him, struck the head of
Beiffror, and the good horse fell, and drew down his master in his fall.

Bruhier had time to leap to the ground, to pick up his arm and apply his
balsam; then, before Ogier had recovered his footing, he rushed forward
with sword uplifted to complete his destruction.

Charlemagne, from the height of Montmartre, seeing the brave Ogier in
this situation, groaned, and was ready to murmur against Providence; but
the good Turpin, raising his arms, with a faith like that of Moses, drew
down upon the Christian warrior the favor of Heaven.

Ogier, promptly disengaging himself, pressed Bruhier with so much
impetuosity that he drove him to a distance from his horse, to whose
saddle-bow the precious balm was suspended; and very soon Charlemagne
saw Ogier, now completely in the advantage, bring his enemy to his
knees, tear off his helmet, and, with a sweep of his sword, strike his
head from his body.

After the victory, Ogier seized Marchevallée, leaped upon his back, and
became possessed of the precious flask, a few drops from which closed
his wounds and restored his strength. The French knights who had been
Bruhier’s captives, now released, pressed round Ogier to thank him for
their deliverance.

Charlemagne and his nobles, as soon as their attention was relieved from
the single combat, perceived from their elevated position an unusual
agitation in the enemy’s camp. They attributed it at first to the death
of their general, but soon the noise of arms, the cries of combatants,
and new standards which advanced, disclosed to them the fact that
Bruhier’s army was attacked by a new enemy.

The Emperor was right; it was the brave Carahue of Mauritania, who, with
an army, had arrived in France, resolved to attempt the liberation of
Ogier, his brother in arms. Learning on his arrival the changed aspect
of affairs, he hesitated not to render a signal service to the Emperor,
by attacking the army of Bruhier in the midst of the consternation
occasioned by the loss of its commander.

Ogier recognized the standard of his friend, and leaping upon
Marchevallée, flew to aid his attack. Charlemagne followed with his
army; and the Saracen host, after an obstinate conflict, was forced to
surrender unconditionally.

The interview of Ogier and Carahue was such as might be anticipated of
two such attached friends and accomplished knights. Charlemagne went to
meet them, embraced them, and putting the King of Mauritania on his
right and Ogier on his left, returned with triumph to Paris. There the
Empress Bertha and the ladies of her court crowned them with laurels,
and the sage and gallant Eginhard, chamberlain and secretary of the
Emperor, wrote all these great events in his history.

A few days after Guyon, King of Denmark, arrived in France with a chosen
band of knights, and sent an ambassador to Charlemagne, to say that he
came, not as an enemy, but to render homage to him as the best knight of
the time and the head of the Christian world. Charlemagne gave the
ambassador a cordial reception, and mounting his horse, rode forward to
meet the King of Denmark.

These great princes, being assembled at the court of Charles, held
council together, and the ancient and sage barons were called to join
it.

It was decided that the united Danish and Mauritanian armies should
cross the sea and carry the war to the country of the Saracens, and that
a thousand French knights should range themselves under the banner of
Ogier, the Dane, who, though not a king, should have equal rank with the
two others.

We have not space to record all the illustrious actions performed by
Ogier and his allies in this war. Suffice it to say, they subdued the
Saracens of Ptolemais and Judæa, and, erecting those regions into a
kingdom, placed the crown upon the head of Ogier. Guyon and Carahue then
left him, to return to their respective dominions. Ogier adopted Walter,
the son of Guyon of Denmark, to be his successor in his kingdom. He
superintended his education, and saw the young prince grow up worthy of
his cares. But Ogier, in spite of all the honors of his rank, often
regretted the court of Charlemagne, the Duke Namo, and Salomon of
Brittany, for whom he had the respect and attachment of a son. At last,
finding Walter old enough to sustain the weight of government, Ogier
caused a vessel to be prepared secretly, and, attended only by one
squire, left his palace by night, and embarked to return to France.

The vessel, driven by a fair wind, cut the sea with the swiftness of a
bird; but on a sudden it deviated from its course, no longer obeyed the
helm, and sped fast towards a black promontory which stretched into the
sea. This was a mountain of loadstone, and, its attractive power
increasing as the distance diminished, the vessel at last flew with the
swiftness of an arrow towards it, and was dashed to pieces on its rocky
base. Ogier alone saved himself, and reached the shore on a fragment of
the wreck.

Ogier advanced into the country, looking for some marks of inhabitancy,
but found none. On a sudden he encountered two monstrous animals,
covered with glittering scales, accompanied by a horse breathing fire.
Ogier drew his sword and prepared to defend himself; but the monsters,
terrific as they appeared, made no attempt to assail him, and the horse,
Papillon, knelt down, and appeared to court Ogier to mount upon his
back. Ogier hesitated not to see the adventure through; he mounted
Papillon, who ran with speed, and soon cleared the rocks and precipices
which hemmed in and concealed a beautiful landscape. He continued his
course till he reached a magnificent palace, and, without allowing Ogier
time to admire it, crossed a grand courtyard adorned with colonnades,
and entered a garden, where, making his way through alleys of myrtle, he
checked his course, and knelt down on the enamelled turf of a fountain.

Ogier dismounted and took some steps along the margin of the stream, but
was soon stopped by meeting a young beauty, such as they paint the
Graces, and almost as lightly attired as they. At the same moment, to
his amazement, his armor fell off of its own accord. The young beauty
advanced with a tender air, and placed upon his head a crown of flowers.
At that instant the Danish hero lost his memory; his combats, his glory,
Charlemagne and his court, all vanished from his mind; he saw only
Morgana, he desired nothing but to sigh forever at her feet.

We abridge the narrative of all the delights which Ogier enjoyed for
more than a hundred years. Time flew by, leaving no impression of its
flight. Morgana’s youthful charms did not decay, and Ogier had none of
those warnings of increasing years which less favored mortals never fail
to receive. There is no knowing how long this blissful state might have
lasted, if it had not been for an accident, by which Morgana one day, in
a sportive moment, snatched the crown from his head. That moment Ogier
regained his memory, and lost his contentment. The recollection of
Charlemagne, and of his own relatives and friends, saddened the hours
which he passed with Morgana. The fairy saw with grief the changed looks
of her lover. At last she drew from him the acknowledgment that he
wished to go, at least for a time, to revisit Charles’s court. She
consented with reluctance, and with her own hands helped to reinvest him
with his armor. Papillon was led forth, Ogier mounted him, and, taking a
tender adieu of the tearful Morgana, crossed at rapid speed the rocky
belt which separated Morgana’s palace from the borders of the sea.

The sea-goblins which had received him at his coming awaited him on the
shore. One of them took Ogier on his back, and the other placing himself
under Papillon, they spread their broad fins, and in a short time
traversed the wide space that separates the isle of Avalon from France.
They landed Ogier on the coast of Languedoc, and then plunged into the
sea and disappeared.

Ogier remounted on Papillon, who carried him across the kingdom almost
as fast as he had passed the sea. He arrived under the walls of Paris,
which he would scarcely have recognized if the high towers of St.
Genevieve had not caught his eye. He went straight to the palace of
Charlemagne, which seemed to him to have been entirely rebuilt. His
surprise was extreme, and increased still more on finding that he
understood with difficulty the language of the guards and attendants in
replying to his questions; and seeing them smile as they tried to
explain to one another the language in which he addressed them.
Presently the attention of some of the barons who were going to court
was attracted to the scene, and Ogier, who recognized the badges of
their rank, addressed them, and inquired if the Dukes Namo and Salomon
were still residing at the Emperor’s court. At this question the barons
looked at one another in amazement; and one of the eldest said to the
rest, “How much this knight resembles the portrait of my grand-uncle,
Ogier the Dane.” “Ah! my dear nephew, I am Ogier the Dane,” said he; and
he remembered that Morgana had told him that he was little aware of the
flight of time during his abode with her.

The barons, more astonished than ever, concluded to conduct him to the
monarch who then reigned, the great Hugh Capet.

The brave Ogier entered the palace without hesitation; but when, on
reaching the royal hall, the barons directed him to make his obeisance
to the King of France, he was astonished to see a man of short stature
and large head, whose air, nevertheless, was noble and martial, seated
upon the throne on which he had so often seen Charlemagne, the tallest
and handsomest sovereign of his time.

Ogier recounted his adventures with simplicity and unaffectedness. Hugh
Capet was slow to believe him; but Ogier recalled so many proofs and
circumstances, that at last he was forced to recognize the aged warrior
to be the famous Ogier the Dane.

The king informed Ogier of the events which had taken place during his
long absence; that the line of Charlemagne was extinct; that a new
dynasty had commenced; that the old enemies of the kingdom, the
Saracens, were still troublesome; and that at that very time an army of
those miscreants was besieging the city of Chartres, to which he was
about to repair in a few days to its relief. Ogier, always inflamed with
the love of glory, offered the service of his arm, which the illustrious
monarch accepted graciously, and conducted him to the queen. The
astonishment of Ogier was redoubled when he saw the new ornaments and
head-dresses of the ladies; still, the beautiful hair which they built
up on their foreheads, and the feathers interwoven, which waved with so
much grace, gave them a noble air that delighted him. His admiration
increased when, instead of the old Empress Bertha, he saw a young queen
who combined a majestic mien with the graces of her time of life, and
manners candid and charming, suited to attach all hearts. Ogier saluted
the youthful queen with a respect so profound that many of the courtiers
took him for a foreigner, or at least for some nobleman brought up at a
distance from Paris, who retained the manners of what they called the
_old court_.

When the queen was informed by her husband that it was the celebrated
Ogier the Dane whom he presented to her, whose memorable exploits she
had often read in the chronicles of antiquity, her surprise was extreme,
which was increased when she remarked the dignity of his address, the
animation and even the youthfulness of his countenance. This queen had
too much intelligence to believe hastily; proof alone could compel her
assent; and she asked him many questions about the old court of
Charlemagne, and received such instructive and appropriate answers as
removed every doubt. It is to the corrections which Ogier was at that
time enabled to make to the popular narratives of his exploits that we
are indebted for the perfect accuracy and trustworthiness of all the
details of our own history.

King Hugh Capet, having received that same evening couriers from the
inhabitants of Chartres, informing him that they were hard pressed by
the besiegers, resolved to hasten with Ogier to their relief.

Ogier terminated this affair as expeditiously as he had so often done
others. The Saracens having dared to offer battle, he bore the Oriflamme
through the thickest of their ranks; Papillon, breathing fire from his
nostrils, threw them into disorder, and Cortana, wielded by his
invincible arm, soon finished their overthrow.

The king, victorious over the Saracens, led back the Danish hero to
Paris, where the deliverer of France received the honors due to his
valor. Ogier continued some time at the court, detained by the favor of
the king and queen; but erelong he had the pain to witness the death of
the king. Then it was that, impressed with all the perfections which he
had discerned in the queen, he could not withhold the tender homage of
the offer of his hand. The queen would perhaps have accepted it, she had
even called a meeting of her great barons to deliberate on the
proposition, when, the day before the meeting was to be held, at the
moment when Ogier was kneeling at her feet, she perceived a crown of
gold which an invisible hand had placed on his brow, and in an instant a
cloud enveloped Ogier, and he disappeared forever from her sight. It was
Morgana, the fairy, whose jealousy was awakened at what she beheld, who
now resumed her power, and took him away to dwell with her in the island
of Avalon. There, in company with the great King Arthur of Britain, he
still lives, and when his illustrious friend shall return to resume his
ancient reign he will doubtless return with him, and share his triumph.




                               FOOTNOTES

-----

[1] Wordsworth.

[2] The names included in parentheses are the Greek, the others being
the Roman or Latin names.

[3] This inconsistency arises from considering the Saturn of the Romans
the same with the Grecian deity Cronos (Time), which, as it brings an
end to all things which have had a beginning, may be said to devour its
own offspring.

[4] From this origin of the instrument, the word “shell” is often used
as synonymous with “lyre,” and figuratively for music and poetry. Thus
Gray, in his ode on the “Progress of Poesy,” says:

    “O Sovereign of the willing Soul,
    Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
    Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares
    And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.”

[5] There was also a goddess called Fauna, or Bona Dea.

[6] The goddess of innocence and purity. After leaving earth, she was
placed among the stars, where she became the constellation Virgo—the
Virgin. Themis (Justice) was the mother of Astræa. She is represented as
holding aloft a pair of scales, in which she weighs the claims of
opposing parties.

It was a favorite idea of the old poets that these goddesses would one
day return, and bring back the Golden Age. Even in a Christian hymn, the
“Messiah” of Pope, this idea occurs:

    “All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail,
    Returning Justice lift aloft her scale,
    Peace o’er the world her olive wand extend,
    And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend.”

See, also, Milton’s “Hymn on the Nativity,” stanzas xiv. and xv.

[7] See Proverbial Expressions.

[8] See Proverbial Expressions.

[9] See Proverbial Expressions.

[10] See Proverbial Expressions.

[11] See page 241.

[12] It is evidently not our modern hyacinth that is here described. It
is perhaps some species of iris, or perhaps of larkspur or of <DW29>.

[13] The sunflower.

[14] This correct description of the rainbow is literally translated
from Ovid.

[15] Sir James Mackintosh says of this, “Do you think that even a
Chinese could paint the gay colors of a butterfly with more minute
exactness than the following lines: ‘The velvet nap,’ etc.?”—_Life_,
Vol. II., 246.

[16] See Proverbial Expressions.

[17] Hecate was a mysterious divinity sometimes identified with Diana
and sometimes with Proserpine. As Diana represents the moonlight
splendor of night, so Hecate represents its darkness and terrors. She
was the goddess of sorcery and witchcraft, and was believed to wander by
night along the earth, seen only by the dogs, whose barking told her
approach.

[18] Alcides, a name of Hercules.

[19] One of the finest pieces of sculpture in Italy, the recumbent
Ariadne of the Vatican, represents this incident. A copy is owned by the
Athenæum, Boston, and deposited in the Museum of Fine Arts.

[20] Proteus.

[21] The story of the invulnerability of Achilles is not found in Homer,
and is inconsistent with his account. For how could Achilles require the
aid of celestial armor if he were invulnerable?

[22] Tennyson has chosen Œnone as the subject of a short poem; but he
has omitted the most poetical part of the story, the return of Paris
wounded, her cruelty and subsequent repentance.

[23] See Proverbial Expressions.

[24] Pyrrhus’s exclamation, “Not such aid nor such defenders does the
time require,” has become proverbial. See Proverbial Expressions.

[25] Tennyson in the “Lotus-eaters” has charmingly expressed the dreamy,
languid feeling which the lotus food is said to have produced.

    “How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream
    With half-shut eyes ever to seem
    Falling asleep in a half dream!
    To dream and dream, like yonder amber light
    Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
    To hear each others’ whispered speech;
    Eating the Lotos, day by day,
    To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
    And tender curving lines of creamy spray:
    To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
    To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
    To muse and brood and live again in memory,
    With those old faces of our infancy
    Heaped over with a mound of grass,
    Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass.”

[26] See Proverbial Expressions.

[27] See Proverbial Expressions.

[28] See Proverbial Expressions.

[29] See Proverbial Expressions.

[30] See Proverbial Expressions.

[31] See Proverbial Expressions.

[32] See Proverbial Expressions.

[33] The poet here inserts a famous line which is thought to imitate in
its sound the galloping of horses. It may be thus translated: “Then
struck the hoofs of the steeds on the ground with a four-footed
trampling.”—See Proverbial Expressions.

[34] See Proverbial Expressions.

[35] There being no rain in Egypt, the grass is “unshowered,” and the
country depends for its fertility upon the overflowings of the Nile. The
ark alluded to in the last line is shown by pictures still remaining on
the walls of the Egyptian temples to have been borne by the priests in
their religious processions. It probably represented the chest in which
Osiris was placed.

[36] Cowper’s version is less elegant, but truer to the original:

    “He ceased, and under his dark brows the nod
    Vouchsafed of confirmation. All around
    The sovereign’s everlasting head his curls
    Ambrosial shook, and the huge mountain reeled.”

It may interest our readers to see how this passage appears in another
famous version, that which was issued under the name of Tickell,
contemporaneously with Pope’s, and which, being by many attributed to
Addison, led to the quarrel which ensued between Addison and Pope:

    “This said, his kingly brow the sire inclined;
    The large black curls fell awful from behind,
    Thick shadowing the stern forehead of the god;
    Olympus trembled at the almighty nod.”

[37] Gray’s ode, “The Fatal Sisters,” is founded on this superstition.

[38] In Longfellow’s Poems will be found a poem entitled “Tegner’s
Drapa,” upon the subject of Baldur’s death.

[39]

    “For noble Britons sprong from Trojans bold,
    And Troynovant was built of old Troy’s ashes cold.”
              SPENSER, Book III., Canto IX., 38.

[40] _Buried under beare._ Buried under something which enclosed him
like a coffin or bier.

[41] Glastonbury Abbey, said to be founded by Joseph of Arimathea, in a
spot anciently called the island or valley of Avalonia.

Tennyson, in his “Palace of Art,” alludes to the legend of Arthur’s
rescue by the Faery queen, thus:

    “Or mythic Uther’s deeply wounded son,
      In some fair space of sloping greens,
    Lay dozing in the vale of Avalon,
      And watched by weeping queens.”

[42] Guenever, the name of Arthur’s queen, also written Genievre and
Geneura, is familiar to all who are conversant with chivalric lore. It
is to her adventures, and those of her true knight, Sir Launcelot, that
Dante alludes in the beautiful episode of Francesca da Rimini.

[43] This name, in the French romances, is spelled Queux, which means
_head cook_. This would seem to imply that it was a title, and not a
name; yet the personage who bore it is never mentioned by any other. He
is the chief, if not the only, comic character among the heroes of
Arthur’s court. He is the Seneschal or Steward, his duties also
embracing those of chief of the cooks. In the romances, his general
character is a compound of valor and buffoonery, always ready to fight,
and generally getting the worst of the battle. He is also sarcastic and
abusive in his remarks, by which he often gets into trouble. Yet Arthur
seems to have an attachment to him, and often takes his advice, which is
generally wrong.

[44] Several cities are allotted to King Arthur by the romance-writers.
The principal are Caerleon, Camelot, and Carlisle.

Caerleon derives its name from its having been the station of one of the
legions, during the dominion of the Romans. It is called by Latin
writers Urbs Legionum, the City of Legions. The former word being
rendered into Welsh by _Caer_, meaning city, and the latter contracted
into _lleon_. The river Usk retains its name in modern geography, and
there is a town or city of Caerleon upon it, though the city of Cardiff
is thought to be the scene of Arthur’s court. Chester also bears in
Welsh the name of Caerleon; for Chester, derived from _castra_, Latin
for _camp_, is the designation of military headquarters.

Camelot is thought to be Winchester.

Shalott is Guilford.

Hamo’s Port is Southampton.

Carlisle is the city still retaining that name, near the Scottish
border. But this name is also sometimes applied to other places, which
were, like itself, military stations.

[45] _Samite_, a sort of silk stuff.

[46] _N’as_ is _not was_, contracted; in modern phrase, _there was not
Mochel sorwe_ is _much sorrow_; _morwe_ is _morrow_.

[47] New-fangled—fond of novelty.

[48] _Lunys_, the string with which the falcon is held.

[49] A musical instrument.

[50] “Good faith was the very corner-stone of chivalry. Whenever a
knight’s word was pledged (it mattered not how rashly) it was to be
redeemed at any price. Hence the sacred obligation of the _boon granted_
by a knight to his suppliant. Instances without number occur in romance,
in which a knight, by rashly granting an indefinite boon, was obliged to
do or suffer something extremely to his prejudice. But it is not in
romance alone that we find such singular instances of adherence to an
indefinite promise. The history of the times presents authentic
transactions equally embarrassing and absurd.”—SCOTT, _note to Sir
Tristram_.

