Chapter 11

_Am_. Villain! where are you taking me to? You are a kidnapper. I know who sent you—my uncle Aegyptus. I shall call my father.

_Tri_. Hush, Amymone; it is Posidon.

_Am_. Posidon? What do you mean? Unhand me, villain! would you drag me into the sea? Help, help, I shall sink and be drowned.

_Pos_. Don't be frightened; no harm shall be done to you. Come, you shall have a fountain called after you; it shall spring up in this very place, near the waves; I will strike the rock with my trident.—Think how nice it will be being dead, and not having to carry water any more, like all your sisters.

F.

VII

_South Wind. West Wind_

_S_. Zephyr, is it true about Zeus and the heifer that Hermes is convoying across the sea to Egypt?—that he fell in love with it?

_W_. Certainly. She was not a heifer then, though, but a daughter of the river Inachus. Hera made her what she is now; Zeus was so deep in love that Hera was jealous.

_S_. And is he still in love, now that she is a cow?

_W_. Oh, yes; that is why he has sent her to Egypt, and told us not to stir up the sea till she has swum across; she is to be delivered there of her child, and both of them are to be Gods.

_S_. The heifer a God?

_W_. Yes, I tell you. And Hermes said she was to be the patroness of sailors and our mistress, and send out or confine any of us that she chooses.

_S_. So we must regard ourselves as her servants at once?

_W_. Why, yes; she will be the kinder if we do. Ah, she has got across and landed. Do you see? she does not go on four legs now; Hermes has made her stand erect, and turned her back into a beautiful woman.

_S_. This is most remarkable, Zephyr; no horns, no tail, no cloven hoofs; instead, a lovely maid. But what is the matter with Hermes? he has changed his handsome face into a dog's.

_W_. We had better not meddle; he knows his own business best.

H.

VIII

_Posidon. Dolphins_

_Pos_. Well done, Dolphins!—humane as ever. Not content with your former exploit, when Ino leapt with Melicertes from the Scironian cliff, and you picked the boy up and conveyed him to the Isthmus, one of you swims from Methymna to Taenarum with this musician on his back, mantle and lyre and all. Those sailors had almost had their wicked will of him; but you were not going to stand that.

_Dol_. You need not be surprised to find us doing a good turn to a man, Posidon; we were men before we were fishes.

_Pos_. Yes; I think it was too bad of Dionysus to celebrate his victory by such a transformation scene; he might have been content with adding you to the roll of his subjects.—Well, Dolphin, tell me all about Arion.

_Dol_. From what I can gather, Periander was very fond of him, and was always sending for him to perform; till Arion grew quite rich at his expense, and thought he would take a trip to Methymna, and show off his wealth at home. He took ship accordingly; but it was with a crew of rogues. He had made no secret of the gold and silver he had with him; and when they were in mid Aegean, the sailors rose against him. As I was swimming alongside, I heard all that went on. 'Since your minds are made up,' says Arion, 'at least let me get my mantle on, and sing my own dirge; and then I will throw myself into the sea of my own accord.'—The sailors agreed. He threw his minstrel's cloak about him, and sang a most sweet melody; and then he let himself drop into the water, never doubting but that his last moment had come. But I caught him up on my back, and swam to shore with him at Taenarum.

_Pos_. I am glad to find you a patron of the arts. This was handsome pay for a song.

F.

IX

_Posidon. Amphitrite and other Nereids_

_Pos_. The strait where the child fell shall be called Hellespont after her. And as for her body, you Nereids shall take it to the Troad to be buried by the inhabitants.

_Amph_. Oh no, Posidon. Let her grave be the sea which bears her name. We are so sorry for her; that step-mother's treatment of her was shocking.

_Pos_. No, my dear, that may not be. And indeed it is not desirable that she should lie here under the sand; her grave shall be in the Troad, as I said, or in the Chersonese. It will be no small consolation to her that Ino will have the same fate before long. She will be chased by Athamas from the top of Cithaeron down the ridge which runs into the sea, and there plunge in with her son in her arms. But her we must rescue, to please Dionysus; Ino was his nurse and suckled him, you know.

_Amph_. Rescue a wicked creature like her?

_Pos_. Well, we do not want to disoblige Dionysus.

_Nereid_. I wonder what made the poor child fall off the ram; her brother Phrixus held on all right.

_Pos_. Of course he did; a lusty youth equal to the flight; but it was all too strange for her; sitting on that queer mount, looking down on yawning space, terrified, overpowered by the heat, giddy with the speed, she lost her hold on the ram's horns, and down she came into the sea.

