All this Minerva heard; and she approvedtheir songs and their resentment; but her heartwas brooding thus, “It is an easy thingto praise another, I should do as they:no creature of the earth should ever slightthe majesty that dwells in me,—withoutjust retribution.”—So her thought was turnedupon the fortune of Arachne — proud,who would not ever yield to her the praisewon by the art of deftly weaving wool,a girl who had not fame for place of birth,nor fame for birth, but only fame for skill!For it was well known that her father dweltin Colophon; where, at his humble trade,he dyed in Phocean purples, fleecy wool.Her mother, also of the lower class,had died. Arachne in a mountain townby skill had grown so famous in the Landof Lydia, that unnumbered curious nymphseager to witness her dexterity,deserted the lush vineyards of Timolus;or even left the cool and flowing streamsof bright Pactolus, to admire the cloth,or to observe her deftly spinning wool.So graceful was her motion then,—if shewas twisting the coarse wool in little balls,or if she teased it with her finger-tips,or if she softened the fine fleece, drawn forthin misty films, or if she twirled the smoothround spindle with her energetic thumb,or if with needle she embroidered cloth;—in all her motions one might well perceivehow much Minerva had instructed her:but this she ever would deny, displeasedto share her fame; and said, “Let her contendin art with me; and if her skill prevails,I then will forfeit all!”Minerva heard,and came to her, disguised with long grey hair,and with a staff to steady her weak limbs.She seemed a feeble woman, very old,and quavered as she said, “Old age is notthe cause of every ill; experience comeswith lengthened years; and, therefore, you should notdespise my words. It is no harm in youto long for praise of mortals, whenyour nimble hands are spinning the soft wool,—but you should not deny Minerva's art—and you should pray that she may pardon you,for she will grant you pardon if you ask.”Arachne, scowling with an evil face.Looked at the goddess, as she dropped her thread.She hardly could restrain her threatening hand,and, trembling in her anger, she repliedto you, disguised Minerva:“Silly fool,—worn out and witless in your palsied age,a great age is your great misfortune!— Letyour daughter and your son's wife—if the Godshave blessed you—let them profit by your words;within myself, my knowledge is containedsufficient; you need not believe that youradvice does any good; for I am quiteunchanged in my opinion. Get you gone,—advise your goddess to come here herself,and not avoid the contest!”Instantly,the goddess said, “Minerva comes to you!”And with those brief words, put aside the shapeof the old woman, and revealed herself,Minerva, goddess.All the other Nymphsand matrons of Mygdonia worshiped her;but not Arachne, who defiant stood;—although at first she flushed up—then went pale—then blushed again, reluctant.—So, at first,the sky suffuses, as Aurora moves,and, quickly when the glorious sun comes up,pales into white.She even rushed uponher own destruction, for she would not givefrom her desire to gain the victory.Nor did the daughter of almighty Jovedecline: disdaining to delay with words,she hesitated not.And both, at once,selected their positions, stretched their webswith finest warp, and separated warp with sley.The woof was next inserted in the webby means of the sharp shuttles, whichtheir nimble fingers pushed along, so drawnwithin the warp, and so the teeth notched inthe moving sley might strike them.—Both, in haste,girded their garments to their breasts and movedtheir skilful arms, beguiling their fatiguein eager action.Myriad tints appearedbesides the Tyrian purple—royal dye,extracted in brass vessels.—As the bow,that spans new glory in the curving sky,its glittering rays reflected in the rain,spreads out a multitude of blended tints,in scintillating beauty to the sightof all who gaze upon it; — so the threads,inwoven, mingled in a thousand tints,harmonious and contrasting; shot with gold:and there, depicted in those shining webs,were shown the histories of ancient days:—Minerva worked the Athenian Hill of Mars,where ancient Cecrops built his citadel,and showed the old contention for the nameit should be given.—Twelve celestial Godssurrounded Jupiter, on lofty thrones;and all their features were so nicely drawn,that each could be distinguished.—Jupiterappeared as monarch of those judging Gods.There Neptune, guardian of the sea, was showncontending with Minerva. As he struckthe Rock with his long trident, a wild horsesprang forth which he bequeathed to man. He claimedhis right to name the city for that gift.And then she wove a portrait of herself,bearing a shield, and in her hand a lance,sharp-pointed, and a helmet on her head—her breast well-guarded by her Aegis: thereshe struck her spear into the fertile earth,from which a branch of olive seemed to sprout,pale with new clustered fruits.—And those twelve Gods,appeared to judge, that olive as a giftsurpassed the horse which Neptune gave to man.And, so Arachne, rival of her fame,might learn the folly of her mad attempt,from the great deeds of ancient histories,and what award presumption must expect,Minerva wove four corners with life scenesof contest, brightly colored, but of sizediminutive.