[51] _Feres_, companions; _thewes_, labors; _leers_, learning.

[52] _Aglets_, points or tags.

[53] _Pinckt upon gold, etc._, adorned with golden points, or eyelets,
and regularly intersected with stripes. _Paled_ (in heraldry), striped.

[54] A fool was a common appendage of the courts of those days when this
romance was written. A fool was the ornament held in next estimation to
a dwarf. He wore a white dress with a yellow bonnet, and carried a bell
or _bawble_ in his hand. Though called a fool, his words were often
weighed and remembered as if there were a sort of oracular meaning in
them.

[55] The word means both _fisher_ and _sinner_.

[56] The use of green rushes in apartments was by no means peculiar to
the court of Caerleon upon Usk. Our ancestors had a great predilection
for them, and they seem to have constituted an essential article, not
only of comfort, but of luxury. The custom of strewing the floor with
rushes is well known to have existed in England during the Middle Ages,
and also in France.

[57] _Cordwal_ is the word in the original, and from the manner in which
it is used it is evidently intended for the French Cordouan or Cordovan
leather, which derived its name from Cordova, where it was manufactured.
From this comes also our English word _cordwainer_.

[58] Amongst all the characters of early British history none is more
interesting, or occupies a more conspicuous place, than the hero of this
tale. Urien, his father, was prince of Rheged, a district comprising the
present Cumberland and part of the adjacent country. His valor, and the
consideration in which he was held, are a frequent theme of Bardic song,
and form the subject of several very spirited odes by Taliesin. Among
the Triads there is one relating to him; it is thus translated:

“Three Knights of Battle were in the court of Arthur: Cadwr, the Earl of
Cornwall, Launcelot du Lac, and Owain, the son of Urien. And this was
their characteristic—that they would not retreat from battle, neither
for spear, nor for arrow, nor for sword. And Arthur never had shame in
battle the day he saw their faces there. And they were called the
Knights of Battle.”

[59] Before the sixth century all the silk used by Europeans had been
brought to them by the Seres, the ancestors of the present Boukharians,
whence it derived its Latin name of Serica. In 551 the silkworm was
brought by two monks to Constantinople; but the manufacture of silk was
confined to the Greek empire till the year 1130, when Roger, king of
Sicily, returning from a crusade, collected some manufacturers from
Athens and Corinth, and established them at Palermo, whence the trade
was gradually disseminated over Italy. The varieties of silk stuffs
known at this time were velvet, satin (which was called _samite_), and
taffety (called _cendal_ or _sendall_), all of which were occasionally
stitched with gold and silver.

[60] There exists an ancient poem, printed among those of Taliesin,
called the “Elegy of Owain ap Urien,” and containing several very
beautiful and spirited passages. It commences:

    “The soul of Owain ap Urien,
    May its Lord consider its exigencies!
    Reged’s chief the green turf covers.”

In the course of this Elegy the bard, alluding to the incessant warfare
with which this chieftain harassed his Saxon foes, exclaims:

          “Could England sleep with the light upon her eyes!”

[61] The custom of riding into a hall while the lord and his guests sat
at meat might be illustrated by numerous passages of ancient romance and
history. But a quotation from Chaucer’s beautiful and half-told tale of
“Cambuscan” is sufficient:

    “And so befell that after the thridde cours,
    While that this king sat thus in his nobley,
    Herking his minstralles thir thinges play,
    Beforne him at his bord deliciously,
    In at the halle door all sodenly
    Ther came a knight upon a stede of bras,
    And in his hond a brod mirrour of glas;
    Upon his thombe he had of gold a ring,
    And by his side a naked sword hanging;
    And up he rideth to the highe bord.
    In all the halle ne was ther spoke a word,
    For mervaille of this knight; him to behold
    Full besily they waiten, young and old.”

[62] The terms of admiration in which the older writers invariably speak
of _glass windows_ would be sufficient proof, if other evidence were
wanting, how rare an article of luxury they were in the houses of our
ancestors. They were first introduced in ecclesiastical architecture, to
which they were for a long time confined. Glass is said not to have been
employed in domestic architecture before the fourteenth century.

[63] Throughout the broad and varied region of romance it would be
difficult to find a character of greater simplicity and truth than that
of Enid, the daughter of Earl Ynywl. Conspicuous for her beauty and
noble bearing, we are at a loss whether more to admire the patience with
which she bore all the hardships she was destined to undergo or the
constancy and affection which finally achieved the triumph she so richly
deserved.

The character of Enid is admirably sustained through the whole tale; and
as it is more natural, because less overstrained, so perhaps it is even
more touching than that of Griselda, over which, however, Chaucer has
thrown a charm that leads us to forget the improbability of her story.

[64] The Island of the Mighty is one of the many names bestowed upon
Britain by the Welsh.

[65] Caractacus.

[66] Cassivellaunus.

[67] There is a Triad upon the story of the head buried under the White
Tower of London, as a charm against invasion. Arthur, it seems, proudly
disinterred the head, preferring to hold the island by his own strength
alone.

[68] Creiddylad is no other than Shakspeare’s Cordelia, whose father,
King Lear, is by the Welsh authorities called indiscriminately Llyr or
Lludd. All the old chronicles give the story of her devotion to her aged
parent, but none of them seem to have been aware that she is destined to
remain with him till the day of doom, whilst Gwyn ap Nudd, the king of
the fairies, and Gwythyr ap Greidiol, fight for her every first of May,
and whichever of them may be fortunate enough to be the conqueror at
that time will obtain her as a bride.

[69] The Welsh have a fable on the subject of the half-man, taken to be
illustrative of the force of habit. In this allegory Arthur is supposed
to be met by a sprite, who appears at first in a small and indistinct
form, but who, on approaching nearer, increases in size, and, assuming
the semblance of half a man, endeavors to provoke the king to wrestle.
Despising his weakness, and considering that he should gain no credit by
the encounter, Arthur refuses to do so, and delays the contest until at
length the half-man (Habit) becomes so strong that it requires his
utmost efforts to overcome him.

[70] The romancers dwell with great complacency on the fair hair and
delicate complexion of their heroines. This taste continued for a long
time, and to render the hair light was an object of education. Even when
wigs came into fashion they were all flaxen. Such was the color of the
hair of the Gauls and of their German conquerors. It required some
centuries to reconcile their eyes to the swarthy beauties of their
Spanish and Italian neighbors.

[71] _Ivanhoe_, Vol. 1, chap. XIII.

[72] It is plain that Shakspeare borrowed from this source the similar
incident in his “As you Like it.” The names of characters in the play,
Orlando, Oliver, Rowland indicate the same thing.

[73] See their story in “King Arthur and His Knights.”

[74] This is a poetical description of a phenomenon which is said to be
really exhibited in the strait of Messina, between Sicily and Calabria.
It is called Fata Morgana, or Mirage.

[75] This prophecy is introduced by Ariosto in this place to compliment
the noble house of Este, the princes of his native state, the dukedom of
Ferrara.




                         PROVERBIAL EXPRESSIONS

                            No. 1. Page 39.

    Materiem superabat opus.—_Ovid._
    The workmanship surpassed the material.

                            No. 2. Page 39.

                    Facies non omnibus una,
    Nec diversa tamen, qualem decet esse sororum.
                                   —_Ovid._

Their faces were not all alike, nor yet unlike, but such as those of
sisters ought to be.

                            No. 3. Page 42.

    Medio tutissimus ibis.—_Ovid._
    You will go most safely in the middle.

                            No. 4. Page 45.

    Hic situs est Phaëton, currus auriga paterni,
    Quem si non tenuit, magnis tamen excidit ausis.
                                         —_Ovid._

Here lies Phaëton, the driver of his father’s chariot, which if he
failed to manage, yet he fell in a great undertaking.

                            No. 5. Page 123.

    Imponere Pelio Ossam.—_Virgil._
    To pile Ossa upon Pelion.

                            No. 6. Page 230.

    Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.—_Virgil._
    I fear the Greeks even when they offer gifts.

                            No. 7. Page 232.

    Non tali auxilio nec defensoribus istis
    Tempus eget.—_Virgil._
    Not such aid nor such defenders does the time require.

                            No. 8. Page 245.

    Incidit in Scyllam, cupiens vitare Charybdim.
    He runs on Scylla, wishing to avoid Charybdis.

                            No. 9. Page 260.

    Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum.—_Virgil._

A horrible monster, misshapen, vast, whose only eye has been put out.

                           No. 10. Page 261.

    Tantæne animis cœlestibus iræ?—_Virgil._
    In heavenly minds can such resentments dwell?

                           No. 11. Page 263.

    Haud ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco.—_Virgil._

Not unacquainted with distress, I have learned to succor the
unfortunate.

                           No. 12. Page 263.

    Tros, Tyriusve mihi nullo discrimine agetur.—_Virgil._
    Whether Trojan or Tyrian shall make no difference to me.

                           No. 13. Page 265.

    Tu ne cede malis, sed contra audentior ito.—_Virgil._
    Yield thou not to adversity, but press on the more bravely.

                           No. 14. Page 265.

                      Facilis descensus Averni;
    Noctes atque dies patet atri janua Ditis;
    Sed revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras,
    Hoc opus, hic labor est.—_Virgil._

The descent of Avernus is easy; the gate of Pluto stands open night and
day; but to retrace one’s steps and return to the upper air—that is the
toil, that the difficulty.

                           No. 15. Page 265.

    Uno avulso non deficit alter.—_Virgil._
    When one is torn away another succeeds.

                           No. 16. Page 282.

    Quadrupendante putrum sonitu quatit ungula campum.—_Virgil._

Then struck the hoofs of the steeds on the ground with a four-footed
trampling.

                           No. 17. Page 285.

    Sternitur infelix alieno vulnere, cœlumque
    Adspicit et moriens dulces reminiscitur Argos.—_Virgil._

He falls, unhappy, by a wound intended for another; looks up to the
skies, and dying remembers sweet Argos.




                     LIST OF ILLUSTRATIVE PASSAGES

                         QUOTED FROM THE POETS

Addison (attributed to), 304
Armstrong, 22, 117, 175
Arnold, Matthew, 391

Boiardo, 456, 458, 459
Browning, Mrs. E. B., 168
Bulfinch, Rev. S. G., 45, 63, 149
Byron, 7, 18, 19, 20, 38, 75, 94, 106, 114, 143, 175, 198, 203, 207, 231,
  235, 236, 246, 292, 300, 305, 307, 319

Campbell, 137, 364
Chaucer, 414, 416, 417, 550
Coleridge, 58
Cowper, 4, 104, 192, 221, 300, 304, 308

Darwin, 158, 209
Drayton, 400
Dryden, 48, 211, 290, 308, 312
Dyer, 133, 233

Fletcher, 205
Francklin, 184

Garrick, 111
Goldsmith, 104
Gray, 8, 344, 350, 530, 532

Harvey, 90
Hemans, 362
Homer, 3, 246, 252, 253, 255, 304
Hood, 57, 105

Keats, 31, 62, 65, 68, 76, 91, 106, 204, 243

Landor, 46
Longfellow, 161, 206, 291, 336
Lowell, 33, 172, 181, 273, 292, 492, 505
Lucan, 313

Macaulay, 11, 159
Mickle, 25
Milman, 45, 122
Milton, 3, 5, 6, 18, 33, 34, 38, 57, 67, 68, 75, 90, 94, 103, 104, 117,
  120, 126, 128, 129, 146, 148, 165, 167, 168, 174, 176, 179, 181, 192, 194,
  233, 235, 245, 274, 291, 296, 299, 302, 312, 328, 380, 382
Moore, 2, 25, 28, 58, 91, 105, 115, 134, 143, 293, 320, 364

Nibelungen Lied, 353

Ovid, 310

Percy, 420
Pope, 15, 133, 188, 221, 227, 287, 304

Schiller, 63, 149
Scott, 264, 359, 365, 377
Shakspeare, 5, 127, 137, 290, 291
Shelley, 23, 36, 150, 314
Southey, 188
Spenser, 8, 110, 166, 198, 389, 393, 467, 478
Swift, 51, 231

Tennyson, 111, 150, 175, 207, 214, 237, 257, 300, 390, 396, 398, 403, 415,
  435, 444, 462, 486, 489, 503, 508, 512, 515, 517, 521, 556, 558, 566, 572,
  578
Thomson, 80, 305
Tickell, 304

