Book 6

Arachne, vain-glorious of her ingenuity, challenges Minerva to a contest of skill in her art. The Goddess accepts the challenge, and, being enraged to see herself outdone, strikes her rival with her shuttle; upon which, Arachne, in her distress, hangs herself. Minerva, touched with compassion, transforms her into a spider.

Arachne, proud of her skill, challenges Minerva to a contest in her art. The goddess accepts the challenge. Furious when she sees that Arachne has outdone her, Minerva strikes her rival with her shuttle. In her distress, Arachne hangs herself. Moved by compassion, Minerva transforms her into a spider.

Tritonia had meanwhile lent an ear to such recitals as these, and she approved of the songs of the Aonian maids, and their just resentment. Then thus she says to herself: “To commend is but a trifling matter; let us, too, deserve commendation, and let us not permit our divine majesty to be slighted without due punishment.” And then she turns her mind to the fate of the Mæonian Arachne; who, as she had heard, did not yield to her in the praises of the art of working in wool. She was renowned not for the place of her birth, nor for the origin of her family, but for her skill alone. Idmon, of Colophon,⁴⁸⁴ her father, used to dye the soaking wool in Phocæan⁴⁸⁵ purple.⁴⁸⁶ Her mother was dead; but she, too, was of the lower rank, and of the same condition with her husband. Yet Arachne, by her skill, had acquired a memorable name throughout the cities of Lydia; although, born of a humble family, she used to live in the little town of Hypæpæ.⁴⁸⁷ Often did the Nymphs desert the vineyards of their own Tymolus, that they might look at her admirable workmanship; often did the Nymphs of the river Pactolus⁴⁸⁸ forsake their streams. And not only did it give them pleasure to look at the garments when made, but even, too, while they were being made, so much grace was there in her working. Whether it was that she was rolling the rough wool into its first balls, or whether she was unravelling the work with her fingers, and was softening the fleeces worked over again with long drawings out, equalling the mists in their fineness; or whether she was moving the smooth round spindle with her nimble thumb, or was embroidering with the needle, you might perceive that she had been instructed by Pallas.

Tritonia had meanwhile listened to these stories. She approved of the Aonian maids’ songs and their justified anger. Then she said to herself: “Praise is a small thing. Let us, too, earn praise, and not allow our divine majesty to be slighted without proper punishment.” She then turned her thoughts to the fate of Mæonian Arachne. She had heard that Arachne was praised as highly as herself for her skill in working wool. Arachne was famous for her skill alone, not for her birthplace or her family. Her father, Idmon of Colophon,⁴⁸⁴ dyed soaked wool in Phocæan⁴⁸⁵ purple.⁴⁸⁶ Her mother was dead. She, too, had been of humble rank, like her husband. Yet Arachne had made a name for herself throughout the cities of Lydia through her skill. She came from a humble family and lived in the little town of Hypæpæ.⁴⁸⁷ The Nymphs often left the vineyards of their own Tymolus to admire her work. The Nymphs of the river Pactolus⁴⁸⁸ often left their streams, too. They enjoyed looking not only at the finished garments but also at Arachne as she made them. She worked with such grace. She might be rolling the rough wool into its first balls. Or she might be teasing it apart with her fingers, repeatedly drawing out and softening the fleece until it was as fine as mist. She might be turning the smooth round spindle with her nimble thumb or embroidering with a needle. Whatever she was doing, you could see that Pallas had taught her.

This, however, she used to deny; and, being displeased with a mistress so famed, she said, “Let her contend with me. There is nothing which, if conquered, I should refuse to endure.” Pallas personates an old woman; she both places false gray hair on her temples, and supports as well her infirm limbs by a staff. Then thus she begins to speak: “Old age has not everything which we should avoid; experience comes from lengthened years. Do not despise my advice; let the greatest fame for working wool be sought by thee among mortals. But yield to the Goddess, and, rash woman, ask pardon for thy speeches with suppliant voice. She will grant pardon at my entreaty.” The other beholds her with scowling eyes, and leaves the threads she has begun; and scarcely restraining her hand, and discovering her anger by her looks, with such words as these does she reply to the disguised Pallas: “Thou comest here bereft of thy understanding, and worn out with prolonged old age; and it is thy misfortune to have lived too long. If thou hast any daughter-in-law, if thou hast any daughter of thy own, let her listen to these remarks. I have sufficient knowledge for myself in myself, and do not imagine that thou hast availed anything by thy advice; my opinion is still the same. Why does not she come herself? why does she decline this contest?”

She, however, denied this. Angered that such a teacher was so famous, she said, “Let her compete with me. If I am defeated, there is nothing I would refuse to endure.” Pallas disguised herself as an old woman. She put false gray hair at her temples and supported her weak limbs with a staff. Then she began to speak: “Old age is not entirely something to avoid. Long years bring experience. Do not despise my advice. Seek the greatest fame for working wool among mortals. But yield to the Goddess. Rash woman, humbly ask her to pardon your words. She will pardon you if I ask her to.” The other looked at her with a scowl in her eyes and dropped the threads she had begun to work. She could hardly restrain her hand, and her face showed her anger. She replied to the disguised Pallas: “You have lost your understanding and are worn out by old age. It is your misfortune to have lived too long. If you have a daughter-in-law or a daughter of your own, let her listen to this advice. I have enough knowledge of my own. Do not imagine your advice has accomplished anything. My opinion is still the same. Why doesn’t she come herself? Why does she refuse to compete?”

Then the Goddess says, “Lo! she is come;” and she casts aside the figure of an old woman, and shows herself as Pallas. The Nymphs and the Mygdonian⁴⁸⁹ matrons venerate the Goddess. The virgin alone is not daunted. But still she blushes, and a sudden flush marks her reluctant features, and again it vanishes; just as the sky is wont to become tinted with purple, when Aurora is first stirring, and after a short time to grow white from the influence of the Sun. She persists in her determination, and, from a desire for a foolish victory, she rushes upon her own destruction. Nor, indeed, does the daughter of Jupiter decline it, or advise her any further, nor does she now put off the contest. There is no delay; they both take their stand in different places, and stretch out two webs on the loom with a fine warp. The web is tied around the beam; the sley separates the warp; the woof is inserted in the middle with sharp shuttles, which the fingers hurry along, and being drawn within the warp, the teeth notched in the moving sley strike it. Both hasten on, and girding up their garments to their breasts, they move their skilful arms, their eagerness beguiling their fatigue. There both the purple is being woven, which is subjected to the Tyrian brazen vessel,⁴⁹⁰ and fine shades of minute difference; just as the rainbow, with its mighty arch, is wont to tint a long tract of the sky by means of the rays reflected by the shower: in which, though a thousand different colors are shining, yet the very transition eludes the eyes that look upon it; to such a degree is that which is adjacent the same; and yet the extremes are different. There, too, the pliant gold is mixed with the threads, and ancient subjects are represented on the webs.

Then the Goddess says, “Look! she is here,” and casts aside the form of an old woman, revealing herself as Pallas. The Nymphs and the Mygdonian⁴⁸⁹ matrons bow before the Goddess. Only the young woman is unafraid. Yet she blushes, and a sudden flush crosses her unwilling face, then fades again. It is just as the sky turns purple when Aurora first stirs, then soon grows white in the sunlight. The young woman persists in her resolve, and her desire for a foolish victory drives her toward destruction. Jupiter’s daughter does not refuse it, offer further advice, or put off the contest any longer. Without delay, they take their places apart and stretch two webs on the loom with fine warp threads. Each web is tied to a beam, and a sley separates the warp threads. Their fingers swiftly pass pointed shuttles between the threads, inserting the weft. Then the notched teeth of the moving sley beat it into place. Both work quickly, with their garments tucked up to their breasts. Their skillful arms move as their eagerness makes them forget their weariness. They weave purple thread, dyed in the Tyrian bronze vessel,⁴⁹⁰ along with subtly different shades. The colors are like those of a rainbow. Its great arch colors a long stretch of sky with rays reflected by the rain. Though a thousand different colors shine in it, their transitions escape the eye. Neighboring shades are so alike, yet the colors at opposite ends are different. They also weave pliant gold into the threads and depict scenes from ancient times on their webs.

Pallas embroiders the rock of Mars⁴⁹¹ in Athens, the citadel of Cecrops, and the old dispute about the name of the country. Twice six⁴⁹² celestial Gods are sitting on lofty seats in august state, with Jupiter in the midst. His own proper likeness distinguishes each of the Gods. The form of Jupiter is that of a monarch. She makes the God of the sea to be standing there, and to be striking the rugged rocks with his long trident, and a wild horse to be springing forth⁴⁹³ out of the midst of the opening of the rock; by which pledge of his favor he lays claim to the city. But to herself she gives the shield, she gives the lance with its sharp point; she gives the helmet to her head, and her breast is protected by the Ægis. She there represents, too, the earth struck by her spear, producing a shoot of pale olive with its berries, and the Gods admiring it. Victory is the end of her work. But that the rival of her fame may learn from precedents what reward to expect for an attempt so mad, she adds, in four different parts, four contests bright in their coloring, and distinguished by diminutive figures. One corner contains Thracian Rhodope and Hæmus, now cold mountains, formerly human bodies, who assumed to themselves the names of the supreme Gods. Another part contains the wretched fate of the Pygmæan matron.⁴⁹⁴ Her, overcome in a contest, Juno commanded to be a crane, and to wage war against her own people. She depicts, too, Antigone,⁴⁹⁵ who once dared to contend with the wife of the great Jupiter; and whom the royal Juno changed into a bird; nor did Ilion protect her, or her father Laomedon, from assuming wings, and as a white crane, from commending herself with her chattering beak. The only corner that remains, represents the bereft Cinyras;⁴⁹⁶ and he, embracing the steps of a temple, once the limbs of his own daughters, and lying upon the stone, appears to be weeping. She surrounds the exterior borders with peaceful olive. That is the close; and with her own tree she puts an end to the work.