In one of these was shownthe snow-clad mountains, Rhodope,and Haemus, which for punishment were changedfrom human beings to those rigid forms,when they aspired to rival the high Gods.And in another corner she describedthat Pygmy, whom the angry Juno changedfrom queen-ship to a crane; because she thoughtherself an equal of the living Gods,she was commanded to wage cruel warsupon her former subjects. In the third,she wove the story of Antigone,who dared compare herself to Juno, queenof Jupiter, and showed her as she wastransformed into a silly chattering stork,that praised her beauty, with her ugly beak.—Despite the powers of Ilion and her sireLaomedon, her shoulders fledged white wings.And so, the third part finished, there was leftone corner, where Minerva deftly workedthe story of the father, Cinyras;—as he was weeping on the temple steps,which once had been his daughter's living limbs.And she adorned the border with designsof peaceful olive—her devoted tree—which having shown, she made an end of work.Arachne, of Maeonia, wove, at firstthe story of Europa, as the bulldeceived her, and so perfect was her art,it seemed a real bull in real waves.Europa seemed to look back towards the landwhich she had left; and call in her alarmto her companions—and as if she fearedthe touch of dashing waters, to draw upher timid feet, while she was sitting onthe bull's back.And she wove Asteria seizedby the assaulting eagle; and beneath the swan'swhite wings showed Leda lying by the stream:and showed Jove dancing as a Satyr, whenhe sought the beautiful Antiope,to whom was given twins; and how he seemedAmphitryon when he deceived Alcmena;and how he courted lovely Danaeluring her as a gleaming shower of gold;and poor Aegina, hidden in his flame,jove as a shepherd with Mnemosyne;and beautiful Proserpina, involvedby him, apparent as a spotted snake.And in her web, Arachne wove the scenesof Neptune:—who was shown first as a bull,when he was deep in love with virgin Arnethen as Enipeus when the giant twins,Aloidae, were begot; and as the ramthat gambolled with Bisaltis; as a horseloved by the fruitful Ceres, golden haired,all-bounteous mother of the yellow grain;and as the bird that hovered round snake-hairedMedusa, mother of the winged horse;and as the dolphin, sporting with the Nymph,Melantho.—All of these were woven trueto life, in proper shades.And there she showedApollo, when disguised in various forms:as when he seemed a rustic; and as whenhe wore hawk-wings, and then the tawny skinof a great lion; and once more when hedeluded Isse, as a shepherd lad.And there was Bacchus, when he was disguisedas a large cluster of fictitious grapes;deluding by that wile the beautifulErigone;—and Saturn, as a steed,begetter of the dual-natured Chiron.And then Arachne, to complete her work,wove all around the web a patterned edgeof interlacing flowers and ivy leaves.Minerva could not find a fleck or flaw—even Envy can not censure perfect art—enraged because Arachne had such skillshe ripped the web, and ruined all the scenesthat showed those wicked actions of the Gods;and with her boxwood shuttle in her hand,struck the unhappy mortal on her head,—struck sharply thrice, and even once again.Arachne's spirit, deigning not to brooksuch insult, brooded on it, till she tieda cord around her neck, and hung herself.Minerva, moved to pity at the sight,sustained and saved her from that bitter death;but, angry still, pronounced another doom:“Although I grant you life, most wicked one,your fate shall be to dangle on a cord,and your posterity forever shalltake your example, that your punishmentmay last forever!” Even as she spoke,before withdrawing from her victim's sight,she sprinkled her with juice—extract of herbsof Hecate.At once all hair fell off,her nose and ears remained not, and her headshrunk rapidly in size, as well as allher body, leaving her diminutive.—Her slender fingers gathered to her sidesas long thin legs; and all her other partswere fast absorbed in her abdomen—whenceshe vented a fine thread;—and ever since,Arachne, as a spider, weaves her web.

All Lydia was astonished at her fatethe Rumor spread to Phrygia, soon the worldwas filled with fear and wonder. Niobehad known her long before,—when in Maeonianear to Mount Sipylus; but the sad fatewhich overtook Arachne, lost on her,she never ceased her boasting and refusedto honor the great Gods.So many thingsincreased her pride: She loved to boasther husband's skill, their noble family,the rising grandeur of their kingdom. Suchfelicities were great delights to her;but nothing could exceed the haughty wayshe boasted of her children: and, in truth,Niobe might have been adjudged on earth,the happiest mother of mankind, if pridehad not destroyed her wit.It happened then,that Manto, daughter of Tiresias,who told the future; when she felt the fireof prophecy descend upon her, rushedupon the street and shouted in the midst:“You women of Ismenus! go and giveto high Latona and her children, twain,incense and prayer. Go, and with laurel wreatheyour hair in garlands, as your sacred prayersarise to heaven. Give heed, for by my speechLatona has ordained these holy rites.”At once, the Theban women wreathe their browswith laurel, and they cast in hallowed flamethe grateful incense, while they supplicateall favors of the ever-living Gods.And while they worship, Niobe comes there,surrounded with a troup that follow her,and most conspicuous in her purple robe,bright with inwoven threads of yellow gold.Beautiful in her anger, she tosses backher graceful head. The glory of her hairshines on her shoulders. Standing forth,she looks upon them with her haughty eyes,and taunts them, “Madness has prevailed on youto worship some imagined Gods of Heaven,which you have only heard of; but the Godsthat truly are on earth, and can be seen,are all neglected! Come, explain to me,why is Latona worshiped and adored,and frankincense not offered unto me?For my divinity is known to you.“Tantalus was my father, who aloneapproached the tables of the Gods in heaven;my mother, sister of the Pleiades,was daughter of huge Atlas, who supportsthe world upon his shoulders; I can boastof Jupiter as father of my sire,I count him also as my father-in-law.The peoples of my Phrygia dread my power,and I am mistress of the palace builtby Cadmus. By my husband, I am queenof those great walls that reared themselvesto the sweet music of his sounding lyre.We rule together all the people theyencompass and defend. And everywheremy gaze is turned, an evidence of wealthis witnessed.