Veda, Rig, 636

Waller, 22, 262
Warton, 395
Wordsworth, 167, 215, 302, 319

Young, 126, 176, 205, 275, 318




                          INDEX AND DICTIONARY

                                   A

Ab-dal-rah´man, founder of the independent Ommiad (Saracenic) power in
  Spain, conquered at Tours by Charles Martel, 648, 649.
Ab´er-fraw, scene of nuptials of Branwen and Matholch, 590.
Ab-syr´tus, younger brother of Medea, 137.
A-by´dos, a town on the Hellespont, nearly opposite to Sestos, 105.
Ab´y-la, Mount, or Columna, a mountain in Morocco, near Ceuta, now called
  Jebel Musa or Ape’s Hill, forming the Northwestern extremity of the
  African coast opposite Gibraltar (_See_ Pillars of Hercules), 145.
A-ces´tes, son of a Trojan woman who was sent by her father to Sicily,
  that she might not be devoured by the monsters which infested the
  territory of Troy, 162, 164, 264;
  city of, 283.
A-ce´tes, Bacchanal captured by Pentheus, 164.
A-cha´tes, faithful friend and companion of Æneas, 281.
Ach-e-lo´us, river-god of the largest river in Greece—his Horn of Plenty,
  177-179, 380.
A-chil´les, the hero of the Iliad, son of Peleus and of the Nereid Thetis,
  slain by Paris, 95, 138, 173, 174, 208, 212, 213, 214, 216-228, 232,
  233.
A´cis, youth loved by Galatea and slain by Polyphemus, 209-211.
A-con´ti-us, a beautiful youth, who fell in love with Cydippe, the
  daughter of a noble Athenian, 121.
A-cris´i-us, son of Abas, king of Argos, grandson of Lynceus, the
  great-grandson of Danaüs, 116, 202.
Ac-tæ´on, a celebrated huntsman, son of Aristæus and Autonoë, who, having
  seen Diana bathing, was changed by her to a stag and killed by his own
  dogs, 34, 36, 94.
Ad-me´ta, daughter of Eurystheus, covets Hippolyta’s girdle, 144.
Ad-me´tus, king of Thessaly, saved from death by Alcestis, 180, 181.
A-do´nis, a youth beloved by Aphrodite (Venus), and Proserpine; killed by
  a boar, 65-67.
A-dras´tus, a king of Argos, 182.
Æ´a-cus, son of Zeus (Jupiter) and Ægina, renowned in all Greece for his
  justice and piety, 95.
Æ-æ´a, Circe’s island, visited by Ulysses, 241.
Æ-e´tes, or Æeta, son of Helios (the Sun) and Perseis, and father of Medea
  and Absyrtus, 130, 131, 132, 137.
Æ-ge´an Sea, 38, 73, 133.
Æ-ge´us, king of Athens, 136, 150, 151.
Æ-gi´na, a rocky island in the middle of the Saronic gulf, 95.
Æ´gis, shield or breastplate of Jupiter and Minerva, 5, 109, 116.
Æ-gis´thus, murderer of Agamemnon, slain by Orestes, 234.
Æ-ne´as, Trojan hero, son of Anchises and Aphrodite (Venus), and born on
  Mount Ida, reputed first settler of Rome, 61, 213, 221, 222, 223, 258-287,
  379.
Æ-ne´id, poem by Virgil, relating the wanderings of Æneas from Troy to
  Italy, 307.
Æ´o-lus, son of Hellen and the nymph Orseis, represented in Homer as the
  happy ruler of the Æolian Islands, to whom Zeus had given dominion over
  the winds, 69, 75, 240, 261, 301.
Æs´cu-la´pi-us, god of the medical art, 127, 154, 174, 179, 180, 218, 298.
Æ´son, father of Jason, made young again by Medea, 130, 134-136.
Æ-thi-o´pi-ans, inhabitants of the country south of Egypt, 2, 118, 207,
  208.
Æ´thra, mother of Theseus by Ægeus, 150, 151.
Æt´na, volcano in Sicily, 43, 52, 122, 180, 210.
Ag´a-me´des, brother of Trophonius, distinguished as an architect, 297,
  298.
Ag´a-mem´non, son of Plisthenis and grandson of Atreus, king of Mycenæ;
  although the chief commander of the Greeks, is not the hero of the Iliad,
  and in chivalrous spirit altogether inferior to Achilles, 213, 216, 217,
  219, 222, 233.
A-ga´ve, daughter of Cadmus, wife of Echion, and mother of Pentheus, 164.
A-ge´nor, father of Europa, Cadmus, Cilix, and Phœnix, 91, 223.
Ag-la´i-a, one of the Graces, 8.
Ag´ni, Hindu god of fire, 321.
Ag´ra-mant, a king in Africa, 693, 784, 785, 786.
Ag´ri-can, fabled king of Tartary, pursuing Angelica, finally killed by
  Orlando, 676-678, 679-683.
Ag´ri-vain, one of Arthur’s knights, 404, 414, 435, 507.
Ah´ri-man, the Evil Spirit in the dual system of Zoroaster, 318.
  _See_ Ormuzd.
A´jax, son of Telamon, king of Salamis, and grandson of Æacus; represented
  in the Iliad as second only to Achilles in bravery, 138, 213, 217, 219,
  221, 228.
Al´ba, the river where King Arthur fought the Romans, 409.
Al´ba Lon´ga, city in Italy founded by son of Æneas, 287.
Al´ber-ich, dwarf guardian of Rhinegold treasure of the Nibelungs, 354,
  355, 356.
Al-brac´ca, siege of, 672-683.
Al-ces´tis, wife of Admetus, offered herself as sacrifice to spare her
  husband, but rescued by Hercules, 180, 181.
Al-ci´des (Hercules), 148, 149.
Al-ci´na, enchantress, 723, 726, 731.
Al-cin´o-us, Phæacian king, 248, 250, 252.
Al-cip´pe, daughter of Mars; carried off by Halirrhothius, 139.
Alc-me´na, wife of Jupiter, and mother of Hercules, 143.
Al´cu-in, English prelate and scholar, 654-655.
Al-dro-van´dus, dwarf guardian of treasure, 354, 355, 356.
A-lec´to, one of the Furies, 9, 277.
Al-ex-an´der the Great, king of Macedonia, conqueror of Greece, Egypt,
  Persia, Babylonia, and India, 48.
Al-fa´dur, a name for Odin, 331, 349.
Alf´heim, abode of the elves of light, 348.
Al´ice, mother of Huon and Girard, sons of Duke Sevinus, 826-827.
Al-phe´nor, son of Niobe, 113.
Al-phe´us, river-god pursuing Arethusa, who escaped by being changed to a
  fountain, 56, 57, 144.
Al-thæ´a, mother of Meleager, whom she slew because he had in a quarrel
  killed her brothers, thus disgracing “the house of Thestius,” her father,
  138-140.
Am-al-the´a, nurse of the infant Jupiter in Crete, 179.
A-ma´ta, wife of Latinus, driven mad by Alecto, 277.
Am´au-ry of Hauteville, false-hearted Knight of Charlemagne, 825-830.
Am´a-zons, mythical race of warlike women, 144-145, 153.
Am-bro´si-a, celestial food used by the gods, 3.
Am´mon, Egyptian god of life, identified by Romans with phases of Jupiter,
  the father of gods, 123.
Am-phi-a-ra´us, a great prophet and hero at Argos, 182.
Am-phi´on, a musician, son of Jupiter and Antiope (_See_ Dirce), 113,
  192-193.
Am-phi-tri´te, wife of Neptune, 172, 173.
Am-phyr´sos, a small river in Thessaly, 180.
Am´pyx, assailant of Perseus, turned to stone by seeing Gorgon’s head,
  121.
Am-ri´ta, nectar giving immortality, 321.
A´mun, 292.
  _See_ Ammon.
Am´y-mo´ne, one of the fifty daughters of Danaüs, and mother by Poseidon
  (Neptune) of Nauplius, the father of Palamedes, 144.
An´ax-ar´e-te, a maiden of Cyprus, who treated her lover Iphis with such
  haughtiness that he hanged himself at her door, 78, 79.
An-bess´a, Saracenic governor of Spain (725 A.D.), 648.
An-ce´us, one of the Argonauts, 137.
An-chi´ses, beloved by Aphrodite (Venus), by whom he became the father of
  Æneas, 258, 259, 265, 271, 272.
An-dræ´mon, husband of Dryope; saw her changed into a tree, 64, 65.
An´dret, a cowardly knight, spy upon Tristram, 456.
An-drom´a-che, wife of Hector, 213, 225, 260.
An-drom´e-da, daughter of King Cephas, delivered from monster by Perseus,
  118-120.
An´eur-in, Welsh bard, 531.
An-gel´i-ca, Princess of Cathay, 665-672, 678-686, 693, 704-710, 732, 751.
A-nem´o-ne, short-lived wind-flower, created by Venus from the blood of
  the slain Adonis, 67.
An-ger´bo-de, giant prophetess, mother of Fenris, Hela, and the Midgard
  Serpent, 344.
An´gle-sey, a Northern British island, refuge of Druids fleeing from
  Romans, 362.
An-tæ´us, giant wrestler of Libya, killed by Hercules, who, finding him
  stronger when thrown to the earth, lifted him into the air and strangled
  him, 122, 146.
An-te´a, wife of jealous Prœtus, 125.
An-te´nor, descendants of, in Italy, 381.
An´te-ros, deity avenging unrequited love, brother of Eros (Cupid), 7.
An´thor, a Greek, 285.
An-tig´o-ne, daughter of Ædipus, Greek ideal of filial and sisterly
  fidelity, 181-184.
An-til´o-chus, son of Nestor, 207, 221.
An-ti´o-pe, Amazonian queen, 153, 192, 194.
  _See_ Dirce.
A-nu´bis, Egyptian god, conductor of the dead to judgment, 293, 294.
Ap´en-nines, 43.
Aph-ro-di´te. _See_ Venus, Dione, etc.
A´pis, Egyptian bull-god of Memphis, 295, 299.
A-pol´lo, god of music and song, 3, 5, 8, 13, 19, 20-23, 38, 47, 67-68,
  104, 112, 113, 123, 127, 173, 174, 179, 180, 185, 196, 199, 206, 216, 218,
  220, 222, 223, 224, 225, 228, 232, 252, 259, 274, 301.
A-pol´lo Bel-ve-dere´, famous antique statue in Vatican at Rome, 306.
A-pol´lo, Oracle of, 69, 81, 92, 259, 297.
A-pol´lo, temple to, 157, 228, 314.
Apples of the Hesperides, wedding gifts to Juno, guarded by daughters of
  Atlas and Hesperis, stolen by Atlas for Hercules, 145.
Aq´ui-lo, or Boreas, the North Wind, 176.
Aq´ui-taine, ancient province of Southwestern France, 406.
A-rach´ne, a maiden skilled in weaving, changed to a spider by Minerva for
  daring to compete with her, 108-111.
Ar-ca´di-a, a country in the middle of Peloponnesus, surrounded on all
  sides by mountains, 9, 34, 138, 280.
Ar´ca-dy, star of, the Pole-star, 33.
Ar´cas, son of Jupiter and Callisto, 34.
Archer, constellation of the, 40.
Ar´den, forest of, 661, 667, 668, 703.
A-re-op´a-gus, court of the, at Athens, 235.
A´res, called Mars by the Romans, the Greek god of war, and one of the
  great Olympian gods, 7.
Ar-e-thu´sa, nymph of Diana, changed to a fountain, 55-56, 58.
Ar´gius, king of Ireland, father of Isoude the Fair, 453.
Ar´go, builder of the vessel of Jason for the Argonautic expedition, 130,
  132, 133.
Ar´go-lis, city of the Nemean games, 155.
Ar´go-nauts, Jason’s crew seeking the Golden Fleece, 130, 131, 137, 144,
  158, 176.
Ar´gos, a kingdom in Greece, 182, 234, 285, 289, 307.
Ar´gus, of the hundred eyes, guardian of Io, 29-31, 130, 133, 255, 302.
A-ri-ad´ne, daughter of King Minos, who helped Theseus slay the Minotaur,
  152, 156, 165.
A-rim´a-nes. _See_ Ahriman.
Ar´i-mas´pi-ans, one-eyed people of Syria, 129.
A-ri´on, famous musician, whom sailors cast into the sea to rob him, but
  whose lyric song charmed the dolphins, one of which bore him safely to
  land, 195-198.
Ar-is-tæ´us, the bee-keeper, in love with Eurydice, 185, 189-191.
Ar-mor´i-ca, another name for Britain, 375, 388, 400.
Ar-ri-da´no, a magical ruffian, slain by Orlando, 687, 689, 690.
Ar´te-mis. _See_ Diana.
Arth-gal´lo, brother of Elidure, British king, 386.
Ar´thur, king in Britain about the 6th century, 375, 390, 392, 394-417,
  441, 442, 444, 461, 466, 484, 487, 508-514, 515-521, 534, 539, 546-549,
  554, 564-569, 611-614, 622.
A´runs, an Etruscan who killed Camilla, 286.
As´gard, home of the Northern gods, 330, 345.
Ash´ta-roth, a cruel spirit, called by enchantment to bring Rinaldo to
  death, 804-805.
A´sia, 152, 161.
As´ke, the first man, made from an ash tree, 329.
As-tol´pho of England, one of Charlemagne’s knights, 653, 656, 667, 673,
  675, 722, 731, 739-740, 769-779, 783-784, 791.
As-træ´a, goddess of justice, daughter of Astræus and Eos, 15.
As-ty´a-ges, an assailant of Perseus, 121.
As-ty´a-nax, son of Hector of Troy, established kingdom of Messina in
  Italy, 697.
A-su´ras, opponents of the Braminical gods, 321.
At-a-lan´ta, beautiful daughter of King of Icaria, loved and won in a
  foot-race by Hippomenes, 138-140, 141-142.
A´te, the goddess of infatuation, mischief and guilt, 222.
Ath´a-mas, son of Æolus and Enarete, and king of Orchomenus, in Bœotia,
  129, 130, 174.
  _See_ Ino.
A-the´ne, tutelary goddess of Athens; the same as Minerva, 152.
Ath´ens, the capital of Attica, about four miles from the sea, between the
  small rivers Cephissus and Ilissus, 95, 107, 136, 137, 150, 151, 153, 154,
  235, 307.
A´thor, Egyptian deity, progenitor of Isis and Osiris, 292.
A´thos, the mountainous peninsula, also called Acte, which projects from
  Chalcidice in Macedonia, 43.
At-lan´tes, foster-father of Rogero, a powerful magician, 693, 703, 720,
  737, 739.
At-lan´tis, according to an ancient tradition, a great island west of the
  Pillars of Hercules, in the ocean, opposite Mount Atlas, 273.
At´las, a Titan, who bore the heavens on his shoulders, as punishment for
  opposing the gods; one of the sons of Iapetus, 5, 44, 117-118, 146, 149,
  206.
At´las, Mount, general name for range in northern Africa, 145.
At´ro-pos, one of the Fates (which _See_), 9.
At´ti-ca, a state in ancient Greece, 153, 154, 158.
Aud-hum´bla, the cow from which the giant Ymir was nursed. Her milk was
  frost melted into raindrops, 329.
Au-ge´an stables, cleansed by Hercules, 144.
Au-ge´as, king of Elis, 144.
Au-gus´tan age, reign of Roman Emperor Augustus Cæsar, famed for many
  great authors, 308.
Au-gus´tus, the first imperial Cæsar, who ruled the Roman Empire 31
  B.C.-14 A.D., 11, 308.
Au´lis, port in Bœotia, meeting-place of Greek expedition against Troy,
  213.
Au-ro´ra, identical with Eos, goddess of the dawn, 23, 26, 53, 72,
  207-208.
Au-ro´ra Bo-re-a´lis, splendid nocturnal luminosity in northern sky,
  called Northern Lights, probably electrical, 331.
Au´tumn, attendant of Phœbus, the Sun, 39.
Av´a-lon, land of the Blessed, an earthly paradise in the Western Seas,
  burial-place of King Arthur, 395, 400, 520.
Av´a-tar, name for any of the earthly incarnations of Vishnu, the
  Preserver (Hindu god), 321.
Av´en-tine, Mount, one of the Seven Hills of Rome, 146.
A-ver´nus, a miasmatic lake close to the promontory between Cumæ and
  Puteoli, filling the crater of an extinct volcano, by the ancients thought
  to be the entrance to the infernal regions, 265, 266.
Av-i-cen´na, celebrated Arabian physician and philosopher, 313.
A´ya, mother of Rinaldo, 820.
Ay´mon, Duke, father of Rinaldo and Bradamante, 791-792, 794.

                                   B

Ba´al, king of Tyre, 358.
Bab-y-lo´ni-an River, dried up when Phaëton drove the sun-chariot, 44.
Bac´cha-na´li-a, a feast to Bacchus that was permitted to occur but once
  in three years; attended by most shameless orgies, 161.
Bac´cha-nals, devotees and festal dancers of Bacchus, 161, 164.
Bac´chus (Dionysus), god of wine and revelry, 8, 10, 46-47, 123, 160-165,
  179, 187.
Ba´don, battle of, Arthur’s final victory over the Saxons, 394, 400.
Bag-de-ma´gus, King, a knight of Arthur’s time, 427-428, 489.
Bal´dur, son of Odin, and representing in Norse mythology the sun-god,
  343-347.
Bal-i-sar´do, Orlando’s sword, 786.
Ban, King of Brittany, ally of Arthur, father of Launcelot, 391, 401, 424.
Bards, minstrels of Welsh Druids, 361, 531.
Bas´i-lisk. _See_ Cockatrice.
Bau´cis, wife of Philemon, visited by Jupiter and Mercury, 49-51.
Bay´ard, wild horse subdued by Rinaldo, 661-663, 672, 696, 704, 708,
  768-769, 784-788, 814, 826.
Be´al, Druids’ god of life, 358.
Bear (Constellation of), 3.
Bed´i-vere, Arthur’s knight, 517-525.
Bed´ver, King Arthur’s butler, made governor of Normandy, 406, 407, 408,
  410.
Bed´wyr, knightly comrade of Geraint, 570.
Bel-i-sar´da, Rogero’s sword, 730.
Bel-ler´o-phon, demigod, conqueror of the Chimæra, 125-126.
Bel-lo´na, the Roman goddess of war, represented as the sister or wife of
  Mars, 10.
Bel´tane, Druidical fire-festival, 359.
Be´lus, son of Poseidon (Neptune) and Libya or Eurynome, twin brother of
  Agenor, 262.
Ben´di-geid Vran, King of Britain, 589-597.
Be´o-wulf, hero and king of the Swedish Geats, 635-637.
Ber´o-e, nurse of Semele, 160.
Ber´tha, mother of Orlando, 656.
Bi´frost, rainbow bridge between the earth and Asgard (which _See_), 330,
  349.
Bla´dud, inventor, builder of the city of Bath, 383.
Bla´mor, a knight of Arthur, 512, 523, 525.
Ble-ob´er-is, a knight of Arthur, 525.
Bœ-o´ti-a, state in ancient Greece, capital city Thebes, 213, 297.
Bo-hort´, King, a knight of Arthur, 399, 401, 424, 442, 443, 446-449,
  497-502, 504-506, 507, 510, 512, 523, 524, 525.
Bo´na De´a, a Roman divinity of fertility, 10 n.
Bo-o´tes, also called Arcas, son of Jupiter and Calisto, changed to
  constellation of Ursa Major, 42.
Bo´re-as, North wind, son of Æolus and Aurora, 176, 261.
Bos´po-rus (Bosphorus), the Cow-ford, named for Io (which _See_), when as
  a heifer she crossed that strait, 31.
Brad-a-man´te, sister to Rinaldo; a female warrior, 697, 703, 708,
  712-721, 727, 737, 738, 740, 765-768, 779, 791, 792, 794, 796-801.
Brad-e-ma´gus, King, father of Sir Maleagans, 436, 439.
Brag´i, Norse god of poetry, 332.
Brah´ma, the Creator, chief god of Hindu religion, 320-325.
Bran´wen, daughter of Llyr, King of Britain, wife of Matholch, 591-597.
Brazen Age, 14.
Bré-cil´i-ande, forest of, where Vivian enticed Merlin, 391, 392, 475.
Breng´wain, maid of Isoude the Fair, 454, 468-469.
Bren´nus, son of Molmutius, went to Gaul, became King of the Allobroges,
  386.
Breuse, the Pitiless, a caitiff knight, 464, 469.
Bri-a´re-us, hundred-armed giant, 52, 123, 267.
Brice, Bishop, sustainer of Arthur when elected king, 398.
Brig-li-a-do´ro, Orlando’s horse, 759, 788.
Bri-se´is, captive maid belonging to Achilles, 216.
Brit´to, reputed ancestor of British people, 379.
Bruh´ier, Sultan of Arabia, 862-866.
Bru-nel´lo, dwarf, thief, and king, 694, 718.
Brun´hild, leader of the Valkyrie, 352, 354-357.
Bru´tus, great-grandson of Æneas, and founder of city of New Troy
  (London), 375, 379-391.
  _See_ Pandrasus.
Bry´an, Sir, a knight of Arthur, 430.
Bud´dha, called The Enlightened, reformer of Brahmanism, deified teacher
  of self-abnegation, virtue, reincarnation, _Karma_ (inevitable sequence of
  every act), and _Nirvana_ (beatific absorption into the Divine), lived
  about 562-482 B.C., 321, 325-326.
Bull, constellation, 40.
Byb´los, in Egypt, 294.
Byr´sa, original site of Carthage, 262.