Pallas embroiders the rock of Mars⁴⁹¹ in Athens, the citadel of Cecrops, and the old dispute over the country’s name. Twelve⁴⁹² celestial Gods sit on high seats in majestic splendor, with Jupiter in the middle. Each God is recognizable by their own likeness. Jupiter appears as a monarch. She shows the God of the sea standing there and striking the rugged rocks with his long trident. A wild horse springs out⁴⁹³ from an opening in the rock. With this pledge of his favor, he claims the city. But she gives herself a shield and a sharp-pointed lance. She wears a helmet, and her breast is protected by the Ægis. She there shows the earth, struck by her spear, producing a shoot of pale olive with berries. The Gods admire it. Her work ends with victory. But she adds four brightly colored contests, each with small figures, in four different parts. She does this so that her rival may learn from past examples what reward to expect for such a mad attempt. One corner shows Thracian Rhodope and Hæmus. They are now cold mountains, but were once humans who took the names of the supreme Gods for themselves. Another part shows the wretched fate of the Pygmæan matron.⁴⁹⁴ After the matron lost a contest, Juno ordered her to become a crane and wage war against her own people. Pallas also depicts Antigone,⁴⁹⁵ who once dared to compete with the wife of the great Jupiter. The royal Juno turned her into a bird. Neither Ilion nor her father Laomedon could protect her from growing wings. As a white crane, she praises herself with her chattering beak. The only remaining corner shows the bereft Cinyras.⁴⁹⁶ He lies on the stone, embracing the steps of a temple, which were once his own daughters’ limbs. He appears to be weeping. Pallas surrounds the outer edges with peaceful olive. This is the end of her work. She finishes it with her own tree.

The Mæonian Nymph delineates Europa, deceived by the form of the bull; and you would think it a real bull, and real sea. She herself seems to be looking upon the land which she has left, and to be crying out to her companions, and to be in dread of the touch of the dashing waters, and to be drawing up her timid feet. She drew also Asterie,⁴⁹⁷ seized by the struggling eagle; and made Leda, reclining beneath the wings of the swan. She added, how Jupiter, concealed under the form of a Satyr, impregnated Antiope,⁴⁹⁸ the beauteous daughter of Nycteus, with a twin offspring; how he was Amphitryon, when he beguiled thee, Tirynthian⁴⁹⁹ dame; how, turned to gold, he deceived Danaë; how, changed into fire, the daughter of Asopus;⁵⁰⁰ how, as a shepherd, Mnemosyne;⁵⁰¹ and as a speckled serpent, Deois.⁵⁰² She depicted thee too, Neptune, changed into a fierce bull, with the virgin daughter⁵⁰³ of Æolus. Thou, seeming to be Enipeus,⁵⁰⁴ didst beget the Aloïdæ; as a ram, thou didst delude Theophane, the daughter of Bisaltis.⁵⁰⁵ Thee too the most bounteous mother of corn, with her yellow hair, experienced⁵⁰⁶ as a steed; thee, the mother⁵⁰⁷ of the winged horse, with her snaky locks, received as a bird; Melantho,⁵⁰⁸ as a dolphin. To all these did she give their own likeness, and the real appearance of the various localities. There was Phœbus, under the form of a rustic; and how, besides, he was wearing the wings of a hawk at one time, at another the skin of a lion; how, too, as a shepherd, he deceived Isse,⁵⁰⁹ the daughter of Macareus. How Liber deceived Erigone,⁵¹⁰ in a fictitious bunch of grapes; and how Saturn⁵¹¹ begot the two-formed Chiron, in the form of a horse. The extreme part of the web, being enclosed in a fine border, had flowers interwoven with the twining ivy.

The Mæonian Nymph depicts Europa, deceived by the bull’s form. You would think the bull and the sea were real. Europa seems to look back at the land she has left and cry out to her companions. She seems afraid of the splashing water and draws up her timid feet. The Nymph also drew Asterie,⁴⁹⁷ seized by the struggling eagle, and Leda reclining beneath the swan’s wings. She added how Jupiter, disguised as a Satyr, made Antiope,⁴⁹⁸ the beautiful daughter of Nycteus, pregnant with twins. She showed how he took the form of Amphitryon when he deceived you, Tirynthian⁴⁹⁹ lady. She showed how he turned into gold and deceived Danaë, how he became fire to deceive the daughter of Asopus,⁵⁰⁰ how he became a shepherd to deceive Mnemosyne,⁵⁰¹ and a speckled serpent to deceive Deois.⁵⁰² She also depicted you, Neptune, changed into a fierce bull with the virgin daughter⁵⁰³ of Æolus. Disguised as Enipeus,⁵⁰⁴ you fathered the Aloïdæ. As a ram, you deceived Theophane, the daughter of Bisaltis.⁵⁰⁵ The most generous mother of corn, with her golden hair, knew you⁵⁰⁶ as a horse. The mother⁵⁰⁷ of the winged horse, with her snaky locks, received you as a bird. Melantho⁵⁰⁸ received you as a dolphin. The Nymph gave each figure its own likeness and made the various settings look real. There was Phœbus in the form of a countryman. She also showed how he wore a hawk’s wings at one time and a lion’s skin at another. She showed how, as a shepherd, he deceived Isse,⁵⁰⁹ the daughter of Macareus. She showed how Liber deceived Erigone⁵¹⁰ disguised as a bunch of grapes, and how Saturn,⁵¹¹ in the form of a horse, fathered Chiron, who had two forms. At the edge of the tapestry was a fine border, with flowers woven among the twining ivy.

Pallas could not blame that work, nor could Envy censure it. The yellow-haired Virgin grieved at her success, and tore the web embroidered with the criminal acts of the Gods of heaven. And as she was holding her shuttle made of boxwood from Mount Cytorus, three or four times did she strike the forehead of Arachne, the daughter of Idmon. The unhappy creature could not endure it; and being of a high spirit, she tied up her throat in a halter. Pallas, taking compassion, bore her up as she hung; and thus she said: “Live on indeed, wicked one,⁵¹² but still hang; and let the same decree of punishment be pronounced against thy race, and against thy latest posterity, that thou mayst not be free from care in time to come.” After that, as she departed, she sprinkled her with the juices of an Hecatean herb;⁵¹³ and immediately her hair, touched by the noxious drug, fell off, and together with it her nose and ears. The head of herself, now small as well throughout her whole body, becomes very small. Her slender fingers cleave to her sides as legs; her belly takes possession of the rest of her; but out of this she gives forth a thread; and as a spider, she works at her web as formerly.

Pallas could not fault the work, nor could Envy criticize it. The yellow-haired Virgin was upset by Arachne’s success. She tore the tapestry, which showed the crimes of the gods of heaven. Holding her shuttle made of boxwood from Mount Cytorus, she struck Arachne, daughter of Idmon, on the forehead three or four times. The unhappy woman could not bear it. Proud in spirit, she put a noose around her neck. Pallas took pity and held her up as she hung. She said, “Live on, wicked one,⁵¹² but remain hanging. Let this same punishment be decreed for your descendants, even the most distant, so that you will not be free from worry in the future.” Then, as Pallas left, she sprinkled Arachne with the juice of an Hecatean herb.⁵¹³ As soon as the poisonous drug touched her, Arachne’s hair fell out, along with her nose and ears. Her head became very small, and her whole body became small as well. Her slender fingers clung to her sides as legs. Her belly made up the rest of her, but from it she spins a thread. As a spider, she works at her web as before.

The Theban matrons, forming a solemn procession in honor of Latona, Niobe esteems herself superior to the Goddess, and treats her and her offspring with contempt; on which, Apollo and Diana, to avenge the affront offered to their mother, destroy all the children of Niobe; and she, herself, is changed into a statue.

The Theban matrons form a solemn procession in honor of Latona. Niobe considers herself superior to the goddess and treats her and her children with contempt. To avenge the insult to their mother, Apollo and Diana kill all of Niobe’s children. Niobe herself is turned into a statue.

All Lydia is in an uproar, and the rumor of the fact goes through the town of Phrygia, and fills the wide world with discourse thereon. Before her own marriage Niobe had known her,⁵¹⁴ at the time, when still single, she was inhabiting Mæonia and Sipylus.⁵¹⁵ And yet by the punishment of her countrywoman, Arachne, she was not warned to yield to the inhabitants of Heaven, and to use less boastful words. Many things augmented her pride; but yet, neither the skill of her husband, nor the descent of them both, nor the sovereignty of a mighty kingdom, pleased her so much (although all of them did please her) as her own progeny; and Niobe might have been pronounced the happiest of mothers, if she had not so seemed to herself.

All Lydia is in an uproar. News of what happened spreads through the town of Phrygia, and the whole world talks about it. Before her marriage, Niobe had known her,⁵¹⁴ when Niobe was still single and living in Mæonia and Sipylus.⁵¹⁵ Yet the punishment of her countrywoman, Arachne, did not warn her to submit to the gods and boast less. Many things fed her pride. She took pleasure in her husband's skill, their ancestry, and their rule over a mighty kingdom. But none of these pleased her as much as her own children. Niobe might have been called the happiest of mothers, if she had not thought herself so.

For Manto, the daughter of Tiresias, foreknowing the future, urged by a divine impulse, had proclaimed through the middle of the streets, “Ye women of Ismenus, go all of you,⁵¹⁶ and give to Latona, and the two children of Latona, the pious frankincense, together with prayers, and wreathe your hair with laurel; by my mouth does Latona command this.” Obedience is paid; and all the Theban women adorn their temples with leaves of laurel, as commanded, and offer frankincense on the sacred fires, and words of supplication. Lo! Niobe comes, surrounded with a crowd of attendants, conspicuous for the gold interwoven in her Phrygian garments, and beautiful, so far as anger will allow; and tossing her hair, hanging down on both shoulders, with her graceful head, she stands still; and as she loftily casts around her haughty eyes, she says, “What madness is this to prefer the inhabitants of Heaven, that you have only heard of, to those who are seen? or why is Latona worshipped at the altars, and my Godhead is still without its due frankincense? Tantalus was my father, who alone was allowed to approach the tables of the Gods above. The sister of the Pleiades⁵¹⁷ is my mother; the most mighty Atlas is my grandsire, who bears the æthereal skies upon his neck. Jupiter is my other grandsire; of him, too, I boast as my father-in-law.⁵¹⁸ The Phrygian nations dread me; the palace of Cadmus is subject to me as its mistress; and the walls that were formed by the strings of my husband’s lyre, together with their people, are governed by me and my husband; to whatever part of the house I turn my eyes, immense wealth is seen. To this is added a face worthy of a Goddess. Add to this my seven daughters,⁵¹⁹ and as many sons, and, at a future day, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law. Now inquire what ground my pride has for its existence; and presume to prefer Latona the Titaness, the daughter of some obscure Cæus, to whom, when in travail,⁵²⁰ the great earth once refused a little spot, to myself. Neither by heaven, nor by earth, nor by water, was your Goddess received; she was banished the world, till Delos, pitying the wanderer, said, “Thou dost roam a stranger on the land, I in the waves;” and gave her an unstable place of rest. She was made the mother of two children, that is but the seventh part of my issue. I am fortunate, and who shall deny it? and fortunate I shall remain; who, too, can doubt of that? Plenty has made me secure; I am too great for Fortune possibly to hurt; and, though she should take away many things from me, even then much more will she leave me: my many blessings have now risen superior to apprehensions. Suppose it possible for some part of this multitude of my children to be taken away from me; still, thus stripped, I shall not be reduced to two, the number of Latona; an amount, by the number of which, how far, I pray, is she removed from one that is childless? Go from the sacrifice; hasten away from the sacrifice, and remove the laurel from your hair!”