“In my features you can seethe beauty of a goddess, but abovethat majesty is all the glory dueto me, the mother of my seven sonsand daughters seven. And the time will comewhen by their marriage they will magnifythe circle of my power invincible.“All must acknowledge my just cause of prideand must no longer worship, in despiteof my superior birth, this deity,a daughter of ignoble Coeus, whomone time the great Earth would not even grantsufficient space for travail: whom the Heavens,the Land, the Sea together once compelledto wander, hopeless on all hostile shores!Throughout the world she found herself rebuffed,till Delos, sorry for the vagrant, said,‘Homeless you roam the lands, and I the seas!’And even her refuge always was adrift.“And there she bore two children, who, comparedwith mine, are but as one to seven. Whodenies my fortunate condition?—Whocan doubt my future?—I am surely safe.“The wealth of my abundance is too strongfor Fortune to assail me. Let her ragedespoil me of large substance; yet so muchwould still be mine, for I have risen abovethe blight of apprehension. But, supposea few of my fair children should be taken!Even so deprived, I could not be reducedto only two, as this Latona, who,might quite as well be childless.—Get you gonefrom this insensate sacrifice. Make haste!Cast off the wreathing laurels from your brows!”They plucked the garlands from their hair, and leftthe sacrifice, obedient to her will,although in gentle murmurs they adoredthe goddess Niobe had so defamed.Latona, furious when she heard the speech,flew swiftly to the utmost peak of Cynthus,and spoke to her two children in these words:“Behold your mother, proud of having bornesuch glorious children! I will yieldprestige before no goddess—save aloneimmortal Juno! I have been debased,and driven for all ages from my own—my altars, unto me devoted long,and so must languish through eternity,unless by you sustained. Nor is this all;.That daughter of Tantalus, bold Niobe,has added curses to her evil deeds,and with a tongue as wicked as her sire's,has raised her base-born children over mine.Has even called me childless! A sad fatemore surely should be hers! Oh, I entreat”—But Phoebus answered her, “No more complaintis necessary, for it only servesto hinder the swift sequel of her doom.”And with the same words Phoebe answered her.And having spoken, they descended throughthe shielding shadows of surrounding clouds,and hovered on the citadel of Cadmus.

There, far below them, was a level plainwhich swept around those walls; where trampling steeds,with horny hoofs, and multitudinous wheels,had beaten a wide track. And on the fieldthe older sons of Niobe on steedsemblazoned with bright dyes and harness richwith studded gold were circling.—One of these,Ismenus, first-born of his mother, whilecontrolling his fleet courser's foaming mouth,cried out, “Ah wretched me!” A shaft had piercedthe middle of his breast; and as the reinsdropped slowly on the rapid courser's neck,his drooping form fell forward to the ground.Not far from him, his brother, Sipylus,could hear the whistling of a fatal shaft,and in his fright urged on the plunging steed:as when the watchful pilot, sensibleof storms approaching, crowds on sail,hoping to catch a momentary breeze,so fled he, urging an impetuous flight;but, while he fled the shaft, unerring, flew;transfixed him with its quivering death; struck wherethe neck supports the head and the sharp pointprotruded from his throat. In his swift flight,as he was leaning forward, he was struck;and, rolling over the wild horse's neckpitched to the ground, and stained it with his blood.Unhappy Phaedimus, and Tantalus,(So named from his maternal grandsire) nowhad finished coursing on the track, and smooth.Shining with oil, were wrestling in the field;and while those brothers struggled—breast to breast—another arrow, hurtling from the sky,pierced them together, just as they were clinched.The mingled sound that issued from two throatswas like a single groan. Convulsed with pain,the wrestlers fell together on the ground,where, stricken with a double agony,rolling their eyeballs, they sobbed out their lives.Alphenor saw them die—beating his breastin agony—ran to lift in his armstheir lifeless bodies cold—while doing thishe fell upon them. Phoebus struck him so,piercing his midriff in a vital part,with fatal shot, which, when he pulled it forth,dragged with its barb a torn clot of his lung—his blood and life poured out upon the air.The youthful Damasicthon next was struck,not only once; an arrow pierced his legjust where the sinews of the thigh begin,and as he turned and stooped to pluck it out,another keen shaft shot into his neck,up to the fletching.—The blood drove it out,and spouted after it in crimson jets.Then, Ilioneus, last of seven sons,lifted his unavailing arms in prayer,and cried, “O Universal Deities,gods of eternal heaven, spare my life!”—Besought too late, Apollo of the Bow,could not prevail against the deadly shaft,already on its way: and yet his will,compellant, acted to retard its flight,so that it cut no deeper than his heart.The rumors of an awful tragedy,—the wailings of sad Niobe's loved friends,—the terror of her grieving relatives,—all gave some knowledge of her sudden loss:but so bewildered and enraged her mind,that she could hardly realize the Godshad privilege to dare against her might.Nor would she, till her lord, Amphion, thrusthis sword deep in his breast, by which his lifeand anguish both were ended in dark night.Alas, proud Niobe, once haughty queen!Proud Niobe who but so lately droveher people from Latona's altars, while,moving majestic through the midst, she hearstheir plaudits, now so bitterly debased,her meanest enemy may pity her!—She fell upon the bodies of her sons,and in a frenzy of maternal grief,kissed their unfeeling lips. Then unto Heavenwith arms accusing, railed upon her foe:“Glut your revenge! Latona, glut your rage!Yea, let my lamentations be your joy!Go—satiate your flinty heart with death!Are not my seven sons all dead? Am Inot waiting to be carried to my grave?—exult and triumph, my victorious foe!Victorious? Nay!—Much more remains to mein all my utmost sorrow, than to you,you gloater upon vengeance—Undismayed,I stand victorious in my Field of Woe!”no sooner had she spoken, than the cordtwanged from the ever-ready bow; and allwho heard the fatal sound, again were filledwith fear,—save Niobe, in misery bold,—defiant in misfortune.