                                   C

Ca´cus, gigantic son of Vulcan, slain by Hercules, whose captured cattle
  he stole, 146, 147.
Cad´mus, son of Agenor, king of Phœnicia, and of Telephassa, and brother
  of Europa, who, seeking his sister, carried off by Jupiter, had strange
  adventures—sowing in the ground teeth of a dragon he had killed, which
  sprang up armed men who slew each other, all but five, who helped Cadmus
  to found the city of Thebes, 34, 91-94, 131, 174, 182, 301.
Ca-du´ce-us, Mercury’s staff, 8, 49.
Cad-wal´lo, King of Venedotia (North Wales), 407.
Caer-le´on, traditional seat of Arthur’s court, 406, 413, 534, 553.
Cæ´sar, Julius, Roman lawyer, general, statesman and author, conquered and
  consolidated Roman territory, making possible the Empire, 387, 388.
Ca-i´cus, a Greek river, 44.
Cairns, Druidical stone-piles, 359, 365.
Cal´ais, French town facing England, 133, 176.
Cal´chas, wisest soothsayer among the Greeks at Troy, 214, 217, 230.
Cal´i-burn, a sword of Arthur, 400.
Cal-li´o-pe, one of the nine Muses (which _See_), 8, 185.
Cal-lis´to, an Arcadian nymph, mother of Arcas (_See_ Boötes), changed by
  Jupiter to constellation Ursa Minor, 31-34.
Cal´pe, a mountain in the south of Spain, on the strait between the
  Atlantic and Mediterranean, now Rock of Gibraltar, 145.
Cal´y-don, home of Meleager, 138, 140.
Ca-lyp´so, queen of Island of Ogyia, where Ulysses was wrecked and held
  seven years, 245-247.
Ca-lyp´so Island, 245.
Cam´ber, son of Brutus, governor of West Albion (Wales), 381.
Cam´bria, 529.
Cam´e-lot, legendary place in England where Arthur’s court and palace were
  located, 441, 453.
Ca-me´næ, prophetic nymphs, belonging to the religion of ancient Italy,
  175.
Ca-mil´la, Volscian maiden, huntress and Amazonian warrior, favorite of
  Diana, 278, 286, 287.
Cam´lan, battle of, where Arthur was mortally wounded, 395.
Can´ter-bury, English city, 516.
Cap´a-neus, husband of Evadne, slain by Jupiter for disobedience, 183.
Ca´pet, Hugh, King of France (987-996 A.D.), 870.
Car´a-doc Brief´bras, Sir, great-nephew of King Arthur, 418-423.
Car´a-hue, King of Mauretania, 853 ff., 861.
Car´thage, African city, home of Dido (which _See_), 262.
Cas-san´dra, daughter of Priam and Hecuba, and twin-sister of Helenus, a
  prophetess, who foretold the coming of the Greeks but was not believed,
  232.
Cas-si-bel-laun´us, British chieftain, fought but not conquered by Cæsar,
  387.
Cas-si-o-pe´ia, mother of Andromeda, 118, 120.
Cas-ta´li-a, fountain of Parnassus, giving inspiration to Oracular
  priestess named Pythia, 297.
Cas-ta´lian Cave, oracle of Apollo, 92.
Castes (India), 323-325.
Cas´tor and Pol´lux—the Dioscuri, sons of Jupiter and Leda,—Castor a
  horseman, Pollux a boxer (_See_ Gemini), 133, 158-159, 202, 203.
Cau´ca-sus, Mount, 18, 43, 170.
Ca-vall´, Arthur’s favorite dog, 564.
Ca-ys´ter, ancient river, 44.
Ce-bri´o-nes, Hector’s charioteer, 220.
Ce´crops, first king of Athens, 107.
Ce-les´tials, gods of classic mythology, 3.
Ce´le-us, shepherd who sheltered Ceres, seeking Proserpine, and whose
  infant son Triptolemus was in gratitude made great by Ceres, 54, 57.
Cel-li´ni, Benvenuto, famous Italian sculptor and artificer in metals,
  316.
Celt´ic nations, ancient Gauls and Britons, modern Bretons, Welsh, Irish
  and Gaelic Scotch, 529.
Cen´taurs, originally an ancient race, inhabiting Mount Pelion in
  Thessaly; in later accounts represented as half horses and half men, and
  said to have been the offspring of Ixion and a cloud, 127-128, 166.
Ceph´a-lus, husband of beautiful but jealous Procris, 26-28, 95.
Ce´phe-us, King of Ethiopians, father of Andromeda, 118, 120.
Ceph´i-sus, a Grecian stream, 92.
Cer´be-rus, three-headed dog that guarded the entrance to Hades; called a
  son of Typhaon and Echidna, 88, 147, 196, 268.
Ce´res (_See_ Demeter), 8, 53, 54-57, 86, 169.
Ces´tus, the girdle of Venus, 6, 218.
Cey-lon´, 326.
Ce´yx, King of Thessaly (_See_ Halcyone), 69-75.
Cha´os, original Confusion, personified by Greeks as most ancient of the
  gods, 4, 12, 45.
Char´le-magne, king of the Franks and emperor of the Romans, 375, 647,
  650-655, 664-672, 674, 801-813 ff.
Charles Mar-tel´, king of the Franks, grandfather of Charlemagne, called
  Martel (the Hammer) from his defeat of the Saracens at Tours, 648, 649,
  650.
Char´lot, son of Charlemagne, 818-821, 825, 827, 852, 858.
Cha´ron, son of Erebos, conveyed in his boat the shades of the dead across
  the rivers of the lower world, 88, 267.
Cha-ryb´dis, whirlpool near the coast of Sicily, 243-245, 261, 303, 304,
  322.
  _See_ Scylla.
Chi-mæ´ra, a fire-breathing monster, the fore part of whose body was that
  of a lion, the hind part that of a dragon, and the middle that of a goat,
  slain by Bellerophon, 122, 124-126, 267.
Chi´na, 326;
  Lamas (priests) of, 327.
Chi´os, island in the Grecian archipelago, 205.
Chi´ron, wisest of all the Centaurs, son of Cronos (Saturn) and Philyra,
  lived on Mount Pelion, instructor of Grecian heroes, 127, 128, 133,
  173.
Chry-se´is, Trojan maid, taken by Agamemnon, 216.
Chry´ses, priest of Apollo, father of Chryseis, 216.
Ci-co´ni-ans, inhabitants of Ismarus, visited by Ulysses, 236.
Cim´bri, an ancient people of Central Europe, 529.
Cim-me´ri-a, a land of darkness, 31, 71, 529.
Ci´mon, Athenian general, 154.
Cir´ce, sorceress, sister of Æetes, 60, 61, 117, 241-243.
Ci-thæ´ron, Mount, scene of Bacchic worship, 164, 192.
Clar-i-mun´da, wife of Huon, 845-848.
Cli´o, one of the Muses (which _See_), 8.
Clor´i-dan, a Moor, 747-751.
Clo´tho, one of the Fates (which _See_), 9.
Clym´e-ne, an ocean nymph, 38-39.
Cly-tem-nes´tra, wife of Agamemnon, killed by Orestes, 234.
Cly´tie, a water-nymph, in love with Apollo, 104-105.
Cni´dos, ancient city of Asia Minor, seat of worship of Aphrodite (Venus),
  66.
Cock´a-trice (or Basilisk), called King of Serpents, supposed to kill with
  its look, 312-314.
Co-cy´tus, a river of Hades, 267.
Col´chis, a kingdom east of the Black Sea, 130, 131, 137.
Col´o-phon, one of the seven cities claiming the birth of Homer, 307.
Co-lum´ba, St., an Irish Christian missionary to Druidical parts of
  Scotland, 362-363.
Co´nan, Welsh king, 388.
Con´stan-tine, Greek emperor, 791, 793.
Cor-deil´la, daughter of the mythical King Leir, 383-384.
Co-ri-ne´us, a Trojan warrior in Albion, 381.
Cor´inth, city and isthmus of, 136, 151, 155, 195, 197, 199.
Cor-nu-co´pi-a of Achelous, 179.
Corn´wall, southwest part of Britain, 381, 382.
Cor-ta´na, Ogier’s sword, 853, 854, 865.
Cor-y-ban´tes, priests of Cybele, or Rhea, in Phrygia, who celebrated her
  worship with dances, to the sound of the drum and the cymbal, 143.
Crab, constellation, 41.
Cranes and their enemies, the Pygmies, 128;
  of Ibycus, 198-201.
Cre´on, king of Thebes, 183.
Crete, one of the largest islands of the Mediterranean Sea, lying south of
  the Cyclades, 95, 100, 109, 152, 259.
Cre-u´sa, daughter of Priam, wife of Æneas, 136.
Croc´a-le, a nymph of Diana, 34.
Crom´lech, Druidical altar, 359.
Cro´nos, 9, 301.
  _See_ Saturn.
Cro-to´na, city of Italy, 288, 292.
Cu-chu´lain, Irish hero, called the “Hound of Ireland,” 637-640.
Cul-dees´, followers of St. Columba, 363-364.
Cu-mæ´an Sibyl, seeress of Cumæ, consulted by Æneas, sold Sibylline books
  to Tarquin, 275.
Cu´pid, child of Venus and god of love, 7, 20, 53, 65, 80-90, 193.
Cu-roi of Kerry, wise man, 638-640.
Cy´a-ne, river, opposed Pluto’s passage to Hades, 53, 54, 55.
Cyb´e-le (Rhea, which _See_), 11, 142.
Cy-clo´pes, creatures with circular eyes, of whom Homer speaks as a
  gigantic and lawless race of shepherds in Sicily, who devoured human
  beings; they helped Vulcan to forge the thunderbolts of Zeus under Ætna,
  122, 123, 180, 205, 209, 210, 237-240, 247, 260.
Cym´be-line, king of ancient Britain, 388.
Cy´no-sure (Dog’s tail), the Pole-star, at tail of Constellation Ursa
  Minor, 33.
Cyn´thi-an mountain top, birthplace of Artemis (Diana) and Apollo, 112.
Cy´prus, island off the coast of Syria, sacred to Aphrodite, 6, 63, 66,
  78, 142, 233.
Cy-re´ne, a nymph, mother of Aristæus, 189-190.

                                   D

Dæ´da-lus, architect of the Cretan Labyrinth; inventor of sails, 152,
  156-157.
Dag´ue-net, King Arthur’s fool, 469.
Da´lai La´ma, chief pontiff of Thibet, 327.
Dan´a-e, mother of Perseus by Jupiter, 202.
Da-na´i-des, the fifty daughters of Danaüs, king of Argos, who were
  betrothed to the fifty sons of Ægyptus, but were commanded by their father
  to slay each her own husband on the marriage night, 186.
Dan´a-us (_See_ Danaides), 186.
Daph´ne, maiden loved by Apollo, and changed into a laurel tree, 20-23.
Dar-da-nelles´, ancient Hellespont (which _See_), 129.
Dar´da-nus, progenitor of the Trojan kings, 206, 259.
Dar´di-nel, prince of Zumara, 745.
Dawn, 3, 5, 41.
  _See_ Aurora.
Day, an attendant on Phœbus, the Sun, 39.
Day-star (Hesperus), 41, 69, 71.
Death, 181, 220, 266.
  _See_ Hela.
De-iph´o-bus, son of Priam and Hecuba, the bravest brother of Paris, 213,
  224.
De´ja-ni´ra, wife of Hercules, 147, 177, 179.
De´los, floating island, birthplace of Apollo and Diana, 38, 157, 162,
  259.
Del´phi, shrine of Apollo, famed for its oracles, 1, 123, 155, 234, 235,
  297, 298.
Del´phos, 21.
De-me´ter, Greek goddess of marriage and human fertility; identified by
  Romans with Ceres (which _See_), 8.
De-me´ti-a, South Wales, 407.
De-mod´o-cus, bard of Alcinoüs, king of the Phæacians, 202, 252.
Deu-ca´li-on, king of Thessaly, who with his wife Pyrrha were the only
  pair surviving a deluge sent by Zeus, 16-17, 301.
Di´a, island of, 162.
Di-a´na (Artemis), goddess of the moon and of the chase, daughter of
  Jupiter and Latona, 6, 21, 26, 30, 34-36, 38, 53, 56, 101, 112, 123, 127,
  134 n., 138, 139, 141, 154, 204, 206, 214, 235, 259, 278, 286, 380.
Di-a´na of the Hind, antique sculpture in the Louvre, Paris, 306.
Di-a´na, temple of, 314.
Dic´tys, a sailor, 162, 202.
Did´i-er, king of the Lombards, 653.
Di´do, queen of Tyre and Carthage, entertained the shipwrecked Æneas, 262,
  263, 268.
Di-o-me´de, Greek hero during Trojan War, 213, 219, 229, 232.
Di-o´ne, female Titan, mother of Zeus, of Aphrodite (Venus), 6.
Di-o-ny´sus. _See_ Bacchus.
Di-os-cu´ri, the Twins (_See_ Castor and Pollux), 158.
Dir´ce, wife of Lycus, king of Thebes, who ordered Amphion and Zethus to
  tie Antiope to a wild bull, but they, learning Antiope to be their mother,
  so treated Dirce herself, 192.
Dis. _See_ Pluto.
Dis´cord, apple of, 212.
  _See_ Eris.
Dis-cor´di-a, 266.
  _See_ Eris.
Do-do´na, site of an oracle of Zeus (Jupiter), 296.
Dolphin, 196.
Dor´ce-us, a dog of Diana, 35.
Do´ris, wife of Nereus, 44, 173.
Drag´on’s teeth sown by Cadmus, 301.
Dru´ids, ancient Celtic priests, 358-362.
Dry´-a-des (or Dryads), 169.
  _See_ Wood-nymphs.
Dry´o-pe, changed to a lotus plant, for plucking a lotus—enchanted form of
  the nymph Lotis, 64-65.
Du-bri´ci-us, bishop of Caerleon, 407, 408.
Du´don, a knight, comrade of Astolpho, 783.
Dun-wal´lo Mol-mu´ti-us, British king and lawgiver, 385.
Du-rin-da´na, sword of Orlando or Rinaldo, 658, 672, 687, 699, 754, 759,
  765, 785-788.
Dwarfs in Wagner’s Nibelungen Ring, 354.

                                   E

Earth (Gæa), 4, 5, 44;
  goddess of the, 145, 297.
E-bu´di-ans, the, 732-733.
Ech´o, nymph of Diana, shunned by Narcissus, faded to nothing but a voice,
  101-103.
Eck´len-lied, the, 354.
Ed´das, Norse mythological records, 329, 348, 351, 354.
Ed´e-ryn, son of Nudd, 562.
E-ge´ri-a, nymph of the Fountain, 154, 175.
Egypt, 123, 163, 233, 296.
Eis-tedd´fod, session of Welsh bards and minstrels, 361.
E-lec´tra, the lost one of the Pleiades (which _See_); also, sister of
  Orestes (which _See_), 206, 234, 235.
El-eu-sin´i-an Mysteries, instituted by Ceres, and calculated to awaken
  feelings of piety and a cheerful hope of better life in the future, 57.
E-leu´sis, Grecian city, 54, 57.
El´gin Marbles, Greek sculptures from the Parthenon of Athens, now in
  British Museum, London, placed there by Lord Elgin, 155.
E-li-au´res, enchanter, 419.
El´i-dure, a king of Britain, 386.
E´lis, ancient Greek city, 55, 144, 155.
El´li, old age; the one successful wrestler against Thor, 341.
El´phin, son of Gwyddno, 626-633.
Elves, spiritual beings, of many powers and dispositions—some evil, some
  good, 348.
El-vid´nir, the hall of Hela (which _See_), 333.
E-lys´i-an Fields, the land of the blest, 2.
E-lys´i-an Plain, whither the favored of the gods were taken without
  death, 2.
E-lys´i-um, a happy land, where there is neither snow, nor cold, nor rain.
  Hither favored heroes, like Menelaus, pass without dying, and live happy
  under the rule of Rhadamanthus. In the Latin poets Elysium is part of the
  lower world, and the residence of the shades of the blessed, 196, 269,
  272, 273.
Em´bla, the first woman, 329.
En-cel´a-dus, giant defeated by Jupiter, 52, 122.
En-dym´i-on, a beautiful youth beloved by Diana, 61, 204.
E´nid, wife of Geraint, 568, 573.
En´na, vale of, home of Proserpine, 53, 58.
E´noch, the patriarch, 772.
Epi-dau´rus, a town in Argolis, on the Saronic gulf; chief seat of the
  worship of Æsculapius, whose temple was situated near the town, 94, 95,
  151, 298.
Ep-i-me´theus, son of Iapetus; husband of Pandora; with his brother
  Prometheus took part in creation of man, 13, 18.
E-pi´rus, country to the west of Thessaly, lying along the Adriatic Sea,
  260, 292.
E-po´pe-us, a sailor, 162.
Er´a-to, one of the Muses (which _See_), 8.
Er´bin of Cornwall, father of Geraint, 568, 570.
Er´e-bus, son of Chaos; region of darkness, entrance to Hades, 4, 56, 88,
  153, 187, 277.
E-rid´a-nus, river, 45.
E-ri´nys (_pl._ E-rin´ny-es), one of the Furies (which _See_), 9, 235.
Er´i-phy´le, sister of Polynices, bribed to decide on war, in which her
  husband was slain, 182, 183.
E´ris (Discordia), goddess of discord. At the wedding of Peleus and
  Thetis, Eris being uninvited threw into the gathering an apple “For the
  Fairest,” which was claimed by Hera (Juno), Aphrodite (Venus) and Athena
  (Minerva). Paris, being called upon for judgment, awarded it to Aphrodite,
  211.
Er-i-sich´thon, an unbeliever, punished by famine, 167, 169-171, 177.
E´ros. _See_ Cupid.
Er´y-the´ia, island, 145, 146.
E´ryx, a mount, haunt of Venus, 53.
E-se´pus, river in Paphlagonia, 208.
Es-tril´dis, wife of Locrine, supplanting divorced Guendolen, 381.
E-te´o-cles, son of Œdipus and Jocasta, 182, 183.
E-trus´cans, ancient people of Italy, 281.
Et´zel, king of the Huns, 353.
Eu-bo´ic Sea, where Hercules threw Lichas, who brought him the poisoned
  shirt of Nessus, 148.
Eude, king of Aquitaine, ally of Charles Martel, 649.
Eu-mæ´us, swineherd of Æneas, 254, 257.
Eu-men´i-des, also called Erinnyes, and by the Romans Furiæ or Diræ, the
  Avenging Deities, 201, 234.
  _See_ Furies.
Eu-phor´bus, a Trojan, killed by Menelaus, 289.
Eu-phros´y-ne, one of the Graces (which _See_), 8.
Eu-ro´pa, daughter of the Phœnician king Agenor, by Zeus the mother of
  Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Sarpedon, 91, 109.
Eu´rus, the East wind, 176.
Eu-ry´a-lus, a gallant Trojan soldier, who with Nisus entered the Grecian
  camp, both being slain, 282, 283, 284.
Eu-ryd´i-ce, wife of Orpheus, who, fleeing from an admirer, was killed by
  a snake and borne to Tartarus, where Orpheus sought her and was permitted
  to bring her to earth if he would not look back at her following him; but
  he did, and she returned to the Shades, 185-188, 191, 196.
Eu-ryl´o-chus, a companion of Ulysses, 241.
Eu-ryn´o-me, female Titan, wife of Ophion (which _See_), 4, 5.
Eu-rys´theus, taskmaster of Hercules, 128, 143-147.
Eu-ryt´i-on, a Centaur (_See_ Hippodamia), 127, 145.
Eu-ter´pe, Muse who presided over music, 8.
Eux´ine Sea, 2, 130.
E-vad´ne, wife of Capaneus, who flung herself upon his funeral pile and
  perished with him, 182, 183.
E-van´der, Arcadian chief, befriending Æneas in Italy, 279-281, 285.
Eve, 5, 17, 301.
Ev´niss-yen, quarrelsome brother of Branwen, 590, 591.
Ex-cal´i-bar, sword of King Arthur, 398, 399, 413, 519.

                                   F

Faf´ner, a giant turned dragon, treasure-stealer; by the Solar Theory
  simply the Darkness who steals the day, 354, 355, 356.
Fal-er-i´na, an enchantress, 678, 686, 688.
Fam´ine, 170.
Fa´solt, a giant, brother of Fafner, and killed by him, 354.
“Fas´ti,” Ovid’s, a mythological poetic calendar, 309.
Fa´ta Mor-ga´na, a mirage, 691.
Fates, the three, described as daughters of Night—to indicate the darkness
  and obscurity of human destiny—or of Zeus and Themis, that is, “daughters
  of the just heavens:” they were Clo´tho, who spun the thread of life;
  Lach´e-sis, who held the thread and fixed its length, and At´ro-pos, who
  cut it off, 9, 56, 67, 170, 180, 181.
Fauns, cheerful sylvan deities, represented in human form, with small
  horns, pointed ears, and sometimes goat’s tail, 10, 76.
Fau´nus, son of Picus, grandson of Saturnus, and father of Latinus,
  worshipped as the protecting deity of agriculture and of shepherds, and
  also as a giver of oracles, 10, 36, 166, 209, 276.
Fa-vo´ni-us, the West wind, 176.
Fear, 266.
Fen´ris, a wolf, the son of Loki the Evil Principle of Scandinavia;
  supposed to have personated the element of fire, destructive except when
  chained, 332, 333, 344, 349.
Fen-sa´lir, Freya’s palace, called the Hall of the Sea, where were brought
  together lovers, husbands, and wives who had been separated by death,
  344.
Fer´ra-gus, a giant, opponent of Orlando, 657-658.
Fer´rau, one of Charlemagne’s knights, 667, 669, 737.
Fer´rex, brother of Porrex, the two sons of Leir, 385.
Fire-worshippers, of ancient Persia, 318-320.
  _See_ Parsees.
Flol-lo, Roman tribune in Gaul, 405, 406.
Flo´ra, Roman goddess of flowers and spring, 10, 176.
Flor-de´lis, fair maiden beloved by Florismart, 675-676, 678, 683, 702,
  763, 767.
Flor´is-mart, Sir, a brave knight, 656, 675-676, 678, 692, 702, 737, 740,
  764, 783-789.
Floss-hil´da, one of the Rhine daughters (which _See_), 354.
Fortunate Fields, 2.
Fortunate Islands (_See_ Elysian Plain), 273.
Fo´rum, market-place and open square for public meetings in Rome,
  surrounded by courthouses, palaces, temples, etc., 281.
Fran´cus, son of Histion, grandson of Japhet, great-grandson of Noah,
  legendary ancestor of the Franks, or French, 379.
Fre´ki, one of Odin’s two wolves, 330.
French language, 374.
Frey, or Freyr, god of the sun, 332, 336, 347, 348, 349.
Frey´a, Norse goddess of music, spring, and flowers, 332, 334, 335, 347,
  351, 355.
Frick´a, goddess of marriage, 355.
Frig´ga, goddess who presided over smiling nature, sending sunshine, rain,
  and harvest, 344, 345, 347, 351, 352.
Froh, one of the Norse gods, 354.
Fron-ti´no, Rogero’s horse, 695.
Frost Giants, 349.
Ful´la, 419.
Fu´ries (Erinnyes), the three retributive spirits who punished crime,
  represented as snaky-haired old woman, named Alecto, Megæra, and
  Tisiphone, 9, 186, 198, 199, 266, 269, 270, 277.
Fus-ber´ta, Rinaldo’s sword, 710.