Manto, the daughter of Tiresias, knew the future. Driven by divine inspiration, she had proclaimed in the streets, “Women of Ismenus, all of you go,⁵¹⁶ and offer Latona and her two children sacred incense and prayers. Wreathe your hair with laurel. Latona commands this through me.” The women obeyed. All the Theban women adorned their temples with laurel leaves, as commanded. They offered incense on the sacred fires and spoke words of prayer. Then Niobe appeared, surrounded by a crowd of attendants. Gold was woven into her Phrygian garments, and she was beautiful, so far as anger allowed. She tossed the hair hanging over both shoulders with a graceful movement of her head and stopped. Casting her proud eyes haughtily around her, she said, “What madness is this? Why do you prefer the inhabitants of Heaven, whom you have only heard of, to those you can see? Why is Latona worshipped at the altars, while my divinity still receives no proper incense? “Tantalus was my father. He alone was allowed to approach the tables of the Gods above. The sister of the Pleiades⁵¹⁷ is my mother. The mighty Atlas is my grandfather, and he bears the heavens on his neck. Jupiter is my other grandfather. I also boast that he is my father-in-law.⁵¹⁸ The Phrygian nations fear me, and I am mistress of the palace of Cadmus. My husband and I rule its people and its walls, which were built by the strings of his lyre. Wherever I look in the house, I see immense wealth. I also have a face worthy of a Goddess. Add to this my seven daughters⁵¹⁹ and as many sons, and, someday, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law. “Now ask what reason my pride has to exist. And dare to prefer Latona the Titaness to me! She is the daughter of some obscure Cæus. Once, when she was in labor,⁵²⁰ the great earth refused her even a small spot. Your Goddess was welcomed by neither heaven, earth, nor water. She was banished from the world until Delos took pity on the wanderer. Delos said, “You wander as a stranger on land, I on the waves.” It gave her an unsteady place to rest. She became the mother of two children, only a seventh of my number. “I am fortunate, and who can deny it? And I shall remain fortunate. Who can doubt that? My abundance has made me secure. I am too great for Fortune to hurt. Though she should take many things from me, even then she will leave me much more. My many blessings have put me beyond fear. Suppose some of my many children could be taken from me. Even then, I would not be reduced to two, Latona’s number. With that number, how far, I ask, is she from being childless? Leave the sacrifice. Hurry away from it, and remove the laurel from your hair!”

They remove it, and the sacrifice they leave unperformed; and what they can do, they adore the Divinity in gentle murmurs. The Goddess was indignant; and on the highest top of Mount Cynthus, she spoke to her two children in such words as these: “Behold! I, your mother, proud of having borne you, and who shall yield to no one of the Goddesses, except to Juno alone, am called in question whether I am a Goddess, and, for all future ages, I am driven from the altars devoted to me, unless you give me aid. Nor is this my only grief; the daughter of Tantalus has added abusive language to her shocking deeds, and has dared to postpone you to her own children, and (what I wish may fall upon herself), she has called me childless; and the profane wretch has discovered a tongue like her father’s.”⁵²¹ To this relation Latona was going to add entreaties, when Phœbus said, “Cease thy complaints, ’tis prolonging the delay of her punishment.” Phœbe said the same; and, by a speedy descent through the air, they arrived, covered with clouds, at the citadel of Cadmus.

They remove it and leave the sacrifice unfinished. Instead, they do what they can and worship the goddess with quiet murmurs. The goddess was indignant. On the highest peak of Mount Cynthus, she spoke to her two children in words like these: “Look! I am your mother, proud to have borne you. I rank below no goddess except Juno alone. Yet people question whether I am a goddess. Unless you help me, I will be driven from the altars devoted to me for all time. And that is not my only grief. The daughter of Tantalus has added insults to her shocking deeds. She has dared to place you below her own children. She has called me childless, though I wish that fate on her instead. The profane wretch has shown that her tongue is like her father’s.”⁵²¹ Latona was about to add a plea when Phœbus said, “Stop complaining. You are only delaying her punishment.” Phœbe said the same. Then they quickly descended through the air and arrived at the citadel of Cadmus, hidden by clouds.

There was near the walls a plain, level, and extending far and wide, trampled continually by horses, where multitudes of wheels and hard hoofs had softened the clods placed beneath them. There, part of the seven sons of Amphion are mounting upon their spirited steeds, and press their backs, red with the Tyrian dye, and wield the reins heavy with gold; of these, Ismenus, who had formerly been the first burden of his mother, while he is guiding the steps of the horses in a perfect circle, and is curbing their foaming mouths, cries aloud, “Ah, wretched me!” and, pierced through the middle of his breast, bears a dart therein; and the reins dropping from his dying hand, by degrees he falls on his side, over the horse’s shoulder. The next to him, Sipylus, on hearing the sound of a quiver in the air, gives rein⁵²² to his horse; as when the pilot, sensible of the storm approaching, flies on seeing a cloud, and unfurls the hanging sails on every side, that the light breeze may by no means escape them. He gives rein, I said; while thus giving it, the unerring dart overtakes him, and an arrow sticks quivering in the top of his neck, and the bare steel protrudes from his throat. He, as he is bending forward, rolls over the neck, now let loose, and over the mane, and stains the ground with his warm blood. The unhappy Phædimus, and Tantalus, the heir to the name of his grandsire, when they had put an end to their wonted exercise of riding, had turned to the youthful exercises of the palæstra, glowing with oil;⁵²³ and now had they brought⁵²⁴ breast to breast, struggling in a close grapple, when an arrow, sped onward from the stretched bow, pierced them both, just as they were united together. At the same instant they groaned aloud, and together they laid their limbs on the ground, writhing with pain; together as they lay, for the last time, they rolled their eyeballs, and together they breathed forth their life.

Near the walls lay a broad, level plain, constantly trampled by horses. Countless wheels and hard hooves had softened the clods of earth beneath them. There, some of Amphion’s seven sons mounted their spirited horses. They pressed the horses’ backs, red with Tyrian dye, and held reins heavy with gold. Among them was Ismenus, his mother’s firstborn. He was guiding his horses in a perfect circle, holding back their foaming mouths. Then he cried, “Ah, wretched me!” A dart had pierced the middle of his chest and lodged therein. The reins slipped from his dying hand, and he slowly fell sideways over the horse’s shoulder. Next, Sipylus heard the sound of a quiver in the air and gave his horse free rein⁵²². He was like a sailor who sees a storm cloud approaching and flees. The sailor spreads his hanging sails on every side so that he will not lose even the light breeze. Sipylus, as I said, gave his horse free rein. But as he did, the unerring dart caught him. The arrow stuck quivering in the back of his neck, and its bare steel point protruded from his throat. Bent forward, he rolled over the neck, now free of the reins, and over the mane. His warm blood stained the ground. The unhappy Phædimus and Tantalus, named after his grandfather, had finished their usual riding exercise. They had turned to the games young men played in the palæstra, their bodies gleaming with oil⁵²³. They had just locked⁵²⁴ chest to chest in a wrestling hold when an arrow flew from a drawn bow. It pierced them both as they clung together. They groaned at the same instant and fell to the ground together, writhing in pain. As they lay there, they rolled their eyes one last time and breathed their last together.

Alphenor sees this, and, beating his torn breast, flies to them, to lift up their cold limbs in his embrace, and falls in this affectionate duty. For the Delian God pierces the inner part of his midriff with the fatal steel. Soon as it is pulled out, a part of his lungs is dragged forth on the barbs, and his blood is poured forth, with his life, into the air; but no single wound reaches the unshaven Damasicthon. He is struck where the leg commences, and where the sinewy ham makes the space between the joints soft; and while he is trying with his hand to draw out the fatal weapon, another arrow is driven through his neck, up to the feathers. The blood drives this out, and itself starting forth, springs up on high, and, piercing the air, spouts forth afar. The last of them, Ilioneus, had raised his unavailing arms in prayer, and had said, “O, all ye Gods, in common, (not knowing that all were not to be addressed) spare me!” The God, the bearer of the bow, was moved, when now his arrow could not be recalled; yet he died with the slightest wound of all, his heart not being struck deep by the arrow.

Alphenor sees this and beats his torn breast. He rushes to them to lift their cold limbs into his embrace, but dies in this act of love. For the Delian God drives his deadly arrow deep into Alphenor’s abdomen. When the arrow is pulled out, its barbs drag out part of his lungs. His blood spills into the air, and his life goes with it. But the unshaven Damasicthon suffers more than one wound. He is struck where the leg begins, at the soft place between the joints behind the knee. As he tries to pull out the deadly arrow, another pierces his neck up to the feathers. His blood forces the arrow out, then leaps high into the air and sprays far and wide. Ilioneus, the last of them, had raised his arms in a useless prayer. “O, all you Gods together, spare me!” he had said. He did not know that he should not have addressed them all. The God who carried the bow was moved, but his arrow could no longer be recalled. Yet Ilioneus died with the slightest wound of all, for the arrow had not pierced his heart deeply.