—Clothed in black,the sisters of the stricken brothers stood,with hair disheveled, by the funeral biers.And one while plucking from her brother's hearta shaft, swooned unto death, fell on her face—on her dear brother's corpse. Another girl,while she consoled her mother, suddenly,was stricken with an unseen, deadly wound;and doubled in convulsions, closed her lips,tight held them, till both breath and life were lost.Another, vainly rushed away from death—she met it, and pitched head-first to the ground;and still another died upon her corse,another vainly sought a secret death,and, then another slipped beyond's life's edge.So, altogether, six of seven died—each victim, strickened in a different way.One child remained. Then in a frenzy-fearthe mother, as she covered her with allher garments and her body, wailed—“Oh, leaveme this one child! the youngest of them all!My darling daughter—only leave me one!”But even while she was entreating for its life—the life was taken from her only child.Childless— she crouched beside her slaughtered sons,her lifeless daughters, and her husband's corpse.The breeze not even moved her fallen hair,a chill of marble spread upon her flesh,beneath her pale, set brows, her eyes moved not,her bitter tongue turned stiff in her hard jaws,her lovely veins congealed, and her stiff neckand rigid hands could neither bend nor move.—her limbs and body, all were changed to stone.Yet ever would she weep: and as her tearswere falling she was carried from the place,enveloped in a storm and mighty wind,far, to her native land, where fixed upona mountain summit she dissolves in tears,—and to this day the marble drips with tears.

All men and women, after this event,feared to incur Latona's fateful wrath,and worshiped with more zeal the Deity,mother of twins.—And, as it is the wayof men to talk of many other thingsafter a strong occurrence, they recalledwhat other deeds the goddess had performed;—and one of them recited this event:'Twas in the ancient days of long-ago,—some rustics, in the fertile fields of Lycia,heedless, insulted the goddess to their harm:—perhaps you've never heard of this event,because those country clowns were little known.The event was wonderful, but I can vouchthe truth of it. I visited the placeand I have seen the pool of water, wherehappened the miracle I now relate.My good old father, then advanced in years,incapable of travel, ordered meto fetch some cattle—thoroughbreds—from there,and had secured a Lycian for my guide,as I traversed the pastures, with the man,it chanced, I saw an ancient altar,—grimedwith sacrificial ashes—in the midstof a large pool, with sedge and reeds around,a-quiver in the breeze. And there my guidestood on the marge, and with an awe-struck voicebegan to whisper, “Be propitious, hearmy supplications, and forget not me!”And I, observing him, echoed the words,“Forget not me!” which, having done, I turnedto him and said, “Whose altar can this be?Perhaps a sacred altar of the Fauns,or of the Naiads, or a native God?”To which my guide replied, “Young man, such Godsmay not be worshiped at this altar. Shewhom once the royal Juno drove awayto wander a harsh world, alone permitsthis altar to be used: that goddess whomthe wandering Isle of Delos, at the timeit drifted as the foam, almost refuseda refuge.There Latona, as she leanedagainst a palm-tree—and against the treemost sacred to Minerva, brought forth twins,although their harsh step-mother, Juno, stroveto interfere.—And from the island forcedto fly by jealous Juno, on her breastshe bore her children, twin Divinities.At last, outwearied with the toil, and parchedwith thirst—long-wandering in those heated daysover the arid land of Lycia, wherewas bred the dire Chimaera— at the timeher parching breasts were drained, she saw this poolof crystal water, shimmering in the vale.Some countrymen were there to gather reeds,and useful osiers, and the bulrush, foundwith sedge in fenny pools. To them approachedLatona, and she knelt upon the mergeto cool her thirst, with some refreshing water.But those clowns forbade her and the goddess cried,as they so wickedly opposed her need:“Why do you so resist my bitter thirst?The use of water is the sacred rightof all mankind, for Nature has not madethe sun and air and water, for the soleestate of any creature; and to Herkind bounty I appeal, although of youI humbly beg the use of it. Not heredo I intend to bathe my wearied limbs.I only wish to quench an urgent thirst,for, even as I speak, my cracking lipsand mouth so parched, almost deny me words.A drink of water will be like a draughtof nectar, giving life; and I shall oweto you the bounty and my life renewed.—ah, let these tender infants, whose weak armsimplore you from my bosom, but inclineyour hearts to pity!” And just as she spoke,it chanced the children did stretch out their armsand who would not be touched to hear such words,as spoken by this goddess, and refuse?But still those clowns persisted in their wrongagainst the goddess; for they hindered her,and threatened with their foul, abusive tonguesto frighten her away—and, worse than all,they even muddied with their hands and feetthe clear pool; forcing the vile, slimy dregsup from the bottom, in a spiteful way,by jumping up and down.—Enraged at this,she felt no further thirst, nor would she deignto supplicate again; but, feeling allthe outraged majesty of her high state,she raised her hands to Heaven, and exclaimed,“Forever may you live in that mud-pool!”The curse as soon as uttered took effect,and every one of them began to swimbeneath the water, and to leap and plungedeep in the pool.—Now, up they raise their heads,now swim upon the surface, now they squatthemselves around the marshy margent, nowthey plump again down to the chilly deeps.And, ever and again, with croaking throats,indulge offensive strife upon the banks,or even under water, boom abuse.Their ugly voices cause their bloated necksto puff out; and their widened jaws are madestill wider in the venting of their spleen.Their backs, so closely fastened to their heads,make them appear as if their shrunken neckshave been cut off. Their backbones are dark green;white are their bellies, now their largest part.—Forever since that time, the foolish frogsmuddy their own pools, where they leap and dive.