_Nereid_. Surely her mother Nephele should have broken her fall.

_Pos_. I dare say; but Fate is a great deal too strong for Nephele.

H.

X

_Iris. Posidon_

_Ir_. Posidon: you know that floating island, that was torn away from Sicily, and is still drifting about under water; you are to bring it to the surface, Zeus says, and fix it well in view in the middle of the Aegean; and mind it is properly secured; he has a use for it.

_Pos_. Very good. And when I have got it up, and anchored it, what is he going to do with it?

_Ir_. Leto is to lie in there; her time is near.

_Pos_. And is there no room in Heaven? Or is Earth too small to hold her children?

_Ir_. Ah, you see, Hera has bound the Earth by a great oath not to give shelter to Leto in her travail. This island, however, being out of sight, has not committed itself.

_Pos_. I see.—Island, be still! Rise once more from the depths; and this time there must be no sinking. Henceforth you are _terra firma_; it will be your happiness to receive my brother's twin children, fairest of the Gods.—Tritons, you will have to convey Leto across. Let all be calm.—As to that serpent who is frightening her out of her senses, wait till these children are born; they will soon avenge their mother.—You can tell Zeus that all is ready. Delos stands firm: Leto has only to come.

F.

XI

_The Xanthus. The Sea_

_Xan_. O Sea, take me to you; see how horribly I have been treated; cool my wounds for me.

_Sea_. What is this, Xanthus? who has burned you?

_Xan_. Hephaestus. Oh, I am burned to cinders! oh, oh, oh, I boil!

_Sea_. What made him use his fire upon you?

_Xan_. Why, it was all that son of your Thetis. He was slaughtering the Phrygians; I tried entreaties, but he went raging on, damming my stream with their bodies; I was so sorry for the poor wretches, I poured down to see if I could make a flood and frighten him off them. But Hephaestus happened to be about, and he must have collected every particle of fire he had in Etna or anywhere else; on he came at me, scorched my elms and tamarisks, baked the poor fishes and eels, made me boil over, and very nearly dried me up altogether. You see what a state I am in with the burns.

_Sea_. Indeed you are thick and hot, Xanthus, and no wonder; the dead men's blood accounts for one, and the fire for the other, according to your story. Well, and serve you right; assaulting my grandson, indeed! paying no more respect to the son of a Nereid than that!

_Xan_. Was I not to take compassion on the Phrygians? they are my neighbours.

_Sea_. And was Hephaestus not to take compassion on Achilles? He is the son of Thetis.

H.

XII

_Doris. Thetis_

_Dor_. Crying, dear?

_The_. Oh, Doris, I have just seen a lovely girl thrown into a chest by her father, and her little baby with her; and he gave the chest to some sailors, and told them, as soon as they were far enough from the shore, to drop it into the water; he meant them to be drowned, poor things.

_Dor_. Oh, sister, but why? What was it all about? Did you hear?

_The_. Her father, Acrisius, wanted to keep her from marrying. And, as she was so pretty, he shut her up in an iron room. And—I don't know whether it's true—but they say that Zeus turned himself into gold, and came showering down through the roof, and she caught the gold in her lap,—and it was Zeus all the time. And then her father found out about it—he is a horrid, jealous old man—and he was furious, and thought she had been receiving a lover; and he put her into the chest, the moment the child was born.

_Dor_. And what did she do then?

_The_. She never said a word against her own sentence; _she_ was ready to submit: but she pleaded hard for the child's life, and cried, and held him up for his grandfather to see; and there was the sweet babe, that thought no harm, smiling at the waves. I am beginning again, at the mere remembrance of it.

_Dor_. You make me cry, too. And is it all over?

_The_. No; the chest has carried them safely so far; it is by Seriphus.

_Dor_. Then why should we not save them? We can put the chest into those fishermen's nets, look; and then of course they will be hauled in, and come safe to shore.

_The_. The very thing. She shall not die; nor the child, sweet treasure!

F.

XIV

_Triton. Iphianassa. Doris. Nereids_

_Tri_. Well, ladies: so the monster you sent against the daughter of Cepheus has got killed himself, and never done Andromeda any harm at all!

_Nereid_. Who did it? I suppose Cepheus was just using his daughter as a bait, and had a whole army waiting in ambush to kill him?