The report of this calamity, and the grief of the people, and the tears of her family, made the mother acquainted with a calamity so sudden, wondering that it could have happened, and enraged that the Gods above had dared this, and that they enjoyed a privilege so great. For Amphion the father, thrusting his sword through his breast, dying, had ended his grief together with his life. Alas! how different is this Niobe from that Niobe who had lately driven the people from the altars of Latona, and, with lofty head, had directed her steps through the midst of the city, envied by her own people, but now to be pitied even by an enemy! She falls down upon the cold bodies, and with no distinction she distributes her last kisses among all her sons. Raising her livid arms from these towards heaven, she says, “Glut thyself, cruel Latona, with my sorrow; glut thyself, and satiate thy breast with my mourning; satiate, too, thy relentless heart with seven deaths. I have received my death-blow;⁵²⁵ exult and triumph, my victorious enemy. But why victorious? More remains to me, in my misery, than to thee, in thy happiness. Even after so many deaths, I am the conqueror.” Thus she spoke; when the string twanged from the bent bow, which affrighted all but Niobe alone; she became bold by her misfortunes.

The news of the disaster, the people’s grief, and her family’s tears told the mother what had suddenly happened. She wondered how it could have happened. She was enraged that the Gods above had dared to do this, and that they enjoyed such great power. For Amphion, the father, had driven his sword through his breast. In dying, he had ended both his grief and his life. Alas! How different Niobe is now from the woman who had recently driven the people from Latona’s altars! She had walked through the city with her head held high, envied by her own people. Now even an enemy would pity her! She falls on the cold bodies and gives each of her sons a final kiss. Raising her bruised arms toward heaven, she says, “Feast on my sorrow, cruel Latona. Feast on my mourning until you are satisfied. Satisfy your merciless heart, too, with seven deaths. I have received my death-blow;⁵²⁵ rejoice and triumph, my victorious enemy. But why victorious? More remains to me in my misery than to you in your happiness. Even after so many deaths, I am the conqueror.” Thus she spoke, when the string of the bent bow twanged. It frightened everyone except Niobe. Misfortune had made her bold.

The sisters were standing in black array, with their hair dishevelled, before the biers⁵²⁶ of their brothers. One of these, drawing out the weapon sticking in her entrails, about to die, swooned away, with her face placed upon her brother. Another, endeavoring to console her wretched parent, was suddenly silent, and was doubled together with an invisible wound; and did not close her mouth, until after the breath had departed. Another, vainly flying, falls down; another dies upon her sister; another lies hid; another you might see trembling. And now six being put to death, and having received different wounds, the last only remains; her mother covering her with all her body, and with all her garments, cries, “Leave me but one, and that the youngest; the youngest only do I ask out of so many, and that but one.” And while she was entreating, she, for whom she was entreating, was slain. Childless, she sat down among her dead sons and daughters and husband, and became hardened by her woes. The breeze moves no hair of hers; in her features is a color without blood; her eyes stand unmoved in her sad cheeks; in her form there is no appearance of life. Her tongue itself, too, congeals within, together with her hardened palate, and the veins cease to be able to be moved. Her neck can neither be bent, nor can her arms give any motion, nor her feet move. Within her entrails, too, it is stone.

The sisters stood dressed in black before the biers⁵²⁶ of their brothers, their hair disheveled. One pulled out the weapon lodged in her belly. As she was about to die, she fell with her face upon her brother. Another was trying to comfort her grieving mother. Suddenly she fell silent and doubled over from an unseen wound. Her mouth did not close until after her last breath. Another tried in vain to escape and fell. Another died on top of her sister. Another hid, and another could be seen trembling. Now six had been killed, each with a different wound. Only the last one remained. Her mother covered her with her whole body and all her clothing and cried, “Leave me just one, the youngest. Of so many, I ask only for the youngest, just one.” While she pleaded, the daughter she pleaded for was killed. Childless, she sat among her dead sons, daughters, and husband, hardened by her grief. The breeze did not stir a hair on her head. Her face was bloodless, and her eyes stared motionless from her sorrowful face. There was no sign of life in her body. Her tongue grew rigid inside her mouth, along with the roof of her mouth, and her veins could no longer pulse. Her neck could not bend, and she could not move her arms or feet. Even her insides were stone.

Still did she weep on; and, enveloped in a hurricane of mighty wind, she was borne away to her native land. There, fixed on the top of a mountain,⁵²⁷ she dissolves; and even yet does the marble distil tears.

She kept weeping as a powerful whirlwind carried her away to her native land. There, fixed on a mountaintop,⁵²⁷ she melts away. Even now, the marble still weeps.

Latona, fatigued with the burden of her two children, during a long journey, and parched with thirst, goes to drink at a pond, near which some countrymen are at work. These clowns, in a brutal manner, not only hinder her from drinking, but trouble the water to make it muddy; on which, the Goddess, to punish their brutality, transforms them into frogs.

Latona was tired from carrying her two children on a long journey. Parched with thirst, she went to drink from a pond near where some countrymen were working. The brutes not only stopped her from drinking, but stirred up the water to make it muddy. To punish their brutality, the goddess turned them into frogs.

But then, all, both women and men, dread the wrath of the divinity, thus manifested, and with more zeal than ever all venerate with divine worship the great godhead of the Deity who produced the twins; and, as commonly happens, from a recent fact they recur to the narration of former events.

But then, all the women and men feared the god's anger, shown in this way. They all worshiped the great god who had produced the twins with more devotion than ever. And, as often happens, this recent event led them to tell stories of earlier events.

One of them says, “Some countrymen of old, in the fields of fertile Lycia, once insulted the Goddess, but not with impunity. The thing, indeed, is but little known, through the obscure station of the individuals, still it is wonderful. I have seen upon the spot, the pool and the lake noted for the miracle. For my father being now advanced in years, and incapable of travel, ordered me to bring thence some choice oxen, and on my setting out, had given me a guide of that nation: with whom, while I was traversing the pastures, behold! an ancient altar, black with the ashes of sacrifices, was standing in the middle of a lake, surrounded with quivering reeds. My guide stood still, and said in a timid whisper, ‘Be propitious to me;’ and with a like whisper, I said, ‘Be propitious.’ However, I asked him whether it was an altar of the Naiads, or of Faunus, or of some native God; when the stranger answered me in such words; ⁵²⁸‘Young man, there is no mountain Divinity for this altar. She calls this her own, whom once the royal Juno banished from the world; whom the wandering Delos, at the time when it was swimming as a light island, hardly received at her entreaties. There Latona, leaning against a palm, together with the tree of Pallas, brought forth twins, in spite of their stepmother Juno. Hence, too, the newly delivered Goddess is said to have fled from Juno, and in her bosom to have carried the two divinities, her children. And now the Goddess, wearied with her prolonged toil, being parched with the heat of the season, contracted thirst in the country of Lycia, which bred the Chimæra⁵²⁹ when the intense sun was scorching the fields; the craving children, too, had exhausted her suckling breasts. By chance she beheld a lake⁵³⁰ of fine water, in the bottom of a valley; some countrymen were there, gathering bushy osiers, together with bulrushes, and sedge natural to fenny spots. The Titaness approached, and bending her knee, she pressed the ground, that she might take up the cool water to drink; the company of rustics forbade it. The Goddess thus addressed them, as they forbade her: ‘Why do you deny me water? The use of water is common to all. Nature has made neither sun, nor air, nor the running stream, the property of any one. To her public bounty have I come, which yet I humbly beg of you to grant me. I was not intending to bathe my limbs here, and my wearied joints, but to relieve my thirst. My mouth, as I speak, lacks moisture, and my jaws are parched, and scarce is there a passage for my voice therein; a draught of water will be nectar to me, and I shall own, that, together with it, I have received my life at your hands. In that water you will be giving me life. Let these, too, move you, who hold out their little arms from my bosom’; and by chance the children were holding out their arms.

One of them says, “Long ago, some countrymen in the fertile fields of Lycia once insulted the Goddess, but they did not go unpunished. The story is little known because the people involved were obscure, but it is still remarkable. I have seen the pool and lake where the miracle took place. My father was old and unable to travel, so he ordered me to bring back some choice oxen. When I set out, he gave me a guide from that country. As we crossed the pastures, I saw an ancient altar in the middle of a lake. It was black with the ashes of sacrifices and surrounded by trembling reeds. My guide stopped and whispered fearfully, ‘Be favorable to me.’ I whispered the same words. Then I asked him whether the altar belonged to the Naiads, Faunus, or some local God. The stranger answered: ⁵²⁸‘Young man, this altar belongs to no mountain Divinity. It belongs to her whom royal Juno once banished from the world. When wandering Delos was still a light, floating island, it barely agreed to shelter her, despite her pleas. There Latona gave birth to twins, in spite of their stepmother Juno. She leaned against a palm and the tree of Pallas. After giving birth, the Goddess is said to have fled from Juno again. She carried her two divine children against her breast. Worn out by her long journey, the Goddess grew thirsty in the heat of the season. She was in Lycia, the country that bred the Chimæra⁵²⁹, and the fierce sun was scorching the fields. Her hungry children had also drained her breasts. By chance, she saw a lake⁵³⁰ of clear water at the bottom of a valley. Some countrymen were there, gathering bushy osiers, bulrushes, and the sedge that grows in marshes. The Titaness approached and knelt on the ground to drink the cool water, but the countrymen would not let her. As they forbade her, the Goddess said to them: ‘Why do you deny me water? Water belongs to all. Nature has made the sun, the air, and the flowing stream the property of no one. I have come to take what she gives to everyone, yet I humbly beg you to let me have it. I did not mean to bathe my body and weary limbs here, but to quench my thirst. My mouth is dry as I speak, and my throat is parched. My voice can scarcely pass through it. A drink of water will be nectar to me. I will say that, along with the water, I have received my life from your hands. In that water you will be giving me life. Let these children move you too. They are reaching out their little arms from my breast.’ And as it happened, the children were reaching out their arms.