So he related how the clowns were changedto leaping frogs; and after he was through,another told the tale of Marsyas, in these words:The Satyr Marsyas, when he played the flutein rivalry against Apollo's lyre,lost that audacious contest and, alas!His life was forfeit; for, they had agreedthe one who lost should be the victor's prey.And, as Apollo punished him, he cried,“Ah-h-h! why are you now tearing me apart?A flute has not the value of my life!”Even as he shrieked out in his agony,his living skin was ripped off from his limbs,till his whole body was a flaming wound,with nerves and veins and viscera exposed.But all the weeping people of that land,and all the Fauns and Sylvan Deities,and all the Satyrs, and Olympus, hisloved pupil—even then renowned in song,and all the Nymphs, lamented his sad fate;and all the shepherds, roaming on the hills,lamented as they tended fleecy flocks.And all those falling tears, on fruitful Earth,descended to her deepest veins, as dripthe moistening dews,—and, gathering as a fount,turned upward from her secret-winding caves,to issue, sparkling, in the sun-kissed air,the clearest river in the land of Phrygia,—through which it swiftly flows between steep banksdown to the sea: and, therefore, from his name,'Tis called “The Marsyas” to this very day.And after this was told, the people turnedand wept for Niobe's loved children dead,and also, mourned Amphion, sorrow-slain.The Theban people hated Niobe,but Pelops, her own brother, mourned her death;and as he rent his garment, and laid barehis white left shoulder, you could see the partcomposed of ivory.—At his birth 'twas allof healthy flesh; but when his father cuthis limbs asunder, and the Gods restoredhis life, all parts were rightly joined, exceptpart of one shoulder, which was wanting; soto serve the purpose of the missing flesh,a piece of ivory was inserted there,making his body by such means complete.

The lords of many cities that were near,now met together and implored their kingsto mourn with Pelops those unhappy deeds.—The lords of Argos; Sparta and Mycenae;and Calydon, before it had incurredthe hatred of Diana, goddess of the chase;fertile Orchomenus and Corinth, greatin wealth of brass; Patrae and fierce Messena;Cleone, small; and Pylus and Troezen,not ruled by Pittheus then,—and also, allthe other cities which are shut off bythe Isthmus there dividing by its two seas,and all the cities which are seen from there.What seemed most wonderful, of all those townsAthens alone was wanting, for a warhad gathered from the distant seas, a hostof savage warriors had alarmed her walls,and hindered her from mourning for the dead.Now Tereus, then the mighty king of Thrace,came to the aid of Athens as defensefrom that fierce horde; and there by his great deedsachieved a glorious fame. Since his descentwas boasted from the mighty Gradivus,and he was gifted with enormous wealth,Pandion, king of Athens, gave to himin sacred wedlock his dear daughter, Procne.But Juno, guardian of the sacred ritesattended not, nor Hymenaeus, northe Graces. But the Furies snatched up brandsfrom burning funeral pyres, and brandished themas torches. They prepared the nuptial couch,—a boding owl flew over the bride's room,and then sat silently upon the roof.With such bad omens Tereus married her,sad Procne, and those omens cast a gloomon all the household till the fateful birthof their first born. All Thrace went wild with joy—and even they, rejoicing, blessed the Gods,when he, the little Itys, saw the light;and they ordained each year their wedding day,and every year the birthday of their child,should be observed with festival and song:so the sad veil of fate conceals from usour future woes.Now Titan had drawn forththe changing seasons through five autumns, when,in gentle accents, Procne spoke these words:“My dearest husband, if you love me, letme visit my dear sister, or consentthat she may come to us and promise herthat she may soon return. If you will butpermit me to enjoy her companymy heart will bless you as I bless the Gods.”At once the monarch ordered his long shipsto launch upon the sea; and driven by sail,and hastened by the swiftly sweeping oars,they entered the deep port of Athens, wherehe made fair landing on the fortifiedPiraeus. There, when time was opportuneto greet his father-in-law and shake his hand,they both exchanged their wishes for good health,and Tereus told the reason why he came.He was relating all his wife's desire.Promising Philomela's safe returnfrom a brief visit, when Philomela appearedrich in her costly raiment, yet more richin charm and beauty, just as if a fairDryad or Naiad should be so attired,appearing radiant, from dark solitudes.As if someone should kindle whitening cornor the dry leaves, or hay piled in a stack;so Tereus, when he saw the beautifuland blushing virgin, was consumed with love.Her modest beauty was a worthy causeof worthy love; but by his heritage,derived from a debasing clime, his lovewas base; and fires unholy burned withinfrom his own lawless nature, just as fierceas are the habits of his evil race.In the wild frenzy of his wicked heart,he thought he would corrupt her trusted maid,her tried attendants, and corrupt evenher virtue with large presents: he would wastehis kingdom in the effort.—He preparedto seize her at the risk of cruel war.And he would do or dare all things to feedhis raging flame.—He could not brook delay.With most impassioned words he begged for her,pretending he gave voice to Procne's hopes.