                                   G

Gæ´a, or Ge, called Tellus by the Romans, the personification of the
  earth; described as the first being that sprang from Chaos, and gave birth
  to Uranus (Heaven) and Pontus (Sea), 1-2.
Ga-ha´ri-et, knight of Arthur’s court, 404, 414.
Ga-he´ris, knight, 429, 430, 434, 508.
Gal´a-fron, King of Cathay, father of Angelica, 665, 685.
Gal´a-had, Sir, the pure knight of Arthur’s Round Table, who safely took
  the Siege Perilous (which _See_), 487-491, 494, 504-506.
Gal-a-te´a, a Nereid or sea-nymph, 173, 197.
Gal-a-te´a, statue carved and beloved by Pygmalion, 209-211.
Ga´len, Greek physician and philosophical writer, 313.
Gal´le-hant, King of the Marches, 425, 442.
Games, national athletic contests in Greece—Olympian, at Olympia; Pythian,
  near Delphi, seat of Apollo’s oracle; Isthmian, on the Corinthian Isthmus;
  Nemean, at Nemea in Argolis, 155.
Gan, treacherous Duke of Maganza, 663, 801-805.
Gan´e-lon of Mayence, one of Charlemagne’s knights, 656.
Gan´ges, river in India, 44.
Ga´no, a peer of Charlemagne, 653.
Gan´y-mede, the most beautiful of all mortals; carried off to Olympus that
  he might fill the cup of Zeus and live among the immortal gods, 150.
Gar´eth, Arthur’s knight, 414, 508.
Gau-dis´so, Sultan, 838 ff.
Gaul, ancient France, 405.
Gau´ta-ma, Prince, the Buddha (which _See_), 325.
Ga-wain´, Arthur’s knight, 392, 402, 403, 404, 409, 414-417, 432-434, 438,
  442, 474, 484-485, 487, 490-491, 508-514, 515-516, 546, 548-549, 554, 555,
  613.
Gawl, son of Clud, suitor for Rhiannon, 585-588, 606.
Gem´i-ni (_See_ Castor), constellation created by Jupiter from the
  twin-brothers after death, 158.
Gen´ghis Khan, Tartar conqueror, 327.
Ge´ni-us, in Roman belief, the protective Spirit of each individual man,
  11.
  _See_ Juno.
Geof´frey of Mon´mouth, translator into Latin of the Welsh History of the
  Kings of Britain (1150), 375, 379.
Ge-raint´, a knight of King Arthur, 556-582.
Ger´da, wife of Frey, 336.
Ge´ri, one of Odin’s two wolves, 330.
Ge´ry-on, a three-bodied monster, 145.
Ges´nes, navigator sent for Isoude the Fair, 477.
Gi-al´lar Horn, the trumpet that Heimdal will blow at the judgment day,
  349.
Gi´ants, beings of monstrous size and of fearful countenances; represented
  as in constant opposition to the gods, 122-123;
  in Wagner’s Nibelungen Ring, 354.
Gi´bich-ung race, ancestors of Alberich, 356, 357.
Gi-bral´tar, great rock and town at southwest corner of Spain (_See_
  Pillars of Hercules), 145.
Gil´das, a scholar of Arthur’s court, 564.
Gi-rard´, son of Duke Sevinus, 826.
Glas´ton-bur-y, where Arthur died, 395.
Glau-cus, a fisherman, loving Scylla, 59-61, 174, 213.
Gleip´nir, magical chain on the wolf Fenris, 333.
Glew´lw-yd, Arthur’s porter, 610, 611.
Gods of the ancient myths, 12, 354.
Golden Age, 9, 14, 301.
Golden Apples, 117-118, 145-146.
Golden Fleece, of ram used for escape of children of Athamas, named Helle
  and Phryxus (which _See_); after sacrifice of ram to Jupiter, fleece was
  guarded by sleepless dragon and gained by Jason and Argonauts (which
  _See_; also Helle), 129-133, 134.
Gon´er-il, daughter of Leir, 383-384.
Gor´di-an Knot, tying up in temple the wagon of Gordius, he who could
  untie it being destined to be lord of Asia; it was cut by Alexander the
  Great, 48.
Gor´di-us, a countryman who, arriving in Phrygia in a wagon, was made king
  by the people, thus interpreting an oracle, 48.
Gor´gons, three monstrous females, with huge teeth, brazen claws and
  snakes for hair, sight of whom turned beholders to stone; Medusa, the most
  famous, slain by Perseus (which _See_), 115.
Gor´lois, Duke of Tintadel, 397, 398.
Gou-ver-nail, squire of Isabella, queen of Lionesse, protector of her son
  Tristram while young, 449, and his squire in knighthood, 463.
Graal, the Holy, cup from which the Saviour drank at Last Supper, taken by
  Joseph of Arimathea to Europe, and lost, its recovery becoming a sacred
  quest for Arthur’s knights, 392, 475, 487.
Graces, three goddesses who enhanced the enjoyments of life by refinement
  and gentleness; they were Aglaia (brilliance), Euphrosyne (joy), and
  Thalia (bloom), 4, 8.
Gra-das´so, king of Sericane, 672, 700, 702, 737, 740, 765, 768-769,
  784-788.
Græ´æ, three gray-haired female watchers for the Gorgons, with one movable
  eye and one tooth between the three, 115-116.
Grand La´ma, Buddhist pontiff in Thibet, 327.
Great Bear, constellation, 32-33, 36, 42.
Gren´del, monster slain by Beowulf, 635.
Griefs, 266.
Gry´phon (griffin), a fabulous animal, with the body of a lion and the
  head and wings of an eagle, dwelling in the Rhipæan mountains, between the
  Hyperboreans and the one-eyed Arimaspians, and guarding the gold of the
  North, 128.
Gue´bers, Persian fire-worshippers, 320.
Guen´do-len, wife of Locrine, 381-382.
Guen´e-vere, wife of King Arthur, beloved by Launcelot, 425, 435-437,
  439-441, 445-448, 481, 507, 522, 523, 524, 534, 555-557, 565.
Guer´in, lord of Vienne, father of Oliver, 658, 660.
Gui-de´ri-us, son of Cymbeline, 388.
Guil-la-mu´ri-us, king in Ireland, 407.
Gui-mier´, betrothed of Caradoc, 419-420.
Gul-lin-burs´ti, the boar drawing Frey’s car, 347.
Gull´topp, Heimdell’s horse, 347.
Gun-fa´si-us, King of the Orkneys, 407.
Gün´ther, Burgundian king, brother of Kriemhild, 352, 356, 357.
Gu´trune, half-sister to Hagen, 356.
Gwern, son of Matholch and Branwen, 593, 595.
Gwer´nach the Giant, 620-622.
Gwiff´ert Pe´tit, ally of Geraint, 582.
Gwydd´no, Garan´hir, King of Gwaelod, 626.
Gwyr, judge in the court of Arthur, 570.
Gy´oll, river, 345.

                                   H

Ha´des, originally the god of the nether world—the name later used to
  designate the gloomy subterranean land of the dead, 147.
Hæ´mon, son of Creon of Thebes, and lover of Antigone, 183.
Hæ-mo´ni-an city, 73.
Hæ´mus, Mount, northern boundary of Thrace, 31, 43.
Ha´gan, a principal character in the Nibelungen Lied, slayer of Siegfried,
  352, 353, 354, 356, 357.
Hal-cy´o-ne, daughter of Æneas, and the beloved wife of Ceyx, who, when he
  was drowned, flew to his floating body, and the pitying gods changed them
  both to birds (kingfishers), who nest at sea during a certain calm week in
  winter (“halcyon weather”), 69-76.
Ham-a-dry´ads, tree- or wood-nymphs, 76, 172.
  _See_ Nymphs.
Har-mo´ni-a, daughter of Mars and Venus, wife of Cadmus, 94, 182.
Ha-roun´ al Ra´schid, Caliph of Arabia, contemporary of Charlemagne, 655.
Har´pies, monsters, with head and bust of woman, but wings, legs and tail
  of birds, seizing souls of the wicked, or punishing evil-doers by greedily
  snatching or defiling their food, 176, 259-260, 276, 770.
Har-poc´ra-tes, Egyptian god, Horus, 293.
Heaven, 4.
He´be, daughter of Juno, cupbearer to the gods, 3, 135, 149, 150.
He´brus, ancient name of river Maritzka, 187.
Hec´a-te, a mighty and formidable divinity, supposed to send at night all
  kinds of demons and terrible phantoms from the lower world, 131, 134, 135,
  266.
Hec´tor, son of Priam and champion of Troy, 213, 214, 217, 218, 220, 221,
  222, 223, 224, 227, 260.
Hec´tor, one of Arthur’s knights, 443, 491.
Hec´tor de Ma-rys´, a knight, 430, 432-434, 510, 512, 523, 524, 525.
Hec´u-ba, wife of Priam, king of Troy, to whom she bore Hector, Paris, and
  many other children, 223, 224, 226, 232.
He-gi´ra, flight of Mahomet from Mecca to Medina (622 A.D.), era from
  which Mahometans reckon time, as we do from the birth of Christ,
  647-648.
Heid´run, she-goat, furnishing mead for slain heroes in Valhalla, 331.
Heim´dall, watchman of the gods, 332, 347, 349.
Hel, the lower world of Scandinavia, to which were consigned those who had
  not died in battle, 345.
He´la (Death), the daughter of Loki and the mistress of the Scandinavian
  Hel, 332, 344, 345, 349.
Hel´en, daughter of Jupiter and Leda; wife of Menelaus; carried off by
  Paris and cause of the Trojan War, 77, 153, 158, 212, 223, 229, 232, 233,
  424.
Hel´e-nus, son of Priam and Hecuba, celebrated for his prophetic powers,
  260, 261, 379.
He-li´a-des, sisters of Phaëton, 45.
Hel´i-con, Mount, in Greece, residence of Apollo and the Muses, with
  fountains of poetic inspiration, Aganippe and Hippocrene, 43, 124.
He-lio-op´o-lis, city of the Sun, in Egypt, 311.
Hel´las, Greece, 2.
Hel´le, daughter of Thessalian King Athamas, who, escaping from cruel
  father with her brother Phryxus, on ram with golden fleece, fell into the
  sea-strait since named for her (_See_ Golden Fleece), 129.
Hel´les-pont, narrow strait between Europe and Asia Minor, named for Helle
  (which _See_), 106, 129.
Hen´gist, Saxon invader of Britain, 449 A.D., 530.
He-phæs´tos, 6.
  _See_ Vulcan.
He´ra, called Juno by the Romans, a daughter of Cronos (Saturn) and Rhea,
  and sister and wife of Jupiter, 6.
  _See_ Juno.
Her´cu-les, athletic hero, son of Jupiter and Alcmena, achieved twelve
  vast labors and many famous deeds, 128, 130, 133, 143-149, 150, 151, 153,
  165, 177, 178, 179, 181, 193, 229, 279, 301, 379.
Her´cu-les, Pillars of (_See_ Pillars of Hercules), 145.
Her´cu-les, the twelve labors of, 144-147.
Her´e-ward the Wake, hero of the Saxons, 641-643.
Her´mes (Mercury), messenger of the gods, deity of commerce, science,
  eloquence, trickery, theft, and skill generally, 18, 49-51, 293.
Her-mi´o-ne, daughter of Menelaus and Helen, 233.
Her´mod, the nimble, son of Odin, 345.
He´ro, a priestess of Venus, beloved of Leander (which _See_), 105-106.
He-rod´o-tus, Greek historian, 307.
He´si-od, Greek poet, 273.
Hes-pe´ri-a, ancient name for Italy, 259.
Hes-per´i-des (_See_ Apples of the Hesperides), 46, 145.
Hes´pe-rus, the evening star (also called Day-Star, p. 41), 53, 69, 145.
Hes´ti-a, called Vesta by the Romans, the goddess of the hearth, 10.
Hil´de-brand, German magician and champion, 353.
Hin´du mythology, 320-321.
Hin´du triad, Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva (which _See_), 320-323.
Hip-po-cre´ne (_See_ Helicon), 124.
Hip-po-da-mi´a, wife of Pirithous, at whose wedding the Centaurs offered
  violence to the bride, causing a great battle, 127.
Hip´po-griff, winged horse, with eagle’s head and claws, 719, 721, 722,
  741.
Hip-pol´y-ta, Queen of the Amazons, 145, 154.
Hip-pol´y-tus, son of Thesus, 154.
Hip-pom´e-nes, who won Atalanta in foot-race, beguiling her with golden
  apples thrown for her to pick up, 66, 141-142.
His´ti-on, son of Japhet, 379.
Ho´dur, blind man, who, fooled by Loki, threw a mistletoe-twig at Baldur,
  killing him, 344-345.
Ho´el, king of Brittany, 400, 406, 408, 409, 411, 475.
Holy Wars of Charlemagne, 375.
Ho´mer, the blind poet of Greece, about 850 B.C., 202, 212, 216, 273,
  306-307.
Hope (_See_ Pandora), 14.
Ho´ræ. _See_ Hours.
Hor´sa, with Hengist, invader of Britain, 530.
Ho´rus, Egyptian god of the sun, 293.
Hou-dain´, Tristram’s dog, 454, 457.
Hours, 39, 41, 208.
Hring´ham, Baldur’s ship, 347.
Hroth´gar, king of Denmark, 635.
Hu´gi, who beat Thialfi in foot-races, 340.
Hu´gin, one of Odin’s two ravens, 330.
Hun´ger, 266, 333.
Hun´ding, husband of Sieglinda, 355.
Hu´on, son of Duke Sevinus, 826 ff.
Hy-a-cin´thus, a youth beloved by Apollo, and accidentally killed by him,
  changed in death to the flower, hyacinth, 67-68, 228.
Hy´a-des, Nysæan nymphs, nurses of infant Bacchus, rewarded by being
  placed as cluster of stars in the heavens, 160.
Hy´a-le, a nymph of Diana, 34.
Hy´dra, nine-headed monster slain by Hercules, 144, 149, 267, 269.
Hy-ge´i-a, goddess of health, daughter of Æsculapius, 174.
Hy´las, a youth detained by nymphs of spring where he sought water, 133.
Hy´men, the god of marriage, imagined as a handsome youth and invoked in
  bridal songs, 20, 185.
Hy-met´tus, mountain in Attica, near Athens, celebrated for its marble and
  its honey, 63.
Hy-per-bo´re-ans, people of the far North, 2.
Hy-pe´ri-on, a Titan, son of Uranus and Ge, and father of Helios, Selene,
  and Eos, 4, 5;
  cattle of, 244.
Hyr-ca´nia, Prince of, betrothed to Clarimunda, 844, 845.
Hy-ri-e´us, king in Greece, 297.

                                   I

I-ap´e-tus, a Titan, son of Uranus and Ge, and father of Atlas,
  Prometheus, Epimetheus, and Menœtius, 4, 18.
I-a´si-us, father of Atalanta, 138.
Ib´y-cus, a poet, story of, and the cranes, 198-201.
I-ca´ri-a, island of the Ægean Sea, one of the Sporades, 157.
I-ca´ri-us, Spartan prince, father of Penelope, 184.
Ic´a-rus, son of Dædalus, he flew too near the sun with artificial wings,
  and, the wax melting, he fell into the sea, 156, 157.
Ice´land, 351, 405.
Ice-los, attendant of Morpheus, 72.
I-col´um-kill. _See_ Iona.
I´da, Mount, a Trojan hill, 43, 150, 211.
I-dæ´us, a Trojan herald, 226.
I´das, son of Aphareus and Arene, and brother of Lynceus, 158.
I-du´na, wife of Bragi, 332.
I-gerne´, wife of Gorlois, and mother, by Uther, of Arthur, 397, 398.
Il´i-ad, epic poem of the Trojan War, by Homer, 216, 227.
Il´i-o´heus, a son of Niobe (which _See_), 113.
Il´i-um. _See_ Troy.
Il-lyr´i-a, Adriatic countries north of Greece, 31, 94.
Im´o-gen, daughter of Pandrasus, wife of Trojan Brutus, 380.
In´a-chus, son of Oceanus and Tethys, and father of Phoroneus and Io; also
  first king of Argos, and said to have given his name to the river Inachus.
  29.
In´cu-bus, an evil spirit, supposed to lie upon persons in their sleep,
  389.
In´dia, 39, 161.
In´dra, Hindu god of heaven, thunder, lightning, storm and rain, 320.
Infernal regions, 266-273.
I´no, wife of Athamas, fleeing from whom with infant son she sprang into
  the sea and was changed to Leucothea (which _See_), 94, 164, 174.
I´o, changed to a heifer by Jupiter, 29-31, 302.
I-ob´a-tes, King of Lycia, 124, 125.
I-o-la´us, servant of Hercules, 144.
I-ol´cos, 133.
I´o-le, sister of Dryope, 64-65.
I-o´na, or Icolmkill, a small northern island near Scotland, where St.
  Columba founded a missionary monastery (563 A.D.), 362-366.
I-o´ni-a, coast of Asia Minor, 69.
I-o´ni-an Sea, 31.
Iph-i-ge-ni´a, daughter of Agamemnon, offered as a sacrifice but carried
  away by Diana, 214, 235.
I´phis, died for love of Anaxarete, 78.
Iph´i-tus, friend of Hercules, killed by him, 147.
Ire´land, 362, 451 ff.
I´ris, goddess of the rainbow, messenger of Juno and Zeus, 6, 71-72, 218,
  225, 282.
Iron Age, 15.
I´ron-side, Arthur’s knight, 435.
Is-a-bel´la, daughter of king of Galicia, 449, 742-745, 753, 759.
I´sis, wife of Osiris; described as the giver of death, 292, 293-294.
Isles of the Blessed, 2, 146, 273.
Is´ma-rus, first stop of Ulysses, returning from Trojan War, 236.
Isme´nos, a son of Niobe, slain by Apollo, 113.
I-so´lier, friend of Rinaldo, 661, 662.
I-soude´ the Fair, beloved of Tristram, 451-459, 461, 468, 469-472, 477.
I-soude´ of the White Hands, married to Tristram, 475-477.
Isth´mi-an Games, 155, 174.
  _See_ Games.
It´a-ly, 154, 259, 262, 263, 276, 285.
Ith´a-ca, home of Ulysses and Penelope, 184, 212, 236, 253.
I-u´lus, son of Æneas, 276, 277, 283, 287.
I´vo, Saracen king, befriending Rinaldo, 663.
Ix-i´on, once a sovereign of Thessaly, sentenced in Tartarus to be lashed
  with serpents to a wheel which a strong wind drove continually around,
  186, 270.

                                   J

Ja-nic´u-lum, Roman fortress on the _Janiculus_, a hill on the other side
  of the Tiber, 281.
Ja´nus, a deity from the earliest times held in high estimation by the
  Romans, 10, 281;
  temple of, 277.
Ja-pan´, 326.
Ja´phet (Iapetus), 18.
Ja´son, leader of the Argonauts, seeking the Golden Fleece, 130-133, 134,
  135, 136, 138-139, 151.
Ja´va, 326.
Jo-cas´ta, 124, 182.
Jo´seph of Arimathea, who bore the Holy Graal to Europe, 506.
Jo´tun-heim, home of the giants in Northern mythology, 330, 335, 348.
Jove (Zeus), chief god of Roman and Grecian mythology, 5, 9, 18, 53, 56,
  80, 98, 100, 118, 119, 172, 177, 183, 210, 216, 220, 221, 239, 245,
  268.
  _See_ Jupiter.
Joy´ous Garde, residence of Sir Launcelot of the Lake, 524.
Jug´ger-naut, Hindu deity, 322.
Ju´no, the particular guardian spirit of each woman (_See_ Genius), 11.
Ju´no, wife of Jupiter, queen of the gods, 6, 28-33, 37, 38, 71, 72, 81,
  95, 101, 112, 123, 143, 144, 145, 149, 150, 160, 177, 211, 216, 218, 220,
  261, 277, 278, 279, 282, 287, 289.
Ju´pi-ter, _Jovis-pater_, Father Jove; Jupiter and Jove used
  interchangeably, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 13, 14, 15, 16, 21, 29-32, 38, 40,
  44, 45, 49, 50, 52, 89, 91, 92, 97, 107, 109, 116, 117, 123, 125, 127,
  128, 130, 143, 148, 150, 153, 155, 158, 160, 173, 179, 180, 182, 187, 192,
  204, 206, 207, 208, 211, 217, 218, 220, 221, 225, 226, 232, 240, 259, 263,
  269, 287;
  oracle of, at Dodona, 296;
  statue of the Olympian, 303.
Ju´pi-ter Am´mon (_See_ Ammon), 296.
Ju´pi-ter Cap´i-to-li´nus, temple of, preserving the Sibylline books, 275.
Jus´tice. _See_ Themis.