“What person might not these kindly words of the Goddess have been able to influence? Still, they persist in hindering the Goddess thus entreating them; and moreover add threats and abusive language, if she does not retire to a distance. Nor is this enough. They likewise muddy the lake itself with their feet and hands; and they raise the soft mud from the very bottom of the water, by spitefully jumping to and fro. Resentment removes her thirst. For now no longer does the daughter of Cæus supplicate the unworthy wretches, nor does she any longer endure to utter words below the majesty of a Goddess; and raising her hands to heaven, she says, ‘For ever may you live in that pool.’ The wish of the Goddess comes to pass. They delight to go beneath the water, and sometimes to plunge the whole of their limbs in the deep pool; now to raise their heads, and now to swim on the top of the water; oft to sit on the bank of the pool, and often to leap back again into the cold stream. And even now do they exercise their offensive tongues in strife: and banishing all shame, although they are beneath the water, still beneath the water,⁵³¹ do they try to keep up their abuse. Their voice, too, is now hoarse, and their bloated necks swell out; and their very abuse dilates their extended jaws. Their backs are united to their heads: their necks seem as though cut off; their backbone is green; their belly, the greatest part of their body, is white; and as new-made frogs, they leap about in the muddy stream.”

“Who could have resisted the Goddess’s kind words? Yet they kept trying to stop the Goddess as she pleaded with them. They even threatened and insulted her, saying she must go away. That was not enough. They also stirred up the lake with their feet and hands. They spitefully jumped back and forth, raising the soft mud from the bottom. Her anger made her forget her thirst. The daughter of Cæus no longer begged the unworthy wretches. Nor would she speak any more words beneath the dignity of a Goddess. She raised her hands to heaven and said, ‘May you live in that pool forever.’ The Goddess’s wish came true. They took delight in going underwater, sometimes plunging their whole bodies into the deep pool. Sometimes they raised their heads, and sometimes they swam on the surface. They often sat on the bank of the pool, and often leaped back into the cold water. Even now, they use their offensive tongues to quarrel. With no shame at all, although they are underwater, still underwater,⁵³¹ they try to keep up their abuse. Their voices are now hoarse, and their bloated throats swell. Their very abuse stretches their wide jaws. Their backs join their heads, and their necks seem to have been cut off. Their backbones are green. Their bellies, the largest part of their bodies, are white. As newly made frogs, they leap about in the muddy water.”

The Satyr Marsyas, having challenged Apollo to a trial of skill on the flute, the God overcomes him, and then flays him alive for his presumption. The tears that are shed on the occasion of his death produce the river that bears his name.

The Satyr Marsyas challenged Apollo to a contest of skill on the flute. Apollo defeated him and then flayed him alive for his boldness. The tears shed at Marsyas’s death formed the river that bears his name.

When thus one, who, it is uncertain, had related the destruction of these men of the Lycian race, another remembers that of the Satyr;⁵³² whom, overcome in playing on the Tritonian reed, the son of Latona visited with punishment. “Why,” said he, “art thou tearing me from myself? Alas! I now repent; alas,” cried he, “the flute is not of so much value!” As he shrieked aloud, his skin was stript⁵³³ off from the surface of his limbs, nor was he aught but one entire wound. Blood is flowing on every side; the nerves, exposed, appear, and the quivering veins throb without any skin. You might have numbered his palpitating bowels, and the transparent lungs within his breast. The inhabitants of the country, the Fauns, Deities of the woods, and his brothers the Satyrs, and Olympus,⁵³⁴ even then renowned, and the Nymphs lamented him; and whoever besides on those mountains was feeding the wool-bearing flocks, and the horned herds.

After someone told of the destruction of these men of the Lycian race, another remembered the destruction of the Satyr.⁵³² It is not certain who told the first story. The Satyr had been defeated in playing the Tritonian reed, and the son of Latona punished him. “Why,” he said, “are you tearing me away from myself? Alas! I now repent. Alas,” he cried, “the flute is not worth so much!” As he shrieked, his skin was stripped⁵³³ from his limbs, and he was nothing but one great wound. Blood flowed everywhere. His exposed nerves could be seen, and his quivering veins throbbed without any skin over them. You could have counted his beating organs and seen the transparent lungs inside his chest. The people of the countryside mourned him, along with the Fauns, gods of the woods, and his brothers the Satyrs. Olympus,⁵³⁴ already renowned, and the Nymphs mourned him too. So did everyone else who tended wool-bearing flocks and horned herds on those mountains.

The fruitful earth was moistened, and being moistened received the falling tears, and drank them up in her lowest veins, which, when she had turned into a stream, she sent forth into the vacant air. And then, as the clearest river in Phrygia, running towards the rapid sea within steep banks, it bears the name of Marsyas.

The fertile earth grew moist as it received the falling tears and drank them deep into its veins. The earth turned the tears into a stream and sent it out into the open air. The stream became the clearest river in Phrygia. It flows between steep banks toward the rushing sea and bears the name of Marsyas.

From narratives such as these the people return at once to the present events, and mourn Amphion extinct together with all his race. The mother is an object of hatred. Yet her brother Pelops is said alone to have mourned for her as well; and after he had drawn his clothes from his shoulder⁵³⁵ towards his breast, he discovered the ivory on his left shoulder. This shoulder, at the time of his birth, was of the same color with the right one, and was formed of flesh. They say that the Gods afterwards joined his limbs cut asunder by the hands of his father; and the rest of them being found, that part which is midway between the throat and the top of the arm, was wanting. Ivory was inserted there, in the place of the part that did not appear; and so by that means Pelops was made entire.

After hearing these stories, the people return at once to present events. They mourn Amphion, who has died along with all his family. The mother is an object of hatred. Yet her brother Pelops alone is said to have mourned for her too. He pulled his clothes from his shoulder⁵³⁵ toward his chest, revealing the ivory in his left shoulder. At birth, this shoulder was made of flesh and was the same color as his right one. They say that the Gods later joined his limbs, which his father had cut apart. They found all the pieces except the part between his throat and the top of his arm. Ivory was inserted in place of the missing part, and Pelops was made whole again.

Tereus, king of Thrace, having married Progne, the daughter of Pandion, king of Athens, falls in love with her sister Philomela, whom he ravishes, and then, having cut out her tongue, he shuts her up in a strong place in a forest, to prevent a discovery. The unfortunate Philomela finds means to acquaint her sister with her misfortunes; for, weaving her story on a piece of cloth, she sends it to Progne by the hands of one of her keepers.

Tereus, king of Thrace, marries Progne, the daughter of Pandion, king of Athens. He then falls in love with her sister Philomela and rapes her. To prevent anyone from finding out, he cuts out her tongue and locks her in a secure place in a forest. But the unfortunate Philomela finds a way to tell her sister what happened. She weaves her story into a piece of cloth and sends it to Progne through one of her guards.

The neighboring princes met together; and the cities that were near, entreated their kings to go to console Pelops, namely, Argos and Sparta, and the Pelopean Mycenæ, and Calydon,⁵³⁶ not yet odious to the stern Diana, and fierce Orchomeneus, and Corinth famous for its brass,⁵³⁷ and fertile Messene, and Patræ, and humble Cleonæ,⁵³⁸ and the Neleian Pylos, and Trœzen not yet named from Pittheus;⁵³⁹ and other cities which are enclosed by the Isthmus between the two seas, and those which, situated beyond, are seen from the Isthmus between the two seas. Who could have believed it? You, Athens, alone omitted it. A war prevented this act of humanity; and barbarous troops⁵⁴⁰ brought thither by sea, were alarming the Mopsopian walls. The Thracian Tereus had routed these by his auxiliary forces, and by his conquest had acquired an illustrious name. Him, powerful both in riches and men, and, as it happened, deriving his descent from the mighty Gradivus, Pandion united to himself, by the marriage of his daughter Progne.

The neighboring princes gathered, and the nearby cities urged their kings to go and console Pelops. These cities were Argos and Sparta, Pelopean Mycenæ, and Calydon,⁵³⁶ not yet hated by stern Diana. There were also fierce Orchomeneus, Corinth, famous for its brass,⁵³⁷ fertile Messene, Patræ, humble Cleonæ,⁵³⁸ Neleian Pylos, and Trœzen, not yet named after Pittheus.⁵³⁹ Other cities joined them, both those enclosed by the Isthmus between the two seas and those visible beyond it. Who could have believed it? You alone, Athens, failed to send anyone. A war prevented this act of kindness. Barbarous troops,⁵⁴⁰ brought there by sea, were threatening the Mopsopian walls. The Thracian Tereus had driven them back with his forces, which had come to Athens’s aid. His victory won him a glorious name. Tereus was powerful in both wealth and men and, as it happened, descended from the mighty Gradivus. Pandion joined Tereus to his family by giving him his daughter Progne in marriage.

Neither Juno, the guardian of marriage rites, nor yet Hymeneus, nor the Graces,⁵⁴¹ attended those nuptials. On that occasion, the Furies brandished torches, snatched from the funeral pile. The Furies prepared the nuptial couch, and the ill-boding owl hovered over the abode, and sat on the roof of the bridal chamber. With these omens were Progne and Tereus wedded; with these omens were they made parents. Thrace, indeed, congratulated them, and they themselves returned thanks to the Gods, and they commanded the day, upon which the daughter of Pandion was given to the renowned prince, and that upon which Itys was born, to be considered as festivals. So much does our true interest lie concealed from us. Now Titan had drawn the seasons of the repeated year through five autumns, when Progne, in gentle accents, said to her husband, “If I have any influence with thee, either send me to see my sister, or let my sister come hither. Thou shalt promise thy father-in-law that she shall return in a short time. As good as a mighty God wilt thou be to me, if thou shalt allow me to see my sister.”

Neither Juno, the guardian of marriage rites, nor Hymeneus, nor the Graces⁵⁴¹ attended the wedding. On that occasion, the Furies waved torches taken from a funeral pyre. The Furies prepared the wedding bed, and an ominous owl hovered over the house. It perched on the roof of the bridal chamber. Under these omens, Progne and Tereus were married. Under these omens, they became parents. Thrace celebrated their marriage, and Progne and Tereus themselves gave thanks to the Gods. They ordered festivals on the day Pandion’s daughter was given to the renowned prince and on Itys’s birthday. So hidden from us is what is truly good for us. Now Titan had carried the seasons through five autumns. Then Progne said gently to her husband, “If I have any influence with you, either send me to see my sister, or let her come here. Promise your father-in-law that she will return soon. You will be as good as a mighty God to me if you let me see my sister.”