_Tri_. No, no.—Iphianassa, you remember Perseus, Danae's boy?—they were both thrown into the sea by the boy's grandfather, in that chest, you know, and you took pity on them.

_Iph_. I know; why, I suppose he is a fine handsome young fellow by now?

_Tri_. It was he who killed your monster.

_Iph_. But why? This was not the way to show his gratitude.

_Tri_. I'll tell you all about it. The king had sent him on this expedition against the Gorgons, and when he got to Libya—

_Iph_. How did he get there? all by himself? he must have had some one to help him?—it is a dangerous journey otherwise.

_Tri_. He flew,—Athene gave him wings.—Well, so when he got to where the Gorgons were living, he caught them napping, I suppose, cut off Medusa's head, and flew away.

_Iph_. How could he see them? The Gorgons are a forbidden sight. Whoever looks at them will never look at any one else again.

_Tri_. Athene held up her shield—I heard him telling Andromeda and Cepheus about it afterwards—Athene showed him the reflection of the Gorgon in her shield, which is as bright as any mirror; so he took hold of her hair in his left hand, grasped his scimetar with the right, still looking at the reflection, cut off her head, and was off before her sisters woke up. Lowering his flight as he reached the Ethiopian coast yonder, he caught sight of Andromeda, fettered to a jutting rock, her hair hanging loose about her shoulders; ye Gods, what loveliness was there exposed to view! And first pity of her hard fate prompted him to ask the cause of her doom: but Fate had decreed the maiden's deliverance, and presently Love stole upon him, and he resolved to save her. The hideous monster now drew near, and would have swallowed her: but the youth, hovering above, smote him with the drawn scimetar in his right hand, and with his left uncovered the petrifying Gorgon's head: in one moment the monster was lifeless; all of him that had met that gaze was turned to stone. Then Perseus released the maiden from her fetters, and supported her, as with timid steps she descended from the slippery rock.—And now he is to marry her in Cepheus's palace, and take her home to Argos; so that where she looked for death, she has found an uncommonly good match.

_Iph_. I am not sorry to hear it. It is no fault of hers, if her mother has the vanity to set up for our rival.

_Dor_. Still, she _is_ Andromeda's mother; and we should have had our revenge on her through the daughter.

_Iph_. My dear, let bygones be bygones. What matter if a barbarian queen's tongue runs away with her? She is sufficiently punished by the fright. So let us take this marriage in good part.

F.

XV

_West Wind. South Wind_

_W_. Such a splendid pageant I never saw on the waves, since the day I first blew. You were not there, Notus?

_S_. Pageant, Zephyr? what pageant? and whose?

_W_. You missed a most ravishing spectacle; such another chance you are not likely to have.

_S_. I was busy with the Red Sea; and I gave the Indian coasts a little airing too. So I don't know what you are talking about.

_W_. Well, you know Agenor the Sidonian?

_S_. Europa's father? what of him?

_W_. Europa it is that I am going to tell you about.

_S_. You need not tell me that Zeus has been in love with her this long while; that is stale news.

_W_. We can pass the love, then, and get on to the sequel.

Europa had come down for a frolic on the beach with her playfellows. Zeus transformed himself into a bull, and joined the game. A fine sight he was—spotless white skin, crumpled horns, and gentle eyes. He gambolled on the shore with them, bellowing most musically, till Europa took heart of grace and mounted him. No sooner had she done it than, with her on his back, Zeus made off at a run for the sea, plunged in, and began swimming; she was dreadfully frightened, but kept her seat by clinging to one of his horns with her left hand, while the right held her skirt down against the puffs of wind.

_S_. A lovely sight indeed, Zephyr, in every sense—Zeus swimming with his darling on his back.

_W_. Ay, but what followed was lovelier far.

Every wave fell; the sea donned her robe of peace to speed them on their way; we winds made holiday and joined the train, all eyes; fluttering Loves skimmed the waves, just dipping now and again a heedless toe—in their hands lighted torches, on their lips the nuptial song; up floated Nereids—few but were prodigal of naked charms—and clapped their hands, and kept pace on dolphin steeds; the Triton company, with every sea-creature that frights not the eye, tripped it around the maid; for Posidon on his car, with Amphitrite by him, led them in festal mood, ushering his brother through the waves. But, crowning all, a Triton pair bore Aphrodite, reclined on a shell, heaping the bride with all flowers that blow.

So went it from Phoenice even to Crete. But, when he set foot on the isle, behold, the bull was no more; 'twas Zeus that took Europa's hand and led her to the Dictaean Cave—blushing and downward-eyed; for she knew now the end of her bringing.