                                   K

Ka-dy-ri´ath, advises King Arthur, 564, 571.
Kai, son of Kyner, 570.
Kal´ki, tenth avatar (which _See_) of Vishnu, 321.
Kay, Arthur’s steward and a knight, 399, 406, 407, 408, 410, 411, 418,
  430, 431-432, 435, 440, 460, 481-482, 534, 547-548, 611, 614.
Ke-da´li-on, guide of Orion, 205-206.
Ker´man, desert of, 320.
Kic´va, daughter of Gwynn Gloy, 597-604.
Kil´wich, son of Kilydd, 608-619.
Ki-lydd´, son of Prince Kelyddon, of Wales, 608.
Kneph, spirit or breath, 292.
Knights, training and life of, 368-371.
Kriem´hild, wife of Siegfried, 352, 353.
Krish´na, eighth avatar (which _See_) of Vishnu, Hindu deity of fertility
  in nature and mankind, 321.
Ky´ner, father of Kay, 534.
Ky´non, son of Clydno, 534-539.

                                   L

Lab´y-rinth, the enclosed maze of passageways where roamed the Minotaur of
  Crete, killed by Theseus with aid of Ariadne, 152, 156.
Lach´e-sis, one of the Fates (which _See_), 9.
Lady of the Fountain, tale told by Kynon, 534-553.
La-er´tes, father of Ulysses, 185.
Læs-try-go´ni-ans, savages attacking Ulysses, 241.
La´ius, King of Thebes, 123.
La´ma, holy man of Thibet, 327.
Lam-pe´tia, daughter of Hyperion, 244.
La-oc´o-on, a priest of Neptune, in Troy, who warned the Trojans against
  the Wooden Horse (which _See_), but when two serpents came out of the sea
  and strangled him and his two sons, the people listened to the Greek spy
  Sinon (which _See_), and brought the fatal Horse into the town, 115,
  230.
La-o-da-mi´a, daughter of Acastus and wife of Protesilaus, 214.
La-od´e-gan, King of Carmalide, helped by Arthur and Merlin, 400-403.
La-om´e-don, King of Troy, 207.
Lap´i-thæ, Thessalonians, whose king had invited the Centaurs to his
  daughter’s wedding but who attacked them for offering violence to the
  bride, 127, 166.
La´res, household deities, 11.
Lark´spur, flower from the blood of Ajax, 228.
La-ti´nus, ruler of Latium, where Æneas landed in Italy, 276.
Lat´mos, Mount, where Diana fell in love with Endymion, 204.
La-to´na, mother of Apollo, 6, 36-38, 112, 113.
Launce´lot, the most famous knight of the Round Table, 424-434, 436,
  437-444, 446-448, 463, 465-466, 488, 491-494, 502-504, 507-514,
  521-525.
Lau´sus, son of Mezentius, killed by Æneas, 278, 285.
La-vin´i-a, daughter of Latinus and wife of Æneas, 276, 287.
La-vin´i-um, Italian city named for Lavinia, 287.
Law. _See_ Themis.
Le-an´der, a youth of Abydos, who, swimming the Hellespont to see Hero,
  his love, was drowned, 105-106.
Le-ba-de´a, site of the oracle of Trophonius, 298.
Le-byn´thos, Ægean island, 157.
Le´da, Queen of Sparta, wooed by Jupiter in the form of a swan, 109, 158.
Leir, mythical King of Britain, original of Shakespeare’s _Lear_, 383-384.
Le´laps, dog of Cephalus, 26, 35.
Lem´nos, large island in the Ægean Sea, sacred to Vulcan, 6, 130, 205,
  229.
Lem´u-res, the spectres or spirits of the dead, 11.
Le´o, Roman emperor, 409;
  Greek prince, 791, 793, 797, 801.
Le´the, river of Hades, drinking whose water caused forgetfulness, 72,
  271.
Leu-ca´dia, a promontory, whence Sappho, disappointed in love, was said to
  have thrown herself into the sea, 203.
Leu-co´the-a, a sea-goddess, invoked by sailors for protection (_See_
  Ino), 174.
Lew´is, son of Charlemagne, 825.
Li´ber, ancient god of fruitfulness, 10, 11.
Li-be´thra, burial-place of Orpheus, 187.
Lib´y-a, Greek name for continent of Africa in general, 145.
Lib´y-an Desert, in Africa, 44.
Lib´y-an Oasis, 296.
Li´chas, who brought the shirt of Nessus to Hercules, 148.
Li-mours´, Earl of, 580.
Li´nus, musical instructor of Hercules, 193.
Lion, constellation, 41.
Li´o-nel, knight of the Round Table, 424, 425, 430, 442, 443, 444,
  497-501, 510, 512.
Little Bear, constellation, 32-33, 42.
Llyr, King of Britain, 589.
Lo-crine´, son of Brutus in Albion, king of Central England, 381, 382.
Lo-e´gri-a, kingdom of (England), 450, 460, 468, 507.
Lo-ge-stil´la, a wise lady, who entertained Rogero and his friends, 731,
  739.
Lo´gi, who vanquished Loki in an eating-contest, 339.
Lo´ki, the Satan of Norse mythology, son of the giant Farbanti, 332, 334,
  335, 337, 339, 344-345, 346, 347, 349, 352, 354, 355.
Lo´mond, Lake, 405.
Lon´don, 381, 387, 402, 403-404.
Lot, King, a rebel chief, subdued by King Arthur, then a loyal knight,
  403, 405, 407, 414.
Lo´tis, a nymph, changed to a lotus plant and in that form plucked by
  Dryope (which _See_), 64.
Lo´tus-Eaters, soothed to indolence; companions of Ulysses landing among
  them lost all memory of home and had to be dragged away before they would
  continue their voyage, 237.
Love (Eros) issued from egg of Night, and with arrows and torch produced
  life and joy, 4.
Lu´can, one of Arthur’s knights, 512, 517-518.
Lu´cius Ti-be´ri-us, Roman procurator in Britain demanding tribute from
  Arthur, 409.
Lud, British king, whose capital was called Lud’s Town (London), 387.
Lud´gate, city gate where Lud was buried, 387.
Lu´ned, maiden who guided Owain to the Lady of the Fountain, 541-546, 552.
Lyc´a-has, a turbulent sailor, 162.
Ly-ca´on, son of Priam, 222.
Lyc´i-a, a district in Southern Asia Minor, 36, 124, 220.
Lyc-o-me´des, king of the Dolopians, who treacherously slew Theseus, 154,
  212.
Ly´cus, usurping King of Thebes, 192.
Lyn´ceus, one of the sons of Ægyptus, 158.

                                   M

Mab-i-no´ge-on, plural of _Mabinogi_; fairy tales and romances of the
  Welsh, 527-633.
Ma´bon, son of Modron, 619, 624.
Ma-cha´on, son of Æsculapius, 218, 219, 229.
Ma´dan, son of Guendolen, 382.
Ma´doc, a forester of King Arthur, 554.
Ma´dor, Scottish knight, 445-448.
Mael´gan, king who imprisoned Elphin, 628.
Mæ-o´ni-a, ancient Lydia, 162.
Ma´gi, Persian priests, 319.
Ma-ha-de´va, same as Siva (which _See_), 322.
Ma-hom´et, great prophet of Arabia, born in Mecca, 571 A.D., proclaimed
  worship of God instead of idols, spread his religion through disciples and
  then by force till it prevailed, with Arabian dominion, over vast regions
  in Asia, Africa, and Spain in Europe, 647.
Ma´ia, daughter of Atlas and Pleione, eldest and most beautiful of the
  Pleiades. 7.
Mail armour, 372.
Mal-a-gi´gi the Enchanter, one of Charlemagne’s knights, 656, 666,
  669-670, 673, 769, 804, 816-819.
Ma-le´a-gans, false knight, 436-441.
Mal-va´si-us, King of Iceland, 407.
Mam-bri´no, with invisible helmet, 780.
Man, creation of, 12.
Man-a-wyd´dan, brother of King Vran, of London, 589, 596, 597-605.
Man-dri-car´do, son of Agrican, 698-701, 753-755, 760, 765.
Man´tu-a, in Italy, birthplace of Virgil, 308.
Ma´nu, ancestor of mankind, 321.
Mar´a-thon, where Theseus and Pirithous met, 153.
Mark, King of Cornwall, husband of Isoude the Fair, 449, 450, 452, 468,
  471.
Mar´mo-ra, Sea of, 106.
Ma´ro. _See_ Virgil.
Mar-phi´sa, sister of Rogero, 765-768.
Mars, 6, 94, 107, 131, 216, 224.
Mar-sil´i-us, Spanish king, treacherous foe of Charlemagne, 801-813.
Mar´sy-as, inventor of the flute, who challenged Apollo to musical
  competition, and, defeated, was flayed alive, 193.
Mats´ya, the Fish, first avatar (which _See_) of Vishnu, 321.
Me-an´der, Grecian river, 44, 156.
Me-de´a, princess and sorceress who aided Jason, 117, 131, 132, 134-137,
  151, 152.
Med-i-ter-ra´ne-an Sea, 1, 233.
Me-do´ro, a young Moor, who wins Angelica, 745-752.
Me-du´sa, one of the Gorgons (which _See_), 116-117, 124.
Me-gæ´ra, one of the Furies (which _See_), 9.
Meg´a-ra, 98.
Me-lam´pus, a Spartan dog, 35;
  the first mortal endowed with prophetic powers, 193-194.
Me-lan´thus, steersman for Bacchus, 162.
Me-le-a´ger, one of the Argonauts (_See_ Althæa), 138-141.
Mel-i-a´dus, King of Lionesse, near Cornwall, 449.
Mel´i-cer´tes, infant son of Ino, changed to Palæmon (_See_ Ino,
  Leucothea, and Palæmon), 174.
Me-lis´sa, priestess at Merlin’s tomb, 716, 727-731, 738, 779.
Me-lis´se-us, a Cretan king, 179.
Mel-pom´e-ne, one of the Muses (which _See_), 8.
Mem´non, the beautiful son of Tithonus and Eos (Aurora), and king of the
  Ethiopians, slain in Trojan War, 120, 207, 208, 227.
Mem´phis, Egyptian city, 295, 299.
Men-e-la´us, son of King of Sparta, husband of Helen, 212, 213, 219, 221,
  232, 233, 289.
Men-œ´ceus, son of Creon, voluntary victim in war to gain success for his
  father, 183.
Men´tor, son of Alcimus and a faithful friend of Ulysses, 246.
Mer´cu-ry (_See_ Hermes), 7, 13, 29-31, 49, 56, 89, 116, 123, 129, 147,
  192, 214, 226, 242, 245, 251, 263, 301.
Mer´lin, enchanter, 389-393, 397, 399, 400, 401-403, 412, 413, 424, 467,
  475, 715.
Mer´o-pe, daughter of King of Chios, beloved by Orion, 205.
Mes´mer-ism, likened to curative oracle of Æsculapius at Epidaurus, 298.
Met´a-bus, father of Camilla, 278.
Met´a-mor´pho-ses, Ovid’s poetical legends of mythical transformations, a
  large source of our knowledge of classic mythology, 309.
Met-a-ni´ra, a mother, kind to Ceres seeking Proserpine, 54.
Me-temp´sy-cho´sis, transmigration of souls—rebirth of dying men and women
  in forms of animals or human beings, 272.
Me´tis, Prudence, a spouse of Jupiter, 5.
Me-zen´ti-us, a brave but cruel soldier, opposing Æneas in Italy, 278,
  281, 285, 286.
Mi´das, 46-48.
Mid´gard, the middle world of the Norsemen, 329, 330, 348.
Mid´gard serpent, a sea-monster, child of Loki, 332, 344, 349.
Milky Way, starred path across the sky, believed to be road to palace of
  the gods, 15.
Mi´lo, a great athlete, 292.
Mi´lon, father of Orlando, 656.
Mil´ton, John, great English poet, whose History of England is here
  largely used, 378.
Mi´me, one of the chief dwarfs of ancient German mythology, 354, 356.
Mi-ner´va (Athene), daughter of Jupiter, patroness of health, learning,
  and wisdom, 3, 4, 7, 13, 50, 53, 107-111, 116, 117, 123, 124, 125, 147,
  153, 154, 157, 183, 193, 211, 216, 229, 230, 235, 246, 247, 248, 249, 250,
  251, 254;
  statue of, 304.
Mi´nos, King of Crete, 95, 98-100, 152, 154, 156, 165, 268.
Min´o-taur, monster killed by Theseus, 152.
Mis´tle-toe, fatal to Baldur, 344, 360.
Mne-mos´y-ne, one of the Muses (which _See_), 4, 8.
Modesty, statue to, 184.
Mo´dred, nephew of King Arthur, 395, 409, 508, 515-518.
Mo´ly, plant, powerful against sorcery, 242.
Mo´mus, a deity whose delight was to jeer bitterly at gods and men, 9.
Mon´ad, the “unit” of Pythagoras, 289.
Monsters, unnatural beings, evilly disposed to men, 122-129.
Mont-al´ban, Rinaldo’s castle, 664.
Month, the, attendant upon the Sun, 39.
Moon, 3, 5, 41, 43;
  goddess of, _see_ Diana.
Mo-raunt´, knight, an Irish champion, 450, 468.
Mor-ga´na, enchantress, the Lady of the Lake in “Orlando Furioso,” same as
  Morgane Le Fay in tales of Arthur, 414, 689, 690-692, 869.
Mor-gane´ le Fay, Queen of Norway, King Arthur’s sister, an enchantress,
  426-427, 521.
Mor´gan Tud, Arthur’s chief physician, 566.
Mor´pheus, son of Sleep and god of dreams, 72, 73.
Morte d’Arthur, romance, by Sir Thomas Mallory, 378.
Mul´ci-ber, Latin name of Vulcan, 10.
Mull, Island of, 362.
Mu´nin, one of Odin’s two ravens, 130.
Mu-sæ´us, sacred poet, son of Orpheus, 194.
Mu´ses, The, nine goddesses presiding over poetry, etc.—Calliope, epic
  poetry; Clio, history; Erato, love poetry; Euterpe, lyric poetry;
  Melpomene, tragedy; Polyhymnia, oratory and sacred song; Terpsichore,
  choral song and dance; Thalia, comedy and idyls; Urania, astronomy, 3, 8,
  43, 124, 126, 187, 193.
Mus´pel-heim, the fire-world of the Norsemen, 349.
My-ce´næ, ancient Grecian city, of which Agamemnon was king, 213, 235.
Myrd´din (Merlin), 531.
Myr´mi-dons, bold soldiers of Achilles, 95-98, 219.
Mys´i-a, Greek district on northwest coast of Asia Minor, 130, 133.
Mythology, origin of, collected myths, describing gods of early peoples,
  300-303.

                                   N

Na´iads, water-nymphs, 36, 45, 167, 174, 178, 209.
Na´mo, Duke of Bavaria, one of Charlemagne’s knights, 656, 827 ff.
Nan´na, wife of Baldur, 347.
Nan´ters, British king, 403.
Nantes, site of Caradoc’s castle, 419.
Na´pe, a dog of Diana, 35.
Nar-cis´sus, who died of unsatisfied love for his own image in the water,
  101-103.
Nau-sic´a-a, daughter of King Alcinoüs, who befriended Ulysses, 248, 249.
Nau-sith´o-us, king of Phæacians, 247, 248.
Nax´os, Island of, 152, 163, 165.
Ne´gus, King of Abyssinia, 328.
Ne-me´a, forest devastated by a lion killed by Hercules, 144, 155.
Ne-me´an Games, held in honor of Jupiter and Hercules, 155.
Ne-me´an Lion, killed by Hercules, 144.
Nem´e-sis, goddess of vengeance, 9.
Nen´ni-us, British combatant of Cæsar, 387.
Ne-op-tol´e-mus, son of Achilles, 233.
Ne-pen´the, ancient drug to cause forgetfulness of pain or distress, 233.
Neph´e-le, mother of Phryxus and Helle, 34, 129.
Neph´thys, Egyptian goddess, 294.
Nep´tune, identical with Poseidon, god of the sea, 4, 5, 16, 44, 107, 109,
  132, 144, 154, 171, 172, 173, 174, 190, 199, 205, 216, 217, 218, 223, 230,
  244, 252, 261, 264, 297, 379.
Ne´re-ids, sea-nymphs, daughters of Nereus and Doris, 44, 167, 173, 196.
Ne´re-us, a sea-god, 44, 173, 174, 209.
Nes´sus, a centaur killed by Hercules, whose jealous wife sent him a robe
  or shirt steeped in the blood of Nessus, which poisoned him, 147.
Nes´tor, king of Pylos, renowned for his wisdom, justice, and knowledge of
  war, 130, 138, 139, 208, 213, 217, 218, 219, 353.
Ni´be-lun´gen Hoard, treasure seized by Siegfried from the Nibelungs,
  buried in the Rhine by Hagan after killing Siegfried, and lost when Hagan
  was killed by Kriemhild; theme of Wagner’s four music-dramas, “The Ring of
  the Nibelungen,” 353.
Ni´be-lun´gen Lied, German epic, giving the same nature-myth as the Norse
  Volsunga Saga, concerning the Hoard, 352, 354.
Ni´be-lun´gen Ring, Wagner’s music-dramas, 354-357.
Ni´be-lungs, the, a race of Northern dwarfs, 353, 354.
Nid´hogge, a serpent in the lower world that lives on the dead, 330.
Niffle´heim, mist world of the Norsemen; the Hades of absent spirits, 330,
  333, 335, 348.
Night, 4, 42, 208.
Nile, Egyptian river, 31, 44.
Nim´rod, tower of, 301.
Ni´nus, Tomb of, 24.
Ni´o-be, daughter of Tantalus, proud Queen of Thebes, whose seven sons and
  seven daughters were killed by Apollo and Diana, at which Amphion, her
  husband, killed himself, and Niobe wept until she was turned to stone,
  111-115.
Ni´sus, King of Megara, 98-101, 282, 283, 284.
No´ah, as legendary ancestor of French, Roman, German, and British
  peoples, 379.
No´man, name assumed by Ulysses, 239.
Norns, the three Scandinavian Fates, Urdur (the past), Verdandi (the
  present), and Skuld (the future), 330.
Northern Mythology, 328-357.
No´thung, magic sword, 355, 356.
No´tus, southwest wind, 176.
Nox, daughter of Chaos and sister of Erebus; personification of night, 4.
Nu´ma, second king of Rome, 11, 175.
Nymphs, beautiful maidens, lesser divinities of nature: Dryads and
  Hamadryads, tree-nymphs; Naiads, spring-, brook-, and river-nymphs;
  Nereids, sea-nymphs; Oreads, mountain- or hill-nymphs, 44, 79, 208.
Ny-sæ´an nymphs, 160.