He thereupon ordered ships to be launched;⁵⁴² and with sails and oars he entered the Cecropian harbor, and landed upon the shores of the Piræus.⁵⁴³ As soon as ever an opportunity was given of addressing his father-in-law, and right hand was joined to right hand, with evil omen their discourse began. He had commenced to relate the occasion of his coming, and the request of his wife, and to promise a speedy return for Philomela, if sent. When lo! Philomela comes, richly adorned in costly apparel; richer by far in her charms; such as we hear of the Naiads and Dryads as they haunt the middle of the forests, if you were only to give them the like ornaments and dress. Tereus was inflamed upon seeing the virgin, no otherwise than if one were to put fire beneath the whitening ears of corn, or were to burn leaves and dry grass laid up in stacks. Her beauty, indeed, is worthy of love; but inbred lust, as well, urges him on, and the people in those regions are naturally much inclined to lustfulness. He burns, both by his own frailty and that of his nation. He has a desire to corrupt the care of her attendants, and the fidelity of her nurse, and besides, to tempt herself with large presents, and to spend his whole kingdom in so doing; or else, to seize her, and, when seized, to secure her by a cruel war. And there is nothing which, being seized by an unbridled passion, he may not dare; nor does his breast contain the internal flame. And now he ill bears with delay; and with eager mouth returns to urge the request of Progne, and under it he pleads his own wishes; passion makes him eloquent. As oft as he presses beyond what is becoming, he pretends that Progne has thus desired. He adds tears as well, as though she had enjoined them too. O ye Gods above, how much of dark night do the breasts of mortals contain! Through his very attempt at villany, Tereus is thought to be affectionate, and from his crime does he gather praise.

He then ordered ships to be launched.⁵⁴² With sails and oars, he entered the Cecropian harbor and landed on the shores of the Piræus.⁵⁴³ As soon as he had a chance to speak to his father-in-law, they joined right hands. Their conversation began under an evil omen. He began to explain why he had come, and what his wife had asked. He promised that Philomela would soon return if she were sent. Then Philomela appeared, richly dressed in costly clothes, but richer still in beauty. She was like the Naiads and Dryads said to haunt the depths of the forests, if you gave them the same ornaments and clothes. Tereus burned with desire at the sight of the maiden. He was like someone setting fire to whitening ears of corn, or burning piles of leaves and dry grass. Her beauty was indeed worthy of love, but his inborn lust also drove him on. The people of those regions are naturally much inclined to lust. He burned because of both his own weakness and that of his nation. He wanted to bribe her attendants to neglect her and her nurse to betray her. He also wanted to tempt Philomela herself with lavish gifts, spending his entire kingdom to win her. Or he might seize her and, once he had her, keep her by waging a cruel war. With passion out of control, there was nothing he might not dare. Nor could his heart contain the fire burning inside him. He could hardly bear any delay. Eagerly, he returned to press Progne's request, using it to plead for what he himself wanted. Passion made him eloquent. Whenever he pressed harder than was proper, he pretended that Progne had asked him to do so. He even shed tears, as if she had commanded those too. O gods above, how much dark night the hearts of mortals contain! His very attempt at villainy made Tereus seem affectionate, and his crime won him praise.

And how is it, too, that Philomela desires the same thing? and fondly embracing the shoulders of her father with her arms, she begs, even by her own safety (and against it too), that she may visit her sister. Tereus views her, and, while viewing her, is embracing her beforehand in imagination; and, as he beholds her kisses, and her arms around her father’s neck, he receives them all as incentives, and fuel, and the food of his furious passion; and, as often as she embraces her father, he could wish to be that father, and, even then, he would have been not the less impious. The father is overcome by the entreaties of them both. She rejoices, and returns thanks to her parent, and, to her misfortune, deems that the success of both, which will be the cause of sorrow to them both. Now but little of his toil was remaining for Phœbus, and his steeds were beating with their feet the descending track of Olympus; a regal banquet was set on the tables, and wine in golden vessels; after this, their bodies were given up to gentle sleep. But the Odrysian king,⁵⁴⁴ though he was withdrawn, still burned for her; and, recalling her form, her movements, her hands, fancies that which he has not yet seen, to be such as he wishes; and he himself feeds his own flames, his anxiety preventing sleep.

And how is it that Philomela wants the same thing? She wraps her arms lovingly around her father’s shoulders and begs him to let her visit her sister. She begs him for the sake of her own safety, though the visit will endanger it. Tereus watches her and, as he watches, imagines embracing her. He sees her kisses and her arms around her father’s neck, and all of them fuel his furious passion. Whenever she embraces her father, Tereus wishes he were that father. Even then, his desire would have been no less wicked. Her father is overcome by both their pleas. Philomela rejoices and thanks him. To her misfortune, she thinks their success is a victory for them both, though it will bring them both sorrow. Now little of Phœbus’s labor remained, and his horses were making their way down the slopes of Olympus. A royal banquet was laid on the tables, with wine in golden vessels. Afterward, they gave themselves over to gentle sleep. But the Odrysian king,⁵⁴⁴ though he had retired, still burned for her. He recalled her figure, her movements, and her hands. He imagined the parts of her he had not yet seen to be just as he wished. He fed his own flames, and his longing kept him awake.

It was now day; and Pandion, grasping the right hand of his son-in-law, about to depart, with tears bursting forth, recommended his companion to his care. “I commit her, my dear son-in-law, to thee, because reasons, grounded on affection, have compelled me, and both my daughters have desired it, and thou as well, Tereus, hast wished it; and I entreat thee, begging by thy honor, by thy breast thus allied to us, and by the Gods above, to protect her with the love of a father; and do send back to me, as soon as possible, this sweet comfort of my anxious old age, for all delay will be tedious to me, and do thou, too, Philomela, if thou hast any affection for me, return as soon as possible: ’tis enough that thy sister is so far away.” Thus did he enjoin, and at the same time he gave kisses to his daughter, and his affectionate tears fell amid his instructions. He then demanded the right hands of them both, as a pledge of their fidelity, and joined them together when given, and bade them, with mindful lips, to salute for him his absent daughter and grandson, and with difficulty⁵⁴⁵ uttered the last farewell, his mouth being filled with sobs; and he shuddered at the presages of his own mind. But as soon as Philomela was put on board of the painted ship, and the sea was urged by the oars, and the land was left behind, he exclaimed, “I have gained my point; the object of my desires is borne along with me.” The barbarian exults, too, and with difficulty defers his joy in his intention, and turns not his eyes anywhere away from her. No otherwise than when the ravenous bird of Jupiter, with crooked talons, has placed a hare in his lofty nest; there is no escape for the captive; the plunderer keeps his eye on his prey. And now the voyage is ended, and now they have gone forth from the wearied ship, upon his own shore; when the king drags the daughter of Pandion into a lofty dwelling, concealed in an ancient wood, and there he shuts her up, pale and trembling, and dreading everything, and now with tears inquiring where her sister is; and confessing his baseness, he masters by force her a maiden, and but one, while she often vainly calls on her father, often on her sister, and on the great Gods above all. She trembles like a frightened lamb, which, wounded, being snatched from the mouth of a hoary wolf, does not as yet seem to itself in safety; and as a dove, its feathers soaked with its own blood, still trembles, and dreads the ravening talons wherein it has been lately held. But soon, when consciousness returned, tearing her dishevelled hair like one mourning, and beating her arms in lamentation, stretching out her hands, she said, “Oh, barbarous wretch, for thy dreadful deeds; oh, cruel monster! have neither the requests of my father, with his affectionate tears, moved thee, nor a regard for my sister, nor my virgin state, nor the laws of marriage? Thou hast confounded all. I am become the supplanter of my sister; thou, the husband of both of us. This punishment was not my due. Why dost thou not take away this life, that no villany, perfidious wretch, may remain unperpetrated by thee? and would that thou hadst done it before thy criminal embraces! then I might have had a shade void of all crime. Yet, if the Gods above behold these things, if the majesty of the Gods be anything; if, with myself, all things are not come to ruin; one time or other thou shalt give me satisfaction. I myself, having cast shame aside, will declare thy deeds. If opportunity is granted me, I will come among the people; if I shall be kept imprisoned in the woods, I will fill the woods, and will move the conscious rocks. Let Heaven hear these things, and the Gods, if there are any in it.”

It was now day. Pandion took the right hand of his son-in-law, who was about to depart, and, bursting into tears, entrusted his companion to his care. “I entrust her to you, my dear son-in-law, because affection has compelled me, and because both my daughters and you, Tereus, have wished it. I beg you, by your honor, by the bond thus joining you to us, and by the Gods above, to protect her with a father’s love. Please send her back to me as soon as possible. She is the sweet comfort of my anxious old age, and any delay will be painful to me. And you, too, Philomela, if you have any affection for me, return as soon as you can. It is enough that your sister is so far away.” Thus he instructed them, kissing his daughter as he spoke. Tears of love fell as he gave his instructions. He then asked both of them for their right hands as a pledge of their faithfulness, and joined their hands together. He asked them to give his greetings to his absent daughter and grandson, and not to forget. With difficulty⁵⁴⁵ he said his last farewell, his voice choked with sobs. He shuddered at the forebodings in his heart. But as soon as Philomela was aboard the painted ship, the oars drove it across the sea, and the land fell behind. Tereus exclaimed, “I have gotten my way. The object of my desires is sailing with me.” The barbarian rejoiced, and could hardly contain his delight at what he intended. He never took his eyes off her. He was like Jupiter’s ravenous bird, which has seized a hare in its curved talons and placed it in its lofty nest. The captive cannot escape, and the hunter keeps its eye on its prey. Now the voyage was over, and they stepped from the weary ship onto his shore. The king dragged Pandion’s daughter into a tall house hidden in an ancient wood and shut her up there. She was pale and trembling, afraid of everything, and now asking through tears where her sister was. Revealing his wickedness, he raped her, a maiden alone and defenseless. Again and again she called in vain on her father, her sister, and above all the great Gods. She trembled like a frightened lamb snatched, wounded, from the mouth of a gray wolf. The lamb still does not feel safe. She trembled, too, like a dove with feathers soaked in its own blood. It still fears the ravenous talons that held it only moments before. But when she recovered her senses, she tore her disheveled hair like a mourner and beat her arms in grief. Stretching out her hands, she said, “Oh, barbarous wretch, what dreadful things you have done! Oh, cruel monster! Did nothing move you? Not my father’s pleas and his loving tears, not respect for my sister, not my virginity, nor the laws of marriage? You have ruined everything. I have taken my sister’s place, and you are husband to us both. I did not deserve this punishment. Why do you not take my life, you treacherous wretch, so that no crime remains that you have not committed? If only you had killed me before your criminal embrace! Then my spirit would have been free of all crime. Yet if the Gods above see these things, if the majesty of the Gods means anything, if everything has not perished along with me, then one day you will answer to me. I will cast aside my shame and tell what you have done. If I have the chance, I will go among the people. If I am kept prisoner in the woods, I will fill the woods with my cries and move the rocks that hear me. Let Heaven hear these things, and the Gods, if there are any in it.”