But we plunged this way and that, and roused the still seas anew.

_S_. Ah me, what sights of bliss! and I was looking at griffins, and elephants, and blackamoors!

H.

DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD

I

_Diogenes. Pollux_

_Diog_. Pollux, I have a commission for you; next time you go up—and I think it is your turn for earth to-morrow—if you come across Menippus the Cynic—you will find him about the Craneum at Corinth, or in the Lyceum, laughing at the philosophers' disputes—well, give him this message:—Menippus, Diogenes advises you, if mortal subjects for laughter begin to pall, to come down below, and find much richer material; where you are now, there is always a dash of uncertainty in it; the question will always intrude—who can be quite sure about the hereafter? Here, you can have your laugh out in security, like me; it is the best of sport to see millionaires, governors, despots, now mean and insignificant; you can only tell them by their lamentations, and the spiritless despondency which is the legacy of better days. Tell him this, and mention that he had better stuff his wallet with plenty of lupines, and any un-considered trifles he can snap up in the way of pauper doles [Footnote: In the Greek, 'a Hecate's repast lying at a street corner.' 'Rich men used to make offerings to Hecate on the 30th of every month as Goddess of roads at street corners; and these offerings were at once pounced upon by the poor, or, as here, the Cynics.' _Jacobitz_.] or lustral eggs. [Footnote: 'Eggs were often used as purificatory offerings and set out in front of the house purified.' _Id_.]

_Pol_. I will tell him, Diogenes. But give me some idea of his appearance.

_Diog_. Old, bald, with a cloak that allows him plenty of light and ventilation, and is patched all colours of the rainbow; always laughing, and usually gibing at pretentious philosophers.

_Pol_. Ah, I cannot mistake him now.

_Diog_. May I give you another message to those same philosophers?

_Pol_. Oh, I don't mind; go on.

_Diog_. Charge them generally to give up playing the fool, quarrelling over metaphysics, tricking each other with horn and crocodile puzzles [Footnote: See _Puzzles_ in Notes.] and teaching people to waste wit on such absurdities.

_Pol_. Oh, but if I say anything against their wisdom, they will call me an ignorant blockhead.

_Diog_. Then tell them from me to go to the devil.

_Pol_. Very well; rely upon me.

_Diog_. And then, my most obliging of Polluxes, there is this for the rich:—O vain fools, why hoard gold? why all these pains over interest sums and the adding of hundred to hundred, when you must shortly come to us with nothing beyond the dead-penny?

_Pol_. They shall have their message too.

_Diog_. Ah, and a word to the handsome and strong; Megillus of Corinth, and Damoxenus the wrestler will do. Inform them that auburn locks, eyes bright or black, rosy cheeks, are as little in fashion here as tense muscles or mighty shoulders; man and man are as like as two peas, tell them, when it comes to bare skull and no beauty.

_Pol_. That is to the handsome and strong; yes, I can manage that.

_Diog_. Yes, my Spartan, and here is for the poor. There are a great many of them, very sorry for themselves and resentful of their helplessness. Tell them to dry their tears and cease their cries; explain to them that here one man is as good as another, and they will find those who were rich on earth no better than themselves. As for your Spartans, you will not mind scolding them, from me, upon their present degeneracy?

_Pol_. No, no, Diogenes; leave Sparta alone; that is going too far; your other commissions I will execute.

_Diog_. Oh, well, let them off, if you care about it; but tell all the others what I said.

H.

II

_Before Pluto: Croesus, Midas, and Sardanapalus v. Menippus_

_Cr_. Pluto, we can stand this snarling Cynic no longer in our neighbourhood; either you must transfer him to other quarters, or we are going to migrate.

_Pl_. Why, what harm does he do to your ghostly community?

_Cr_. Midas here, and Sardanapalus and I, can never get in a good cry over the old days of gold and luxury and treasure, but he must be laughing at us, and calling us rude names; 'slaves' and 'garbage,' he says we are. And then he sings; and that throws us out.—In short, he is a nuisance.

_Pl_. Menippus, what's this I hear?

_Me_. All perfectly true, Pluto. I detest these abject rascals! Not content with having lived the abominable lives they did, they keep on talking about it now they are dead, and harping on the good old days. I take a positive pleasure in annoying them.

_Pl_. Yes, but you mustn't. They have had terrible losses; they feel it deeply.