                                   O

Ocean, 2, 44, 273.
O-ce´a-nus, a Titan, ruling watery elements, 4, 32, 59, 172, 174.
O-cyr´o-e, a prophetess, daughter of Chiron, 127.
Od´e-ric, 743.
O´din, chief of the Norse gods, 329, 330, 331, 344, 347, 349, 351.
Od´yar, famous Biscayan hero, 570.
O-dys´seus. _See_ Ulysses.
Od´ys-sey, Homer’s poem, relating the wanderings of Odysseus (Ulysses) on
  returning from Trojan War, 3, 227, 236.
Œd´i-pus, Theban hero, who guessed the riddle of the Sphinx (which _See_),
  becoming King of Thebes, 123-124, 182.
Œ´neus, King of Calydon, 138, 140.
Œ-no´ne, nymph, married by Paris in his youth, and abandoned for Helen,
  229.
Œ-no´pi-on, King of Chios, 205.
Œ´ta, Mount, scene of Hercules’ death, 148.
O-gier´, the Dane, one of the paladins of Charlemagne, 653-654, 656,
  848-872.
Ol´i-ver, companion of Orlando, 657, 659-660, 783-788, 789.
Ol´wen, wife of Kilwich, 609, 615.
O-lym´pia, a small plain in Elis, where the Olympic games were celebrated,
  155.
O-lym´pi-ads, periods between Olympic games (four years), 155.
O-lym´pi-an games, 155.
  _See_ Games.
O-lym´pus, dwelling-place of the dynasty of gods of which Zeus was the
  head, 1, 3, 5, 43, 94, 218, 280.
Om´pha-le, queen of Lydia, daughter of Iardanus and wife of Tmolus, 147.
O-phi´on, king of the Titans, who ruled Olympus till dethroned by the gods
  Saturn and Rhea, 4, 5.
Ops. _See_ Rhea.
Or´a-cles, answers from the gods to questions from seekers for knowledge
  or advice for the future, usually in equivocal form, so as to fit any
  event; also places where such answers were given forth, usually by a
  priest or priestess, 296-300.
Orc, a sea-monster, foiled by Rogero when about to devour Angelica,
  732-735.
O´re-ads, nymphs of mountains and hills, 167, 170.
O-res´tes, son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra; because of his crime in
  killing his mother, he was pursued by the Furies until purified by
  Minerva, 234, 235.
O-ri´on, youthful giant, loved by Diana; Constellation, 122, 205-206.
Or-i-thy´i-a, a nymph, seized by Boreas, 176.
Or-lan´do, a famous knight and nephew of Charlemagne, 656-658, 659-660,
  666, 667, 668, 669, 674-675, 676, 678-683, 685-693, 704, 705, 737, 740,
  742-745, 753-759, 763, 773, 782, 783-788, 789-792, 803-813.
Or´muzd (Greek, Oromasdes), son of Supreme Being, source of good as his
  brother Ahriman (Arimanes) was of evil, in Persian or Zoroastrian
  religion, 318.
Or´pheus, musician, son of Apollo and Calliope, 130, 133, 158, 185-188,
  191, 194, 271.
  _See_ Eurydice.
O-si´ris, the most beneficent of the Egyptian gods, 292, 293-294.
Os´sa, mountain of Thessaly, 43, 123.
Os´sian, Celtic poet of the second or third century, 361.
Ov´id, Latin poet (_See_ Metamorphoses), 98, 275, 289, 308.
O-wain´, knight at King Arthur’s court, 534, 539-546, 548-549, 550-553.
O-zan´na, a knight of Arthur, 435.

                                   P

Pac-to´lus, river whose sands were changed to gold by Midas (which _See_),
  47.
Pæ´on, a name for both Apollo and Æsculapius, gods of medicine, 174.
Pa´gans, heathen, 12.
Pal´a-dins or peers, knights errant, 656.
Pa-læ´mon, son of Athamas and Ino (which _See_), 174.
Pal-a-me´des, messenger sent to call Ulysses to the Trojan War, 212.
Pal-a-me´des, Saracen prince at Arthur’s court, 451, 455, 464, 472, 474,
  510.
Pal´a-tine, one of Rome’s Seven Hills, 281.
Pa´les, goddess presiding over cattle and pastures, 10, 11.
Pal-i-nu´rus, faithful steersman of Æneas, 264, 267.
Pal-la´di-um, properly any image of Pallas Athene, but specially applied
  to an image at Troy, which was stolen by Ulysses and Diomedes, 229,
  232.
Pal´las, son of Evander, 279, 280, 281, 282, 286, 287.
Pal´las A-the´ne (Minerva), 7, 81, 224, 249.
Pam´pha-gus, a dog of Diana, 35.
Pan, god of nature and the universe, 9, 30, 31, 47, 76, 166-168.
Pan-ath-e-næ´a, festival in honor of Pallas Athene (Minerva), 154.
Pan-de´an Pipes, musical instrument of reeds, made by Pan in memory of
  Syrinx (which _See_).
Pan-do´ra (all-gifted), first woman, dowered with gifts by every god, yet
  entrusted with a box she was cautioned not to open; but, curious, she
  opened it, and out flew all the ills of humanity, leaving behind only
  Hope, which remained, 13-14, 17, 18.
Pan-dra´sus, a king in Greece, who persecuted Trojan exiles under Brutus,
  great-grandson of Æneas, until they fought, captured him, and, with his
  daughter Imogen as Brutus’ wife, emigrated to Albion (later called
  Britain), 379-380.
Pan´o-pe, plain of, 92, 113.
Pan´thus, alleged earlier incarnation of Pythagoras, 289.
Paph´la-go´ni-a, ancient country in Asia Minor, south of Black Sea, 208.
Pa´phos, daughter of Pygmalion and Galatea (both of which, _See_), 63, 66.
Par´cæ. _See_ Fates.
Pa-ri´ahs, lowest caste of Hindus, 324.
Par´is, son of Priam and Hecuba, who eloped with Helen (which _See_), 211,
  212, 213, 216, 218, 228, 229, 232, 261, 405.
Par-nas-sian laurel, wreath from Parnassus, crown awarded to successful
  poets, 47.
Par-nas´sus, mountain near Delphi, sacred to Apollo and the Muses, 16, 19,
  20, 43, 297.
Par´sees, Persian fire-worshippers (Zoroastrians), of whom there are still
  thousands in Persia and India, 320.
Par´the-non, the temple of Athene Parthenos (“the Virgin”) on the
  Acropolis of Athens, 155, 304.
Passe-breul´, Tristram’s horse, 462.
Pa-tro´clus, friend of Achilles, killed by Hector, 218, 219, 220, 221,
  225.
Pe´cheur, King, uncle of Perceval, 483.
Peers, the, 656.
Peg´a-sus, winged horse, born from the sea-foam and the blood of Medusa,
  124-126.
Pe´leus, king of the Myrmidons, father of Achilles by Thetis, 138, 173,
  211.
Pe´li-as, usurping uncle of Jason, 130, 132, 136, 180.
Pe´li-on, mountain, 123, 133.
Pel´le-as, knight of Arthur, 435.
Pe-na´tes, protective household deities of the Romans, 11.
Pen´drag-on, King of Britain, elder brother of Uther-Pendragon (which
  _See_), who succeeded him, 389-390, 394, 396, 397.
Pe-nel´o-pe, wife of Ulysses, who, waiting twenty years for his return
  from the Trojan War, put off the suitors for her hand by promising to
  choose one when her weaving was done, but unravelled at night what she had
  woven by day, 77, 184, 185, 212, 254, 256.
Pe-ne´us, river god, 20;
  river, 144.
Pen-the-si-le´a, queen of Amazons, 228.
Pen´the-us, king of Thebes; having resisted the introduction of the
  worship of Bacchus into his kingdom, was driven mad by the god, 94, 161,
  164.
Pe´nus, Roman house pantry, giving name to the Penates, 11.
Pep´in, father of Charlemagne, 650.
Pep´lus, sacred robe of Minerva, 155.
Per´ce-val, a great knight of Arthur, 479-485, 494-497, 504-506, 507, 570.
Per´dix, inventor of saw and compasses, 157.
Per´i-an´der, King of Corinth, friend of Arion, 195-198.
Per-i-phe´tes, son of Vulcan, killed by Theseus, 151.
Per-seph´o-ne, goddess of vegetation, 8.
  _See_ Proserpine.
Per´seus, son of Jupiter and Danaë, slayer of the Gorgon Medusa, deliverer
  of Andromeda from a sea-monster, 116-122, 124, 202.
Phæ-a´ci-ans, people who entertained Ulysses, 247-253.
Phæ´dra, faithless and cruel wife of Theseus, 153-154.
Pha-ë-thu´sa, sister of Phaëton, 244.
Pha-ë-ton, son of Phœbus, who dared attempt to drive his father’s
  sun-chariot, 38-45.
Phan´ta-sos, a son of Somnus, bringing strange images to sleeping men, 72.
Pha´on, beloved by Sappho, 203.
Phe´lot, knight of Wales, 433-434.
Pher´e-din, friend of Tristram, unhappy lover of Isoude, 457, 458.
Phid´i-as, famous Greek sculptor, 303, 304, 305.
Phi-le´mon, husband of Baucis (which _See_), 49-51.
Phil-oc-te´tes, warrior who lighted the fatal pyre of Hercules, 148, 229.
Phil´o-e, burial-place of Osiris, 294.
Phin´e-us, betrothed to Andromeda, 120-121, 130, 131, 259.
Phleg´e-thon, fiery river of Hades, 269.
Pho´cis, 234, 235, 297.
Phœ´be, one of the sisters of Phaëton, 91.
Phœ´bus (Apollo), god of music, prophecy, and archery, the sun-god, 6, 22,
  34, 38, 39-41, 68, 71, 92, 220.
Phœ-ni´cia, 91, 233, 294, 301.
Phœ-ni´ci-ans, 94, 296, 358.
Phœ´nix, a messenger to Achilles, 217;
  also, a miraculous bird, dying in fire by its own act and springing up
    alive from its own ashes, 310-312.
Phor´bas, a companion of Æneas, whose form was assumed by Neptune in
  luring Palinuras the helmsman from his post, 264.
Phryg´i-a, 48, 49, 112, 160.
Phryx´us, brother of Helle (which _See_), 130.
Pin´a-bel, knight, 713.
Pillars of Hercules, two mountains—Cal´pè, now the Rock of Gibraltar,
  southwest corner of Spain in Europe, and Ab´y-la, facing it in Africa
  across the strait, 145.
Pin´dar, famous Greek poet, 273.
Pin´dus, Grecian mountain, 43.
Pi-re´ne, celebrated fountain at Corinth, 125.
Pi-rith´o-us, king of the Lapithæ in Thessaly, and friend of Theseus,
  husband of Hippodamia (which _See_), 127, 138, 153, 158, 166.
Pleasure, daughter of Cupid and Psyche, 89.
Ple´ia-des, seven of Diana’s nymphs, changed into stars, one being lost,
  206, 208.
Plenty, the Horn of, 178-179.
Plex-ip´pus, brother of Althea, 139.
Plin´y, Roman naturalist, 313, 315, 317.
Plu´to, the same as Hades, Dis, etc.; god of the Infernal Regions, 5, 8,
  9, 52-56, 58, 88, 127, 135, 147, 153, 180, 186, 265, 267.
Plu´tus, god of wealth, 9.
Po, Italian river, 271.
Pole-star, 33.
Po-li´tes, youngest son of Priam of Troy, 232.
Pol´lux, Castor and (Dioscuri, the Twins) (_See_ Castor), 133, 158-159,
  202, 203.
Pol-y-dec´tes, king of Seriphus, 116, 202.
Pol-y-do´re, slain kinsman of Æneas; whose blood nourished a bush that
  bled when broken, 258.
Pol-y-hym´ni-a, Muse of oratory and sacred song, 8.
Po-ly´i-dus, soothsayer, 125.
Pol-y-ni´ces, King of Thebes, 182, 183.
Pol-y-phe´mus, giant son of Neptune, 173, 209, 237, 238, 260.
Po-lyx´e-na, daughter of King Priam of Troy, 228, 232.
Po-mo´na, goddess of fruit-trees (_See_ Vertumnus), 10, 11, 26, 76-79.
Por´rex and Fer´rex, sons of Leir, King of Britain, 385.
Por-tu´nus, Roman name for Palæmon (which _See_), 174.
Po-sei´don (Neptune), ruler of the ocean, 5.
Poverty, 266.
Prec´i-pice, threshold of Helas hall, 333.
Pres´ter John, a rumored priest or presbyter, a Christian pontiff in Upper
  Asia, believed in but never found, 327-328.
Pri´am, king of Troy, 207, 213, 223, 224, 225, 226, 228, 232.
Pri´wen, Arthur’s shield, 400.
Pro´cris, beloved but jealous wife of Cephalus, 26-28.
Pro-crus´tes, who seized travellers and bound them on his iron bed,
  stretching the short ones and cutting short the tall; thus also himself
  served by Theseus, 151.
Prœ´tus, jealous of Bellerophon, 125.
Pro-me´theus, creator of man, who stole fire from heaven for man’s use,
  12, 13, 16, 17, 18, 173.
Pros´er-pine, the same as Persephone, goddess of all growing things,
  daughter of Ceres, carried off by Pluto, 8, 11, 53-57, 88, 134 n., 147,
  186, 265, 266.
Pro-tes-i-la´us, slain by Hector the Trojan, allowed by the gods to return
  for three hours’ talk with his widow Laodomia, 214.
Pro´teus, the old man of the sea, 60, 173, 190-191.
Pru´dence (Metis), spouse of Jupiter, 5.
Pry´deri, son of Pwyll, 597-607.
Psy´che, a beautiful maiden, personification of the human soul, sought by
  Cupid (Love), to whom she responded, lost him by curiosity to see him (as
  he came to her only by night), but finally through his prayers was made
  immortal and restored to him; a symbol of immortality, 80-91.
Pu-ra´nas, Hindu Scriptures, 322.
Pwyll, Prince of Dyved, 583-588.
Pyg-ma´li-on, sculptor in love with a statue he had made, brought to life
  by Venus, 62-63;
  brother of Queen Dido, 262.
Pyg´mies, nation of dwarfs, at war with the Cranes, 128.
Py´la-des, son of Straphius, friend of Orestes, 234.
Pyr´a-mus, who loved Thisbe, next-door neighbor, and, their parents
  opposing, they talked through cracks in the house-wall, agreeing to meet
  in the near-by woods; where Pyramus, finding a bloody veil and thinking
  Thisbe slain, killed himself, and she, seeing his body, killed herself.
  (Burlesqued in Shakespeare’s “Midsummer Night’s Dream”), 23-26.
Pyr´rha, wife of Deucalion (which _See_), 16-17.
Pyr´rhus (Neoptolemus), son of Achilles, 232.
Py-thag´o-ras, Greek philosopher (540 B.C.), who thought numbers to be the
  essence and principle of all things, and taught transmigration of souls of
  the dead into new life as human or animal beings, 288.
Pyth´i-a, priestess of Apollo at Delphi, 297.
Pyth´i-an Games, 19, 155.
Pyth´i-an Oracle, 84.
Py´thon, serpent springing from Deluge slum, destroyed by Apollo, 19.

                                   Q

Qui-ri´nus (from _quiris_, a lance or spear), a war god, said to be
  Romulus, founder of Rome, 10.

                                   R

Rab´i-can, noted horse, 684, 685, 730, 739, 740, 741, 766.
Rag-na-rok´, the twilight (or ending) of the gods, 348-349.
Raj´puts, minor Hindu caste, 324.
Re´gan, daughter of Leir, 383-384.
Re-gil´lus, lake in Latium, noted for battle fought near by between the
  Romans and the Latins, 158.
Reg´gi-o, family from which Rogero sprang, 698.
Re´mus, brother of Romulus, founder of Rome, 287.
Rhad-a-man´thus, son of Jupiter and Europa, after his death one of the
  judges in the lower world, 269, 273.
Rhap´so-dist, professional reciter of poems among the Greeks, 307.
Rhe´a, female Titan, wife of Saturn (Cronos), mother of the chief gods,
  worshipped in Greece and Rome, 4, 5, 8, 143, 161, 179.
Rhine, river, 353, 355, 357.
Rhine-maidens, or daughters, three water-nymphs, Flosshilda, Woglinda, and
  Wellgunda, set to guard the Nibelungen Hoard (which _See_), buried in the
  Rhine, 354, 355.
Rhodes, one of the seven cities claiming to be Homer’s birthplace, 307.
Rho´do-pe, mountain in Thrace, 43.
Rhon´gom-yant, Arthur’s lance, 612.
Rhœ´cus, a youth, beloved by a Dryad, but who brushed away a bee sent by
  her to call him to her, and she punished him with blindness, 172.
Rhi-an´non, wife of Pwyll, 584-588.
Ri-nal´do, one of the bravest knights of Charlemagne, 653, 656, 660-664,
  668, 670-672, 673, 683-686, 692-693, 695, 703, 705, 708-711, 745, 768-769,
  780-781, 789-792, 814-825.
River Ocean, flowing around the earth, 2.
Robert de Beau-vais´, Norman poet (1257), 377.
Rob´in Hood, famous outlaw in English legend, about time of Richard Cœur
  de Lion, 643-646.
Rock´ing-ham, forest of, 399.
Ro´do-mont, king of Algiers, 693, 695-697, 761.
Ro-ge´ro, noted Saracen knight, 693-698, 702, 721-727, 728-731, 733, 740,
  764, 765, 779-781, 788-801.
Ro´land (Orlando), 651-652, 653. _See_ Orlando.
Romances, 374-378.
Ro-ma´nus, legendary great-grandson of Noah, 379.
Rome, 262, 287, 298.
Rom´u-lus, founder of Rome, 10, 287.
Ron, Arthur’s lance, 400.
Ronces-valles´, battle of, 651-652, 801-803.
Round Table, King Arthur’s, instituted by Merlin the Sage for Pendragon,
  Arthur’s father, as a knightly order, continued and made famous by Arthur
  and his knights, 396, 397, 410, 467.
Ru´nic characters, or runes, alphabetic signs used by early Teutonic
  peoples, written or graved on metal or stone, 330, 350.
Ru-tu´li-ans, an ancient people in Italy, subdued at an early period by
  the Romans, 276, 279, 281, 282.
Ry´ence, king in Ireland, 401.

                                   S.