After the wrath of the cruel tyrant was aroused by such words, and his fear was not less than it, urged on by either cause, he drew the sword, with which he was girt, from the sheath, and seizing her by the hair, her arms being bent behind her back, he compelled her to submit to chains. Philomela was preparing her throat, and, on seeing the sword, had conceived hopes of her death. He cut away, with his cruel weapon, her tongue seized with pincers, while giving vent to her indignation, and constantly calling on the name of her father, and struggling to speak. The extreme root of the tongue still quivers. The tongue itself lies, and faintly murmurs, quivering upon the black earth; and as the tail of a mangled snake is wont to writhe about, so does it throb, and, as it dies, seeks the feet of its owner. It is said, too, that often after this crime (I could hardly dare believe it) he satisfied his lust upon her mutilated body.

These words stirred the cruel tyrant’s anger, and his fear was no less than his anger. Driven by both, he drew the sword at his side. He seized her by the hair, bent her arms behind her back, and forced her into chains. Philomela offered her throat, and when she saw the sword, she hoped he would kill her. She cried out in outrage, called repeatedly on her father, and struggled to speak. But the tyrant seized her tongue with pincers and cut it out with his cruel weapon. The root of her tongue still quivers. The tongue itself lies on the black earth, quivering and murmuring faintly. Just as the tail of a mangled snake writhes, so the tongue throbs. As it dies, it seeks its owner’s feet. It is said, too, that after this crime he often satisfied his lust on her mutilated body. I can hardly dare believe it.

He has the effrontery, after such deeds, to return to Progne, who, on seeing her husband, inquires for her sister; but he heaves feigned sighs, and tells a fictitious story of her death; and his tears procure him credit. Progne tears from her shoulders her robes, shining with broad gold, and puts on black garments, and erects an honorary sepulchre, and offers expiation to an imaginary shade; and laments the death of a sister not thus to be lamented.

After such deeds, he has the nerve to return to Progne. When she sees her husband, she asks about her sister. But he pretends to sigh and tells her a false story about her sister’s death. His tears convince her. Progne tears her robes, bright with broad bands of gold, from her shoulders and puts on black clothes. She builds a memorial tomb and makes an offering to appease the spirit she believes is dead. She mourns her sister, whose fate calls for a different kind of mourning.

The God Apollo, the year being completed, had run through the twice six signs of the Zodiac. What can Philomela do? A guard prevents her flight; the walls of the house are hard, built of solid stone: her speechless mouth is deprived of the means of discovering the crime. But in grief there is extreme ingenuity, and inventive skill arises in misfortunes. She skilfully suspends the warp in a web of Barbarian design,⁵⁴⁶ and interweaves purple marks with white, as a mode of discovering the villany of Tereus; and delivers it, when finished, to one of her attendants, and begs her, by signs, to carry it to her mistress. As desired, she carries it to Progne, and does not know what she is delivering in it. The wife of the savage tyrant unfolds the web, and reads the mournful tale⁵⁴⁷ of her sister, and (wondrous that she can be so!) she is silent. ’Tis grief that stops her utterance, and words sufficiently indignant fail her tongue, in want of them; nor is there room for weeping. But she rushes onward, about to confound both right and wrong, and is wholly occupied in the contrivance of revenge.

The God Apollo had passed through the twelve signs of the Zodiac, completing the year. What can Philomela do? A guard prevents her escape, and the house has hard walls of solid stone. Her mouth is speechless, leaving her no way to reveal the crime. But grief brings great ingenuity, and misfortune gives rise to inventive skill. She skillfully sets up the warp for a web of Barbarian design,⁵⁴⁶ and weaves purple marks into the white fabric to reveal Tereus’s crime. When she finishes, she gives the web to one of her attendants. She begs the attendant by signs to carry it to her mistress. The attendant takes it to Progne as requested, unaware of the message she is delivering. The savage tyrant’s wife unfolds the web and reads her sister’s sorrowful story.⁵⁴⁷ Amazingly, she remains silent. Grief stops her from speaking, and her tongue cannot find words angry enough. There is no room for tears. Instead, she rushes onward, ready to confuse right and wrong, wholly absorbed in plotting revenge.

Progne delivers her sister Philomela from captivity, and brings her to the court of Tereus, where she revolves in her mind her different projects of revenge. Her son Itys, in the meantime, comes into her apartment, and is murdered by his mother and aunt. Progne afterwards serves him up at a feast, which she prepares for her husband; on which, being obliged to fly from the fury of the enraged king, she is changed into a swallow, Philomela into a nightingale, and Tereus himself into a lapwing.

Progne frees her sister Philomela from captivity and brings her to Tereus’s court. There, she considers different plans for revenge. Meanwhile, her son Itys comes into her room, and his mother and aunt murder him. Progne then prepares a feast for her husband and serves Itys to him. She must flee the furious king and is changed into a swallow. Philomela is changed into a nightingale, and Tereus himself into a lapwing.

It is now the time⁵⁴⁸ when the Sithonian⁵⁴⁹ matrons are wont to celebrate the triennial festival of Bacchus. Night is conscious of their rites; by night Rhodope resounds with the tinklings of the shrill cymbal. By night the queen goes out of her house, and is arrayed according to the rites of the God, and carries the arms of the frantic solemnity. Her head is covered with vine leaves; from her left side hang down the skins of a deer;⁵⁵⁰ upon her shoulder rests a light spear. Then the terrible Progne rushing through the woods, a multitude of her followers attending her, and agitated by the fury of her resentment, pretends, Bacchus, that it is inspired by thee.

It is now the time⁵⁴⁸ when the Sithonian⁵⁴⁹ matrons usually celebrate the festival of Bacchus, held every three years. Only the night witnesses their rites. At night, Rhodope echoes with the ringing of shrill cymbals. At night, the queen leaves her house, dressed for the rites of the god and carrying the emblems of the frenzied celebration. Vine leaves cover her head. Deer skins hang from her left side,⁵⁵⁰ and a light spear rests on her shoulder. Then the fearsome Progne rushes through the woods, accompanied by a crowd of followers. Shaken by the fury of her resentment, she pretends, Bacchus, that her fury is inspired by you.

She comes at length to the lonely dwelling, and howls aloud, and cries “Evoë!” and breaks open the gates, and seizes her sister, and puts upon her, so seized, the badges of Bacchus, and conceals her countenance under the foliage of ivy; and dragging her along, full of amazement, leads her within her threshold. When Philomela perceives that she has arrived at that accursed house,⁵⁵¹ the wretched woman shudders, and paleness spreads over her whole face. Progne having now got a fitting place for so doing, takes away the symbols of the rites,⁵⁵² and unveils the blushing face of her wretched sister; and holds her in her embraces. But she, on the other hand, cannot endure to lift up her eyes; seeming to herself the supplanter of her sister, and fixing her looks on the ground, her hand is in the place of voice to her, as she desires to swear and to call the Gods to witness that this disgrace has been brought upon her by violence. Progne burns with rage, and contains not her anger; and checking the grief of her sister, she says, “We must not act in this matter with tears, but with the sword, and even with anything, if such thou hast, that can possibly outdo the sword. I have, sister, prepared myself for every crime! Either, when I shall have set fire to the royal palace with torches, I will throw the artful Tereus into the midst of the flames, or with the steel will I cut away his tongue or his eyes, or the members that have deprived thee of thy chastity, or by a thousand wounds will I expel his guilty soul from his body. Something tremendous am I prepared for; what it is, I am still in doubt.”

At last she reaches the lonely dwelling. She howls aloud, cries “Evoë!” and breaks open the gates. She seizes her sister and puts the badges of Bacchus on her as she holds her. She hides her face under ivy leaves. Then she drags her astonished sister along and leads her into her own house. When Philomela realizes she has reached that accursed house,⁵⁵¹ she shudders, and her whole face turns pale. Progne has now found a suitable place to do so. She removes the symbols of the rites,⁵⁵² uncovers her wretched sister’s blushing face, and embraces her. But Philomela cannot bear to raise her eyes. She feels she has taken her sister’s place and keeps her gaze fixed on the ground. She uses her hands in place of her voice, trying to swear and call the Gods to witness that this disgrace was forced upon her. Progne burns with rage and cannot contain her anger. She checks her sister’s grief and says, “We must not respond with tears, but with the sword. We must use even anything you have that could outdo the sword. Sister, I am ready to commit any crime! I will set the royal palace on fire with torches and throw the cunning Tereus into the flames. Or I will use a blade to cut out his tongue or eyes, or the parts that robbed you of your chastity. Or I will drive his guilty soul from his body with a thousand wounds. I am ready to do something terrible, but I do not yet know what.”