_Me_. Pluto! you are not going to lend _your_ countenance to these whimpering fools?

_Pl_. It isn't that: but I won't have you quarrelling.

_Me_. Well, you scum of your respective nations, let there be no misunderstanding; I am going on just the same. Wherever you are, there shall I be also; worrying, jeering, singing you down.

_Cr_. Presumption!

_Me_. Not a bit of it. Yours was the presumption, when you expected men to fall down before you, when you trampled on men's liberty, and forgot there was such a thing as death. Now comes the weeping and gnashing of teeth: for all is lost!

_Cr_. Lost! Ah God! My treasure-heaps—

_Mid_. My gold—

_Sar_. My little comforts—

_Me_. That's right: stick to it! You do the whining, and I'll chime in with a string of GNOTHI-SAUTONS, best of accompaniments.

F.

III

_Menippus. Amphilochus. Trophonius_

_Me_. Now I wonder how it is that you two dead men have been honoured with temples and taken for prophets; those silly mortals imagine you are Gods.

_Amp_. How can we help it, if they are fools enough to have such fancies about the dead?

_Me_. Ah, they would never have had them, though, if you had not been charlatans in your lifetime, and pretended to know the future and be able to foretell it to your clients.

_Tro_. Well, Menippus, Amphilochus can take his own line, if he likes; as for me, I _am_ a Hero, and _do_ give oracles to any one who comes down to me. It is pretty clear you were never at Lebadea, or you would not be so incredulous.

_Me_. What do you mean? I must go to Lebadea, swaddle myself up in absurd linen, take a cake in my hand, and crawl through a narrow passage into a cave, before I could tell that you are a dead man, with nothing but knavery to differentiate you from the rest of us? Now, on your seer-ship, what _is_ a Hero? I am sure _I_ don't know.

_Tro_. He is half God, and half man.

_Me_. So what is neither man (as you imply) nor God, is both at once? Well, at present what has become of your diviner half?

_Tro_. He gives oracles in Boeotia.

_Me_. What you may mean is quite beyond me; the one thing I know for certain is that you are dead—the whole of you.

H.

IV

_Hermes. Charon_

_Her_. Ferryman, what do you say to settling up accounts? It will prevent any unpleasantness later on.

_Ch_. Very good. It does save trouble to get these things straight.

_Her_. One anchor, to your order, five shillings.

_Ch_. That is a lot of money.

_Her_. So help me Pluto, it is what I had to pay. One rowlock-strap, fourpence.

_Ch_. Five and four; put that down.

_Her_. Then there was a needle, for mending the sail; ten-pence.

_Ch_. Down with it.

_Her_. Caulking-wax; nails; and cord for the brace. Two shillings the lot.

_Ch_. They were worth the money.

_Her_. That's all; unless I have forgotten anything. When will you pay it?

_Ch_. I can't just now, Hermes; we shall have a war or a plague presently, and then the passengers will come shoaling in, and I shall be able to make a little by jobbing the fares.

_Her_. So for the present I have nothing to do but sit down, and pray for the worst, as my only chance of getting paid?

_Ch_. There is nothing else for it;—very little business doing just now, as you see, owing to the peace.

_Her_. That is just as well, though it does keep me waiting for my money. After all, though, Charon, in old days men were men; you remember the state they used to come down in,—all blood and wounds generally. Nowadays, a man is poisoned by his slave or his wife; or gets dropsy from overfeeding; a pale, spiritless lot, nothing like the men of old. Most of them seem to meet their end in some plot that has money for its object.

_Ch_. Ah; money is in great request.

_Her_. Yes; you can't blame me if I am somewhat urgent for payment.

F.

V

_Pluto. Hermes_

_Pl_. You know that old, old fellow, Eucrates the millionaire—no children, but a few thousand would-be heirs?

_Her_. Yes—lives at Sicyon. Well?

_Pl_. Well, Hermes, he is ninety now; let him live as much longer, please; I should like it to be more still, if possible; and bring me down his toadies one by one, that young Charinus, Damon, and the rest of them.

_Her_. It would seem so strange, wouldn't it?

_Pl_. On the contrary, it would be ideal justice. What business have they to pray for his death, or pretend to his money? they are no relations. The most abominable thing about it is that they vary these prayers with every public attention; when he is ill, every one knows what they are after, and yet they vow offerings if he recovers; talk of versatility! So let him be immortal, and bring them away before him with their mouths still open for the fruit that never drops.