Sa´bra, maiden for whom Severn River was named, daughter of Locrine and
  Estrildis, thrown into river Severn by Locrine’s wife, transformed to a
  river-nymph, poetically named Sabrina, 174, 381.
Sac´ri-pant, king of Circassia, 674-676, 706-710.
Saf´fire, Sir, knight of Arthur, 510.
Sa´gas, Norse tales of heroism, composed by the Skalds (which _See_),
  351-357.
Sa-git-ta´ri-us, 128.
Sag´ra-mour, knight of Arthur, 432.
St. John, 772-777.
St. Michael’s Mount, precipitous pointed rock-hill on the coast of
  Brittany, opposite Cornwall, 410.
Sak-ya-sin´ha, the Lion, epithet applied to Buddha, 325.
Sal´a-man´der, a lizard-like animal, fabled to be able to live in fire,
  316-317.
Sal´a-mis, Grecian city, 79, 307.
Sal-mo´neus, son of Æolus and Enarete, and brother of Sisyphus, 269.
Sal´o-mon, king of Brittany, at Charlemagne’s court, 656.
Samh´in, or “fire of peace,” a Druidical festival, 359.
Sa´mi-an sage (Pythagoras), 288.
Sa´mos, island in the Ægean Sea, 157, 288.
Sam-o-thra´cian gods, a group of agricultural divinities, worshipped in
  Samothrace, 158.
Sam´son, Hebrew hero, thought by some to be original of Hercules, 301.
San-greal (_See_ Graal, the Holy), 486.
Sapph´o, Greek poetess, who leaped into the sea from promontory of
  Leucadia, in disappointed love for Phaon, 38, 203.
Sa´ra-cens, followers of Mahomet, 648.
Sar-pe´don, son of Jupiter and Europa, killed by Patroclus, 213, 220.
Sat´urn (Cronos), 4, 5, 8, 9, 10, 276, 280, 281, 301.
Sat´ur-na´li-a, annual festival held by Romans in honor of Saturn, 9.
Sa-tur´ni-a, an ancient name of Italy, 281.
Sa´tyrs, male divinities of the forest, half man, half goat, 9, 10, 76.
Scal´i-ger, famous German scholar of 16th century, 313.
Scan-di-na´vi-a, mythology of, giving account of Northern gods, heroes,
  etc., 328-351.
Sche´ri-a, mythical island, abode of the Phæacians, 243.
Schrim´nir, the boar, cooked nightly for the heroes of Valhalla, becoming
  whole every morning, 331.
Sci´o, one of the island cities claiming to be Homer’s birthplace, 307.
Sco´pas, King of Thessaly, 202, 203.
Scor´pion, constellation, 41, 43.
Scyl´la, sea-nymph beloved by Glaucus, but changed by jealous Circe to a
  monster and finally to a dangerous rock on the Sicilian coast, facing the
  whirlpool Charybdis, many mariners being wrecked between the two, 59-61,
  243-245, 261;
  also, daughter of King Nisus of Megara, who loved Minos, besieging her
    father’s city, but he disliked her disloyalty and drowned her,
    98-101;
  also, a fair virgin of Sicily, friend of sea-nymph Galatea, 209-210.
Scy´ros, where Theseus was slain, 154.
Scyth´i-a, country lying north of Euxine Sea, 31, 43, 129, 170.
Sea, the, 1.
Sea-nymphs, 120, 209.
Sea´sons, 3, 6.
Sem´e-le, daughter of Cadmus and, by Jupiter, mother of Bacchus, 8, 94,
  160.
Se-mir´a-mis, with Ninus the mythical founder of the Assyrian empire of
  Nineveh, 23.
Sen´a-pus, King of Abyssinia, who entertained Astolpho, 770.
Se-ra´pis, or Hermes, Egyptian divinity of Tartarus and of medicine, 293,
  295.
Serfs, slaves of the land, 371.
Se-ri´phus, island in the Ægean Sea; one of the Cyclades, 116, 202.
Serpent (Northern constellation), 42.
Ses´tos, dwelling of Hero (which _See_, also Leander), 105.
“Seven against Thebes,” famous Greek expedition, 182.
Sev´ern river, in England, 382.
Sev´i-nus, Duke of Guienne, 825.
Sha-lott´, the Lady of, 441 ff.
Sha-tri´ya, Hindu warrior caste, 323, 324.
Sher´as-min, French chevalier, 833-846.
Sib´yl, prophetess of Cumæ, 265, 266-275.
Si-chæ´us, husband of Dido (which _See_), 262.
Sic´i-ly, 55, 56, 58, 61, 195, 209, 260, 261, 264.
Siege Per´i-lous, the chair of purity at Arthur’s Round Table, fatal to
  any but him who was destined to achieve the quest of the Sangreal (_See_
  Galahad), 488.
Sieg´fried, young King of the Netherlands, husband of Kriemhild; she
  boasted to Brunhild that Siegfried had aided Günther to beat her in
  athletic contests, thus winning her as wife, and Brunhild, in anger,
  employed Hagan to murder Siegfried. As hero of Wagner’s “Valkyrie,” he
  wins the Nibelungen treasure-ring, loves and deserts Brunhild, and is
  slain by Hagan, 352, 353, 355, 356-357.
Sieg-lin´da, wife of Hunding, mother of Siegfried by Siegmund, 355,
  356-357.
Sieg´mund, father of Siegfried, 355.
Sig´tryg, Prince, betrothed of King Alef’s daughter, aided by Hereward,
  642.
Si-gu´na, wife of Loki, 347.
Si-le´nus, a Satyr, school-master of Bacchus, 46.
Si-lu´res (South Wales), 375, 394.
Silver Age, 14.
Sil´vi-a, daughter of Latin shepherd, 277.
Sil´vi-us, grandson of Æneas, accidentally killed in the chase by his son
  Brutus, 379.
Si-mon´i-des, an early poet of Greece, 201-203.
Si´non, a Greek spy, who persuaded the Trojans to take the Wooden Horse
  (which _See_) into their city, 230, 231.
Si´rens, sea-nymphs, whose singing charmed mariners to leap into the sea;
  passing their island, Ulysses stopped the ears of his sailors with wax,
  and had himself bound to the mast so that he could hear but not yield to
  their music, 242.
Sir´i-us, the dog of Orion, changed to the Dog-star, 206.
Sis´y-phus, condemned in Tartarus to perpetually roll up hill a big rock
  which, when the top was reached, rolled down again, 186, 270.
Si´va, the Destroyer, third person of the Hindu triad of gods, 320, 322.
Skalds, Norse bards and poets, 350.
Skid-blad´nir, Freyr’s ship, 348.
Skir´nir, Frey’s messenger, who won the god’s magic sword by getting him
  Gerda for his wife, 336.
Skry´mir, a giant, Utgard Loki (which _See_) in disguise, who fooled Thor
  in athletic feats, 337.
Skuld, the Norn of the Future, 330.
Sleep, twin brother of Death, 220.
Sleip´nir, Odin’s horse, 345.
So-bri´no, councillor to Agramant, 693, 784-785, 789.
Som´nus, child of Nox, twin brother of Mors, god of sleep, 71-72, 264.
Soph´o-cles, Greek tragic dramatist, 235.
South wind. _See_ Notus.
Spar´ta, capital of Lacedæmon, 158, 212, 233.
Sphinx, a monster, waylaying the road to Thebes and propounding riddles to
  all passers, on pain of death for wrong guessing, who killed herself in
  rage when Ædipus guessed aright, 122, 123-124.
Spring, 39, 56.
Stone´henge, circle of huge upright stones, fabled to be sepulchre of
  Pendragon, 397.
Stro´phi-us, father of Pylades, 234.
Styg´i-an realm, Hades, 186.
Styg´i-an sleep, escaped from the beauty-box sent from Hades to Venus by
  hand of Psyche, who curiously opened the box and was plunged into
  unconsciousness, 89.
Styx, river, bordering Hades, to be crossed by all the dead, 160, 228.
Su´dras, Hindu laboring caste, 323, 324.
Summer, 39.
Sun, 3, 5, 39, 311.
Sur´tur, leader of giants against the gods in the day of their destruction
  (Norse mythology), 349.
Sur´ya, Hindu god of the sun, corresponding to the Greek Helios, 321.
Su´tri, Orlando’s birthplace, 656.
Sva-dil-fa´ri, giant’s horse, 334, 335.
Swan, Leda and, 158.
Syb´a-ris, Greek city in Southern Italy, famed for luxury, 292.
Syl-va´nus, Latin divinity identified with Pan, 76, 166.
Sym-pleg´a-des, floating rocks passed by the Argonauts, 131.
Sy´rinx, nymph, pursued by Pan, but escaping by being changed to a bunch
  of reeds (_See_ Pandean pipes), 30.

                                   T

Tac´i-tus, Roman historian, 311.
Tæn´a-rus, Greek entrance to lower regions, 186.
Ta´gus, river in Spain and Portugal, 44.
Tal´ie-sin, Welsh bard, 531, 627-633.
Tan´a-is, ancient name of river Don, 44.
Tan´ta-lus, wicked king, punished in Hades by standing in water that
  retired when he would drink, under fruit-trees that withdrew when he would
  eat, 112, 186, 270.
Tar´chon, Etruscan chief, 282.
Ta-ren´tum, Italian city, 197.
Tar-pe´ian rock, in Rome, from which condemned criminals were hurled, 280.
Tar´quins, a ruling family in early Roman legend, 275.
Tau´ris, Grecian city, site of temple of Diana (_See_ Iphigenia), 214,
  234.
Tau´rus, a mountain, 43.
Tar´ta-rus, place of confinement of Titans, etc., originally a black abyss
  below Hades; later, represented as place where the wicked were punished,
  and sometimes the name used as synonymous with Hades, 5, 44, 52, 53, 73,
  186, 187, 269, 293.
Teir´tu, the harp of, 618.
Tel´a-mon, Greek hero and adventurer, father of Ajax, 98, 138, 139.
Te-lem´a-chus, son of Ulysses and Penelope, 212, 233, 246, 254, 255, 256,
  257.
Tel´lus, another name for Rhea, 134.
Ten´e-dos, an island in Ægean Sea, 21.
Ter´mi-nus, Roman divinity presiding over boundaries and frontiers, 10.
Terp-sich´o-re, Muse of dancing, 8.
Ter´ra, goddess of the earth, 146.
Te´thys, goddess of the sea, 32, 40, 59, 172, 174.
Teu´cer, ancient king of the Trojans, 78.
Tha-li´a, one of the three Graces (which _See_), 8.
Tham´y-ris, Thracian bard, who challenged the Muses to competition in
  singing, and, defeated, was blinded, 193.
Thaukt, Loki disguised as a hag, 346.
Thebes, city founded by Cadmus, and capital of Bœotia, 11, 92, 94, 111,
  112, 123, 124, 161, 182, 183, 192, 296.
The´mis, female Titan, law-counsellor of Jove, 4, 7, 9, 15 n., 297.
The-o-do´ra, sister of Prince Leo, 794, 800.
The´ron, one of Diana’s dogs, 35.
Ther-si´tes, a brawler, killed by Achilles, 228.
Thes´ce-lus, foe of Perseus, turned to stone by sight of Gorgon’s head,
  121.
The-se´um, Athenian temple in honor of Theseus, 154.
The´se-us, son of Ægeus and Æthra, King of Athens, a great hero of many
  adventures, 130, 136, 138, 139, 147, 150-157, 158, 165, 177.
Thes´saly, 3, 69, 129, 130, 132, 170, 202.
Thes´ti-us, father of Althea (which _See_), 140.
The´tis, mother of Achilles, 173, 174, 211, 212, 216, 221, 222, 225, 228.
Thi´al-fi, Thor’s servant, 337, 340.
This´be, Babylonian maiden beloved by Pyramus (which _See_), 23-26.
Thor, the thunderer, of Norse mythology, most popular of the gods, 331,
  332, 334, 335, 337-343, 349, 352.
Thrace, 31, 130, 258.
Thri-na´ki-a, island pasturing Hyperion’s cattle, where Ulysses landed,
  but, his men killing some cattle for food, their ship was wrecked by
  lightning, 244.
Thrym, giant, who buried Thor’s hammer, 335.
Thu-cyd´i-des, Greek historian, 98.
Ti´ber, river flowing through Rome, 276, 299.
Tiber, Father, god of the river, 279.
Ti´gris, river, 35.
Tin-ta´del, castle of, residence of King Mark of Cornwall, 450.
Ti-re´si-as, a Greek soothsayer, 183.
Ti-siph´o-ne, one of the Furies (which _See_), 9, 269.
Ti´tans, the sons and daughters of Uranus (Heaven) and Gæa (Earth),
  enemies of the gods and overcome by them, 4, 5, 13, 18, 52, 172, 269.
Ti-tho´nus, Trojan prince, 207.
Tit´y-us, giant in Tartarus, 122, 269.
Tmo´lus, a mountain god, 43, 47.
Tortoise, second avatar (which _See_) of Vishnu, 321.
Tournaments, 371-372, 665.
Tours, battle of (_See_ Abdalrahman and Charles Martel), 649-650.
Tox´e-us, brother of Melauger’s mother, who snatched from Atalanta her
  hunting trophy, and was slain by Melauger, who had awarded it to her,
  139.
Triad, the Hindu, 320-321.
Triads, Welsh poems, 532, 533.
Tri-mur´ti, Hindu Triad, 320.
Trip-tol´e-mus, son of Celeus (which _See_), and who, made great by Ceres,
  founded her worship in Eleusis, 57.
Tris´tram, one of Arthur’s knights, husband of Isoude of the White Hands,
  lover of Isoude the Fair, 449-466, 468-478.
Tri´ton, a demi-god of the sea, son of Poseidon (Neptune) and Amphitrite,
  16, 60, 173, 174, 262.
Trœ´zen, Greek city of Argolis, 150.
Tro´jans, 216, 259-264, 269, 277.
Tro´jan War, 138, 174, 184, 211-227.
Tro-ja-no´va, New Troy, city founded in Britain (_See_ Brutus, and Lud),
  381.
Tro-pho´ni-us, oracle of, in Bœotia, 297-298.
Trou´ba-dours, poets and minstrels of Provence, in Southern France, 374.
Trou-veurs´, poets and minstrels of Northern France, 375.
Troy, city in Asia Minor, ruled by King Priam, whose son, Paris, stole
  away Helen, wife of Menelaus the Greek, resulting in the Trojan War and
  the destruction of Troy, 206, 207, 212, 213, 214, 218, 224, 227, 229,
  236.
Troy, fall of, 227-232.
Tur´nus, chief of the Rutulianes in Italy, unsuccessful rival of Æneas for
  Lavinia, 276, 277, 278, 279, 281, 282, 286-287.
Tur´pin, Archbishop of Rheims, 652-653, 656, 806-813.
Tur´quine, Sir, a great knight, foe of Arthur, slain by Sir Launcelot,
  428.
Ty´phon, one of the giants who attacked the gods, were defeated, and
  imprisoned under Mt. Ætna, 52, 123, 261, 293, 294.
Tyr, Norse god of battles, 333.
Tyre, Phœnician city governed by Dido (which _See_), 262.
Tyr´ians, 92, 262.
Tyr´rhe-us, herdsman of King Turnus in Italy, the slaying of whose
  daughter’s stag aroused war upon Æneas and his companions, 277.

                                   U

U-ber´to, son of Galafron, 665.
U-lys´ses (Greek, Odysseus), hero of the Odyssey, 60, 61, 76, 184, 212,
  213, 217, 219, 228, 229, 230, 232, 233, 236-257, 261.
U´ni-corn, fabled animal with a single horn, 315.
U-ra´ni-a, one of the Muses, a daughter of Zeus by Mnemosyne, 8, 126.
Ur´dur, one of the Norns or Fates of Scandinavia, representing the Past,
  330.
Usk, British river, 406.
Ut´gard, abode of the giant Utgard-Loki, 338.
Ut´gard-Lo´ki, King of the Giants (_See_ Skrymir), 339-343.
U´ther (Uther Pendragon), king of Britain and father of Arthur, 389-390,
  394, 396, 397, 398.
U-waine´, knight of Arthur’s court, 432-434.

                                   V

Va-is´sy-as, Hindu caste of agriculturists and traders, 323.
Val-hal´la, hall of Odin, heavenly residence of slain heroes, 330, 331,
  344, 348, 354, 355, 356.
Val-ky´rie, armed and mounted warlike virgins, daughters of the gods
  (Norse), Odin’s messengers, who select slain heroes for Valhalla and serve
  them at their feasts, 331, 347, 354, 355.
Ve, brother of Odin, 329, 330.
Ve´das, Hindu sacred Scriptures, 320, 321, 324.
Ven-e-do´ti-a, ancient name for North Wales, 407.
Ve´nus (Aphrodite), goddess of beauty, 6, 7, 11, 13, 53, 65-67, 76, 78,
  80, 82, 86-89, 94, 123, 142, 165, 209, 211, 212, 216, 218, 232, 264,
  265.
Ve´nus de Med´i-ci, famous antique statue in Uffizi Gallery, Florence,
  Italy, 305.
Ver-dan´di, the Present, one of the Norns (which _See_), 330.
Ver-tum´nus, god of the changing seasons, whose varied appearances won the
  love of Pomona, 76-79.
Ves´ta, daughter of Cronos and Rhea; goddess of the home-fire, or hearth,
  10.
Ves´tals, virgin priestesses in temple of Vesta, 10.
Ve-su´vi-us, Mount, volcano near Naples, 266.
Villains, peasants in the feudal scheme, 371.
Vig´rid, final battlefield, with destruction of the gods and their
  enemies, the sun, the earth, and time itself, 349.
Vi´li, brother of Odin and Ve, 329.
Vir´gil, celebrated Latin poet (_See_ Æneid), 212, 266, 273, 275, 307-308.
Vir´go, constellation of the Virgin, representing Astræa, goddess of
  innocence and purity, 15 n.
Vish´nu, the Preserver, second of the three chief Hindu gods, 320, 321,
  325.
Viv´i-ane, lady of magical powers, who allured the sage Merlin and
  imprisoned him in an enchanted wood, 390-392, 424, 460, 521.
Vol´scens, Rutulian troop leader who killed Nisus and Euryalus, 284.
Vol´sung-a Sa´ga, an Icelandic poem, giving about the same legends as the
  Nibelungen Lied (which _See_), 217, 354.
Vor´ti-gern, usurping King of Britain, defeated by Pendragon, 389-390,
  397.
Vul´can (Greek, Hæphestus), god of fire and metal-working, with forges
  under Ætna, husband of Venus, 4, 6, 10, 39, 41, 94, 123, 151, 182, 205,
  222, 287, 301.
Vy-a´sa, Hindu sage, 320.

                                   W

Wain, the, constellation, 3.
Well-gun´da, one of the Rhine-daughters (which _See_), 354.
Welsh language, 531.
Western Ocean, 273.
Winds, the, 176, 208.
Winter, 39.
Wo´den, chief god in the Norse mythology; Anglo-Saxon for Odin, 330.
<DW76>-lin´da, one of the Rhine-daughters (which _See_), 354.
Woman, creation of, 13.
Wooden Horse, the, filled with armed men, but left outside of Troy as a
  pretended offering to Minerva when the Greeks feigned to sail away;
  accepted by the Trojans (_See_ Sinon, and Laocoön), brought into the city,
  and at night emptied of the hidden Greek soldiers, who destroyed the town,
  229-232.
Wood-nymphs, 76, 167.
Wo´tan, Old High German form of Odin, 351, 352, 354, 355, 356.

                                   X

Xan´thus, river of Asia Minor, 44.

                                   Y

Ya´ma, Hindu god of the Infernal Regions, 321.
Year, the, 39.
Yg-dra´sil, great ash tree, supposed by Norse mythology to support the
  universe, 330.
Y´mir, giant, slain by Odin, 329, 348.
Yn´ywl, Earl, host of Geraint, father of Enid, 558-564.
York, Britain, 405.
Y-se-ro´ne, niece of Arthur, mother of Caradoc, 418.
Ys´pa-da-den Pen´kawr, father of Olwen, 609, 612, 614, 617, 618, 625, 626.

                                   Z

Zend´a-ves´ta, Persian sacred Scriptures, 318.
Zeph´y-rus, god of the South wind, 68, 82, 83, 85, 176, 273.
Zer-bi´no, a knight, son of the king of Scotland, 742, 744, 749-751, 753,
  759.
Ze´tes, winged warrior, companion of Theseus, 133, 176.
Ze´thus, son of Jupiter and Antiope, brother of Amphion, 192.
  _See_ Dirce.
Zeus, 4.
  _See_ Jupiter.
Zo-ro-as´ter, founder of the Persian religion, which was dominant in
  Western Asia from about 550 B.C. to about 650 A.D., and is still held by
  many thousands in Persia and in India, 318-320.




                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur. All ellipses have been spaced.

Shakspeare and Shakespeare appears several times throughout the text,
and although obsolete, Shakspeare is a valid alternative form of
Shakespeare, and therefore both instances appear.

Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout and a List of
Illustrations was created and added after the Table of Contents.

All footnotes are linked and have been placed at the end of the book
before the Appendices and Index.

[The end of _Bulfinch's Mythology_, by Thomas Bulfinch.]





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bulfinch's Mythology, by Thomas Bulfinch

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