—his own desire made him wax eloquent,as often as his words exceeded bounds,he pleaded he was uttering Procne's words.His hypocritic eyes were filled with tears,as though they represented her desire—and, O you Gods above, what devious waysare harbored in the hearts of mortals! Throughhis villainous desire he gathered praise,and many lauded him for the great lovehe bore his wife.And even Philomeladesires her own undoing; and with fondembraces nestles to her father, whileshe pleads for his consent, that she may goto visit her dear sister.—Tereus viewedher pretty pleading, and in his hot heart,imagined he was then embracing her;and as he saw her kiss her father's lips,her arms around his neck, it seemed that eachcaress was his; and so his fire increased.He even wished he were her father; though,if it were so, his passion would no lessbe impious.—Overcome at last by theseentreaties, her kind father gave consent.Greatly she joyed and thanked him for her ownmisfortune. She imagined a success,instead of all the sorrow that would come.The day declining, little of his toilremained for Phoebus. Now his flaming steedswere beating with their hoofs the downward slopeof high Olympus; and the regal feastwas set before the guests, and flashing winewas poured in golden vessels, and the feastwent merrily, until the satisfiedassembly sought in gentle sleep their rest.Not so, the love-hot Tereus, king of Thrace,who, sleepless, imaged in his doting mindthe form of Philomela, recalled the shapeof her fair hands, and in his memoryreviewed her movements. And his flaming heartpictured her beauties yet unseen.—He fedhis frenzy on itself, and could not sleep.Fair broke the day; and now the ancient king,Pandion, took his son-in-law's right handto bid farewell; and, as he wept,commended his dear daughter, Philomela,unto his guarding care. “And in your care,my son-in-law, I trust my daughter's health.Good reason, grounded on my love, compelsmy sad approval. You have begged for her,and both my daughters have persuaded me.Wherefore, I do entreat you and imploreyour honor, as I call upon the Gods,that you will ever shield her with the loveof a kind father and return her safe,as soon as may be—my last comfort givento bless my doting age. And all delaywill agitate and vex my failing heart.“And, O my dearest daughter, Philomela,if you have any love for me, returnwithout too long delay and comfort me,lest I may grieve; for it is quite enoughthat I should suffer while your sister stays away.”

The old king made them promise, and he kissedhis daughter, while he wept. Then did he jointheir hands in pledge of their fidelity,and, as he gave his blessing, cautioned themto kiss his absent daughter and her sonfor his dear sake. Then as he spoke a lastfarewell, his trembling voice was filled with sobs.And he could hardly speak;—for a great fearfrom some vague intuition of his mind,surged over him, and he was left forlorn.So soon as Philomela was safe aboardthe painted ship and as the sailors urgedthe swiftly gliding keel across the deepand the dim land fast-faded from their view,then Tereus, in exultant humor, thought,“Now all is well, the object of my lovesails with me while the sailors ply the oars.”,He scarcely could control his barbarousdesire—with difficulty stayed his lust,he followed all her actions with hot eyes. —So, when the ravenous bird of Jupiterhas caught with crooked talons the poor hare,and dropped it—ruthless,—in his lofty nest,where there is no escape, his cruel eyesgloat on the victim he anticipates.And now, as Tereus reached his journey's end,they landed from the travel-wearied ship,safe on the shores of his own kingdom. Thenhe hastened with the frightened Philomelainto most wild and silent solitudesof an old forest; where, concealed amongdeep thickets a forbidding old house stood:there he immured the pale and trembling maid,who, vainly in her fright, began to callupon her absent sister,—and her tearsimplored his pity. His obdurate mindcould not be softened by such piteous cries;but even while her agonizing screamsimplored her sister's and her father's aid,and while she vainly called upon the Gods,he overmastered her with brutal force.—The poor child trembled as a frightened lamb,which, just delivered from the frothing jawsof a gaunt wolf, dreads every moving twig.She trembled as a timid injured dove,(her feathers dripping with her own life-blood)that dreads the ravening talons of a hawkfrom which some fortune has delivered her.But presently, as consciousness returned,she tore her streaming hair and beat her arms,and, stretching forth her hands in frenzied grief,cried out, “Oh, barbarous and brutal wretch!Unnatural monster of abhorrent deeds!Could not my anxious father's parting words,nor his foreboding tears restrain your lust?Have you no slight regard for your chaste wife,my dearest sister, and are you withoutall honor, so to spoil virginity now making me invade my sister's claim,you have befouled the sacred fount of life,—you are a lawless bond of double sin!“Oh, this dark punishment was not my due!Come, finish with my murder your black deed,so nothing wicked may remain undone.But oh, if you had only slaughtered mebefore your criminal embrace befouledmy purity, I should have had a shadeentirely pure, and free from any stain!Oh, if there is a Majesty in Heaven,and if my ruin has not wrecked the world,then, you shall suffer for this grievous wrongand time shall hasten to avenge my wreck.