While Progne was uttering such expressions, Itys came to his mother. By him she was put in mind of what she might do; and looking at him with vengeful eyes, she said, “Ah! how like thou art to thy father!” And saying no more, she prepared for a horrible deed, and burned with silent rage. Yet when her son came to her, and saluted his mother and drew her neck towards him with his little arms, and added kisses mingled with childish endearments, the mother, in truth, was moved, and her anger abated, and her eyes, in spite of her, became wet with tears thus forced from her. But soon as she found the mother in her shrinking from excess of affection, from him again did she turn towards the features of her sister; and looking at them both by turns, she said, “Why does the one employ endearments, while the other is silent with her tongue torn from her? Why does she not call her sister, whom he calls mother? Consider to what kind of husband thou art married, daughter of Pandion. Thou dost grow degenerate. Tenderness in the wife of Tereus is criminality.” No more delay is there; she drags Itys along, just as the tigress of the banks of the Ganges does the suckling offspring of the hind, through the shady forests. And when they are come to a remote part of the lofty house, Progne strikes⁵⁵³ him with the sword, extending his hands, and as he beholds his fate, crying now “Alas!” and now “My mother!” and clinging to her neck, where his breast joins his side; nor does she turn away her face. Even one wound alone is sufficient for his death; Philomela cuts his throat with the sword; and they mangle his limbs, still quivering and retaining somewhat of life. Part of them boils,⁵⁵⁴ in the hollow cauldrons; part hisses on spits; the inmost recesses stream with gore. His wife sets Tereus, in his unconsciousness, before this banquet; and falsely pretending rites after the manner of her country, at which it is allowed one man only to be present, she removes his attendants and servants. Tereus himself, sitting aloft on the throne of his forefathers, eats and heaps his own entrails into his own stomach. And so great is the blindness of his mind, that he says, “Send for Itys.” Progne is unable to conceal her cruel joy; and now, desirous to be the discoverer of her having murdered him, she says, “Thou hast within thee, that for which thou art asking.” He looks around, and inquires where he is; as he inquires, and calls him again, Philomela springs forth, just as she is, with her hair disordered by the infernal murder, and throws the bloody head of Itys in the face of his father; nor at any time has she more longed to be able to speak, and to testify her joy by words such as are deserved.

While Progne was saying these things, Itys came to his mother. Seeing him reminded her of what she could do. She looked at him with vengeful eyes and said, “Ah, how much you look like your father!” Without another word, she prepared for a horrible deed, burning with silent rage. Yet her son greeted her and drew her neck toward him with his little arms. He kissed her and spoke to her with childish affection. The mother was indeed moved, and her anger faded. Against her will, her eyes filled with tears forced from her. But as soon as she felt the mother in her falter with too much love, she turned from Itys to look at her sister’s face. Looking from one to the other, she said, “Why does one speak so lovingly, while the other is silent, her tongue torn out? Why does she not call me sister, as he calls me mother? Consider what kind of husband you have married, daughter of Pandion. You are growing weak. For the wife of Tereus, tenderness is a crime.” There was no more delay. She dragged Itys away, just as a tigress on the banks of the Ganges drags a nursing fawn through the shady forests. When they reached a remote part of the lofty house, Itys stretched out his hands and saw his fate. He cried out, “Alas!” and “My mother!” and clung to her neck. Progne struck⁵⁵³ him with a sword where his breast met his side. She did not turn her face away. Even one wound alone was enough to kill him. Philomela cut his throat with the sword, and they cut up his limbs, which were still trembling and held some trace of life. Some of the pieces boiled,⁵⁵⁴ in deep cauldrons. Others sizzled on spits. The innermost rooms ran with blood. His wife set this feast before Tereus, who knew nothing of it. She falsely claimed that she was observing rites from her homeland, at which only one man could be present. So she sent away his attendants and servants. Tereus sat high on the throne of his ancestors and ate, filling his stomach with his own flesh. So blind was he to what had happened that he said, “Send for Itys.” Progne could not hide her cruel joy. Eager now to reveal that she had murdered him, she said, “You have within you what you are asking for.” He looked around and asked where Itys was. As he asked and called for him again, Philomela sprang out, just as she was, her hair disordered from the hellish murder. She threw Itys’s bloody head in his father’s face. Never had she longed more to be able to speak and express her joy in words worthy of it.

The Thracian pushes from him the table with a loud cry, and summons the Viperous sisters⁵⁵⁵ from the Stygian valley; and at one moment he desires, if he only can, by opening his breast to discharge thence the horrid repast, and the half-digested entrails. And then he weeps, and pronounces himself the wretched sepulchre of his own son; and then he follows the daughters of Pandion with his drawn sword. You would have thought the bodies of the Cecropian⁵⁵⁶ Nymphs were supported by wings; and they were supported by wings. The one of them makes for the woods, the other takes her place beneath the roofs of houses. Nor even as yet have the marks of murder withdrawn from her breast; and her feathers are still stained with blood. He, made swift by his grief, and his desire for revenge, is turned into a bird, upon whose head stands a crested plume; a prolonged bill projects in place of the long spear. The name of the bird is ‘epops’ [lapwing]; its face appears to be armed. This affliction dispatched Pandion to the shades of Tartarus before his day, and the late period of protracted old age.

The Thracian pushes the table away with a loud cry and summons the Viperous sisters⁵⁵⁵ from the Stygian valley. At one moment, he wants to cut open his chest, if he only can, and empty it of the horrid meal and half-digested entrails. Then he weeps and calls himself the miserable tomb of his own son. Then he chases the daughters of Pandion with his sword drawn. You would have thought the Cecropian⁵⁵⁶ Nymphs were carried on wings, and they were. One heads for the woods, while the other takes shelter beneath the roofs of houses. The marks of murder have not even yet faded from her breast, and her feathers are still stained with blood. Made swift by grief and a desire for revenge, he is turned into a bird. A crested plume stands on its head, and a long bill projects where his long spear once was. The bird is called ‘epops’ [lapwing], and its face looks armed. This tragedy sent Pandion to the shades of Tartarus before his time, before he could reach a ripe old age.

Boreas, not obtaining the consent of Erectheus, king of Athens, for the marriage of his daughter, Orithyïa, takes that princess in his arms, and carries her away into Thrace. By her he has two sons, Calaïs and Zethes, who have wings, like their father, and afterwards embark with Jason in search of the Golden Fleece.

Boreas does not get permission from Erectheus, king of Athens, to marry his daughter, Orithyïa. He takes the princess in his arms and carries her away to Thrace. Together, they have two sons, Calaïs and Zethes, who have wings like their father. The sons later sail with Jason in search of the Golden Fleece.

Erectheus⁵⁵⁷ received the sceptre of that country, and the government of the state; it is a matter of doubt whether he was more powerful through his justice, or by his mighty arms. He had, indeed, begotten four sons, and as many of the female sex: but the beauty of two of them was equal. Of these, Cephalus,⁵⁵⁸ the son of Æolus, was blessed with thee, Procris, for his wife; Tereus and the Thracians were an obstacle to Boreas; and long was that God without his much-loved Orithyïa, while he was entreating, and choosing rather to use prayers than force. But when nothing was effected by blandishments, terrible with that rage which is his wont, and but too natural with that wind, he said, “And this is deservedly done; for why did I relinquish my own weapons, my violence, my strength, my anger, and my threatening spirit, and turn to prayers, the employment of which ill becomes me? Violence is suitable for me; by violence do I dispel the lowering clouds, by violence do I arouse the seas, and overthrow the knotted oaks, and harden the snow, and beat the earth with hail. I too, when I have met with my brothers in the open air (for that is peculiarly my field), struggle with efforts so great, that the intermediate sky thunders again with our onset, and fires flash, struck forth from the hollow clouds. I too, when I have descended into the hollow recesses of the earth, and in my rage have placed my back against its lowest depths, disturb the shades below, and the whole globe with earthquakes. By these means should I have sought this alliance; and Erectheus ought not to have been entreated to be my father-in-law, but made so by force.”

Erectheus⁵⁵⁷ received the sceptre of that country and ruled the state. It is hard to say whether his justice or his mighty arms gave him greater power. He had four sons and four daughters. Two of them were equally beautiful. Of these, you, Procris, were blessed to be the wife of Cephalus,⁵⁵⁸ the son of Æolus. But Tereus and the Thracians stood in Boreas's way. For a long time, that God was without his beloved Orithyïa. He pleaded for her, preferring to use prayers rather than force. But his sweet words achieved nothing. Then he spoke, furious as he always was, a rage all too natural to that wind. “And this serves me right. Why did I give up my own weapons, my violence, my strength, my anger, and my threatening spirit? Why did I turn to prayers? They do not suit me. Violence suits me. With violence I scatter the dark clouds. With violence I stir up the seas, topple the gnarled oaks, harden the snow, and pelt the earth with hail. When I meet my brothers in the open air, we struggle with tremendous force. The open air is my own special domain. The sky between us thunders from our clash, and fire flashes from the hollow clouds. I also descend into the hollow depths of the earth. There, in my rage, I press my back against its lowest depths. With earthquakes I shake the shades below and the whole world. That is how I should have sought this marriage. I should not have begged Erectheus to be my father-in-law. I should have forced him to become one.”

Boreas, having said these words, or some not less high-sounding than these, shakes his wings, by the motion of which all the earth is fanned, and the wide sea becomes ruffled; and the lover, drawing his dusty mantle over the high tops of mountains, sweeps the ground, and, wrapt in darkness, embraces with his tawny wings Orithyïa, as she trembles with fear. As she flies, his flame, being agitated, burns more fiercely. Nor does the ravisher check the reins of his airy course, before he reaches the people and the walls of the Ciconians.⁵⁵⁹ There, too, is the Actæan damsel made the wife of the cold sovereign, and afterwards a mother, bringing forth twins at a birth, who have the wings of their father, the rest like their mother. Yet they say that these wings were not produced together with their bodies; and while their long beard, with its yellow hair, was away, the boys Calaïs and Zethes were without feathers. But soon after, at once wings began to enclose both their sides, after the manner of birds, and at once their cheeks began to grow yellow with down. When, therefore, the boyish season of youth was passed, they sought,⁵⁶⁰ with the Minyæ, along the sea before unmoved,⁵⁶¹ in the first ship that existed, the fleece that glittered with shining hair of gold.

After saying these words, or others no less grand, Boreas shakes his wings. Their motion fans the whole earth and stirs the wide sea. The lover draws his dusty mantle over the high peaks of mountains and sweeps across the ground. Wrapped in darkness, he embraces Orithyïa with his tawny wings as she trembles with fear. As she flies, his passion, stirred by the motion, burns more fiercely. The ravisher does not rein in his flight until he reaches the people and walls of the Ciconians.⁵⁵⁹ There, the Actæan maiden becomes the wife of the cold sovereign and later a mother. She gives birth to twins with their father's wings, but otherwise like their mother. Yet they say the wings were not there when the boys were born. Calaïs and Zethes had no feathers while they still lacked long yellow beards. But soon afterward, wings began to grow around both their sides, like birds' wings. At the same time, yellow down began to appear on their cheeks. When they had passed beyond boyhood, they joined the Minyæ to seek⁵⁶⁰ the fleece with its shining golden hair. They sailed the sea that had never before been crossed⁵⁶¹ in the first ship ever built.