“I shall declare your sin before the world,and publish my own shame to punish you!And if I'm prisoned in the solitudes,my voice will wake the echoes in the woodand move the conscious rocks. Hear me, O Heaven!And let my imprecations rouse the Gods—ah-h-h, if there can be a god in Heaven!”Her cries aroused the dastard tyrant's wrath,and frightened him, lest ever his foul deedmight shock his kingdom: and, roused at onceby rage and guilty fear; he seized her hair,forced her weak arms against her back, and boundthem fast with brazen chains, then drew his sword.When she first saw his sword above her head.Flashing and sharp, she wished only for death,and offered her bare throat: but while she screamed,and, struggling, called upon her father's name,he caught her tongue with pincers, pitiless,And cut it with his sword.—The mangled rootstill quivered, but the bleeding tongue itself,fell murmuring on the blood-stained floor. As the tailof a slain snake still writhes upon the ground,so did the throbbing tongue; and, while it died,moved up to her, as if to seek her feet.—And, it is said that after this foul crime,the monster violated her again.And after these vile deeds, that wicked kingreturned to Procne, who, when she first mether brutal husband, anxiously inquiredfor tidings of her sister; but with sighsand tears, he told a false tale of her death,and with such woe that all believed it true.Then Procne, full of lamentation, tookher royal robe, bordered with purest gold,and putting it away, assumed insteadgarments of sable mourning; and she builta noble sepulchre, and offered thereher pious gifts to an imagined shade;—lamenting the sad death of her who lived.A year had passed by since that awful date—the sun had coursed the Zodiac's twelve signs.But what could Philomela hope or do?For like a jail the strong walls of the housewere built of massive stone, and guards aroundprevented flight; and mutilated, shecould not communicate with anyoneto tell her injuries and tragic woe.But even in despair and utmost grief,there is an ingenuity which givesinventive genius to protect from harm:and now, the grief-distracted Philomelawove in a warp with purple marks and white,a story of the crime; and when 'twas doneshe gave it to her one attendant thereand begged her by appropriate signs to takeit secretly to Procne. She took the web,she carried it to Procne, with no thoughtof words or messages by art conveyed.The wife of that inhuman tyrant tookthe cloth, and after she unwrapped it sawand understood the mournful record sent.She pondered it in silence and her tonguecould find no words to utter her despair;—her grief and frenzy were too great for tears.—In a mad rage her rapid mind counfoundedthe right and wrong—intent upon revenge.

Since it was now the time of festival,when all the Thracian matrons celebratethe rites of Bacchus—every third year thus—night then was in their secret; and at nightthe slopes of Rhodope resounded loudwith clashing of shrill cymbals. So, at nightthe frantic queen of Tereus left her homeand, clothed according to the well known ritesof Bacchus, hurried to the wilderness.Her head was covered with the green vine leaves;and from her left side native deer skin hung;and on her shoulder rested a light spear.—so fashioned, the revengeful Procne rushedthrough the dark woods, attended by a hostof screaming followers, and wild with rage,pretended it was Bacchus urged her forth.At last she reached the lonely building, whereher sister, Philomela, was immured;and as she howled and shouted “Ee-woh-ee-e!”,She forced the massive doors; and having seizedher sister, instantly concealed her facein ivy leaves, arrayed her in the trappingsof Bacchanalian rites. When this was done,they rushed from there, demented, to the housewhere as the Queen of Tereus, Procne dwelt.When Philomela knew she had arrivedat that accursed house, her countenance,though pale with grief, took on a ghastlier hue:and, wretched in her misery and fright,she shuddered in convulsions.—Procne tookthe symbols, Bacchanalian, from her then,and as she held her in a strict embraceunveiled her downcast head. But she refusedto lift her eyes, and fixing her sad gazeon vacant space, she raised her hand, instead;as if in oath she called upon the Godsto witness truly she had done no wrong,but suffered a disgrace of violence.—Lo, Procne, wild with a consuming rage,cut short her sister's terror in these words,“This is no time for weeping! awful deedsdemand a great revenge—take up the sword,and any weapon fiercer than its edge!My breast is hardened to the worst of crimemake haste with me! together let us putthis palace to the torch!“Come, let us maim,the beastly Tereus with revenging iron,cut out his tongue, and quench his cruel eyes,and hurl and burn him writhing in the flames!Or, shall we pierce him with a grisly blade,and let his black soul issue from deep woundsa thousand.—Slaughter him with every deathimagined in the misery of hate!”While Procne still was raving out such words,Itys, her son, was hastening to his mother;and when she saw him, her revengeful eyesconceiving a dark punishment, she said,“Aha! here comes the image of his father!”She gave no other warning, but preparedto execute a horrible revenge.But when the tender child came up to her,and called her “mother”, put his little armsaround her neck, and when he smiled and kissedher often, gracious in his cunning ways,—again the instinct of true motherhoodpulsed in her veins, and moved to pity, shebegan to weep in spite of her resolve.Feeling the tender impulse of her loveunnerving her, she turned her eyes from himand looked upon her sister, and from herglanced at her darling boy again. And so,while she was looking at them both, by turns,she said, “Why does the little one prevailwith pretty words, while Philomela standsin silence always, with her tongue torn out?She cannot call her sister, whom he callshis mother! Oh, you daughter of Pandion,consider what a wretch your husband is!The wife of such a monster must be flint;compassion in her heart is but a crime.”No more she hesitated, but as swiftas the fierce tigress of the Ganges leaps,seizes the suckling offspring of the hind,and drags it through the forest to its lair;so, Procne seized and dragged the frightened boyto a most lonely section of the house;and there she put him to the cruel sword,while he, aware of his sad fate, stretched forthhis little hands, and cried, “Ah, mother,—ah!—”And clung to her—clung to her, while she struck—her fixed eyes, maddened, glaring horribly—struck wildly, lopping off his tender limbs.But Philomela cut through his tender throat.Then they together, mangled his remains,still quivering with the remnant of his life,and boiled a part of him in steaming pots,that bubbled over with the dead child's blood,and roasted other parts on hissing spits.And, after all was ready, Procne badeher husband, Tereus, to the loathsome feast,and with a false pretense of sacred rites,according to the custom of her land,by which, but one man may partake of it,she sent the servants from the banquet hall.—Tereus, majestic on his ancient thronehigh in imagined state, devoured his son,and gorged himself with flesh of his own flesh—and in his rage of gluttony called outfor Itys to attend and share the feast!Curst with a joy she could conceal no more,and eager to gloat over his distress,Procne cried out,“Inside yourself, you havethe thing that you are asking for!” — Amazed,he looked around and called his son again:—that instant, Philomela sprang forth—her hairdisordered, and all stained with blood of murder,unable then to speak, she hurled the headof Itys in his father's fear-struck face,and more than ever longed for fitting words.The Thracian Tereus overturned the table,and howling, called up from the Stygian pit,the viperous sisters. Tearing at his breast,in miserable efforts to disgorgethe half-digested gobbets of his son,he called himself his own child's sepulchre,and wept the hot tears of a frenzied man.Then with his sword he rushed at the two sisters.Fleeing from him, they seemed to rise on wings,and it was true, for they had changed to birds.Then Philomela, flitting to the woods,found refuge in the leaves: but Procne flewstraight to the sheltering gables of a roof—and always, if you look, you can observethe brand of murder on the swallow's breast—red feathers from that day. And Tereus, swiftin his great agitation, and his willto wreak a fierce revenge, himself is turnedinto a crested bird. His long, sharp beakis given him instead of a long sword,and so, because his beak is long and sharp,he rightly bears the name of Hoopoe.

Before the number of his years was told,Pandion with the shades of Tartarus,because of this, has wandered in sad dooms.Erectheus, next in line, with mighty swayand justice, ruled all Athens on the throneleft vacant by the good Pandion's death.Four daughters and four sons were granted him;and of his daughters, two were beautiful,and one of these was wed to Cephalus,grandson of Aeolus. — But mighty Boreasdesired the hand of Orithyia, fairand lovable.—King Tereus and the Thracianswere then such obstacles to Boreasthe god was long kept from his dear beloved.Although the great king (who compels the coldnorth-wind) had sought with prayers to win her hand,and urged his love in gentleness, not force.When quite aware his wishes were disdained,he roughly said, with customary rageand violence: “Away with sentimental talk!My prayers and kind intentions are despised,but I should blame nobody but myself;then why should I, despising my great strength,debase myself to weakness and soft prayers?—might is my right, and violence my strength!—by force I drive the force of gloomy clouds.“Tremendous actions are the wine of life!—monarch of Violence, rolling on clouds,I toss wide waters, and I fell huge trees—knotted old oaks—and whirled upon ice-wings,I scatter the light snow, and pelt the Earthwith sleet and hail! I rush through boundless voids.My thunders rumble in the hollow clouds—and crash upon my brothers—fire to fire!“Possessed of daemon-rage, I penetrate,sheer to the utmost caverns of old Earth;and straining, up from those unfathomed deeps,scatter the terror-stricken shades of hell;and hurl death-dealing earthquakes through the world!“Such are the fateful powers I should use,and never trust entreaties to prevail,or win my bride—Force is the law of life!”And now impetuous Boreas, having howledresounding words, unrolled his rustling wings—that fan the earth and ruffle the wide sea—and, swiftly wrapping untrod mountain peaksin whirling mantles of far-woven dust,thence downward hovered to the darkened world;and, canopied in artificial nightof swarthy overshadowing wings, caught upthe trembling Orithyia to his breast:nor did he hesitate in airy courseuntil his huge wings fanned the chilling windsaround Ciconian Walls.There, she was pledgedthe wife of that cold, northern king of storms;and unto him she gave those hero twins,endowed with wings of their immortal sire,and graceful in their mother's form and face.Their bird-like wings were not fledged at their birthand those twin boys, Zetes and Calais,at first were void of feathers and soft down.But when their golden hair and beards were grown,wings like an eagle's came;—and feather-downgrew golden on their cheeks: and when from youththey entered manhood, quick they were to jointhe Argonauts, who for the Golden Fleece,sought in that first ship, ventured on the sea.