Bulfinch's Mythology: The Age of Fable

Ch. 8: Nisus and Scylla, Echo and Narcissus, Hero and Leander

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Minos, king of Crete, made war upon Megara. Nisus was king of

Megara, and Scylla was his daughter. The siege had now lasted

six months, and the city still held out, for it was decreed by

fate that it should not be taken so long as a certain purple

lock, which glittered among the hair of King Nisus, remained on

his head. There was a tower on the city walls, which overlooked

the plain where Minos and his army were encamped. To this tower

Scylla used to repair, and look abroad over the tents of the

hostile army. The siege had lasted so long that she had learned

to distinguish the persons of the leaders. Minos, in particular,

excited her admiration. She admired his graceful deportment; if

he threw his javelin, skill seemed combined with force in the

discharge; if he drew his bow, Apollo himself could not have done

it more gracefully. But when he laid aside his helmet, and in

his purple robes bestrode his white horse with its gay

caparisons, and reined in its foaming mouth, the daughter of

Nisus was hardly mistress of herself; she was almost frantic with

admiration. She envied the weapon that he grasped, the reins

that he held. She felt as if she could, if it were possible, go

to him through the hostile ranks; she felt an impulse to cast

herself down from the tower into the midst of his camp, or to

open the gates to him, or do anything else, so only it might

gratify Minos. As she sat in the tower, she talked thus with

herself: "I know not whether to rejoice or grieve at this sad

war. I grieve that Minos is our enemy; but I rejoice at any

cause that brings him to my sight. Perhaps he would be willing

to grant us peace, and receive me as a hostage. I would fly

down, if I could, and alight in his camp, and tell him that we

yield ourselves to his mercy. But, then, to betray my father!

No! Rather would I never see Minos again. And yet no doubt it

is sometimes the best thing for a city to be conquered when the

conqueror is clement and generous. Minos certainly has right on

his side. I think we shall be conquered; and if that must be the

end of it, why should not love unbar the gates to him, instead of

leaving it to be done by war? Better spare delay and slaughter

if we can. And, oh, if any one should wound or kill Minos! No

one surely would have the heart to do it; yet ignorantly, not

knowing him, one might. I will, I will surrender myself to him,

with my country as a dowry, and so put an end to the war. But

how? The gates are guarded, and my father keeps the keys; he

only stands in my way. Oh, that it might please the gods to take

him away! But why ask the gods to do it? Another woman, loving

as I do, would remove with her own hands whatever stood in the

way of her love. And can any other woman dare more than I? I

would encounter fire and sword to gain my object; but here there

is no need of fire and sword. I only need my father's purple

lock. More precious than gold to me, that will give me all I

wish."

While she thus reasoned night came on, and soon the whole palace

was buried in sleep. She entered her father's bedchamber and cut

off the fatal lock; then passed out of the city and entered the

enemy's camp. She demanded to be led to the king, and thus

addressed him: "I am Scylla, the daughter of Nisus. I surrender

to you my country and my father's house. I ask no reward but

yourself; for love of you I have done it. See here the purple

lock! With this I give you my father and his kingdom." She held

out her hand with the fatal spoil. Minos shrunk back and refused

to touch it. "The gods destroy thee, infamous woman," he

exclaimed; "disgrace of our time! May neither earth nor sea

yield thee a resting place! Surely, my Crete, where Jove himself

was cradled, shall not be polluted with such a monster!" Thus he

said, and gave orders that equitable terms should be allowed to

the conquered city, and that the fleet should immediately sail

from the island.

Scylla was frantic. "Ungrateful man," she exclaimed, "is it thus

you leave me? Me who have given you victory, who have

sacrificed for you parent and country! I am guilty, I confess,

and deserve to die, by not by your hand." As the ships left the

shore, she leaped into the water, and seizing the rudder of the

one which carried Minos, she was borne along an unwelcome

companion of their course. A sea-eagle soaring aloft, it was

her father who had been changed into that form, seeing her,

pounced down upon her, and struck her with his beak and claws.

In terror she let go the ship, and would have fallen into the

water, but some pitying deity changed her into a bird. The sea-

eagle still cherishes the old animosity; and whenever he espies

her in his lofty flight, you may see him dart down upon her, with

beak and claws, to take vengeance for the ancient crime.

Echo was a beautiful nymph, fond of the woods and hills, where

she devoted herself to woodland sports. She was a favorite of

Diana, and attended her in the chase. But Echo had one failing;

she was fond of talking, and whether in chat or argument would

have the last word. One day Juno was seeking her husband, who,

she had reason to fear, was amusing himself among the nymphs.

Echo by her talk contrived to detain the goddess till the nymphs

made their escape. When Juno discovered it, she passed sentence

upon Echo in these words: "You shall forfeit the use of that

tongue with which you have cheated me, except for that one

purpose you are so fond of REPLY. You shall still have the

last word, but no power to speak first."

This nymph saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued the

chase upon the mountains. She loved him, and followed his

footsteps. Oh, how she longed to address him in the softest

accents, and win him to converse, but it was not in her power.

She waited with impatience for him to speak first, and had her

answer ready. One day the youth, being separated from his

companions, shouted aloud, "Who's here?" Echo replied, "Here."

Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one, called out, "Come."

Echo answered, "Come." As no one came, Narcissus called again,

"Why do you shun me?" Echo asked the same question. "Let us

join one another," said the youth. The maid answered with all

her heart in the same words, and hastened to the spot, ready to

throw her arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming,

"Hands off! I would rather die than you should have me." "Have

me," said she; but it was all in vain. He left her, and she went

to hide her blushes in the recesses of the woods. From that time

forth she lived in caves and among mountain cliffs. Her form

faded with grief, till at last all her flesh shrank away. Her

bones were changed into rocks, and there was nothing left of her

but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to any one

who calls her, and keeps up her old habit of having the last

word.

Narcissus was cruel not in this case alone. He shunned all the

rest of the nymphs as he had done poor Echo. One day a maiden,

who had in vain endeavored to attract him, uttered a prayer that

he might some time or other feel what it was to love and meet no

return of affection. The avenging goddess heard and granted the

prayer.

There was a clear fountain, with water like silver, to which the

shepherds never drove their flocks. Nor did the mountain goats

resort to it, nor any of the beasts of the forest; neither was it

defaced with fallen leaves or branches; but the grass grew fresh

around it, and the rocks sheltered it from the sun. Hither came

one day the youth fatigued with hunting, heated and thirsty. He

stooped down to drink, and saw his own image in the water; he

thought it was some beautiful water=spirit living in the

fountain. He stood gazing with admiration at those bright eyes,

those locks curled like the locks of Bacchus or Apollo, the

rounded cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the glow of

health and exercise over all. He fell in love with himself. He

brought his lips near to take a kiss; he plunged his arms in to

embrace the beloved object. It fled at the touch, but returned

again after a moment and renewed the fascination. He could not

tear himself away; he lost all thought of food or rest, while he

hovered over the brink of the fountain gazing upon his own image.

He talked with the supposed spirit: "Why, beautiful being, do you

shun me? Surely my face is not one to repel you. The nymphs

love me, and you yourself look not indifferent upon me. When I

stretch forth my arms you do the same; and you smile upon me and

answer my beckonings with the like." His tears fell into the

water and disturbed the image. As he saw it depart, he

exclaimed, "Stay, I entreat you! Let me at least gaze upon you,

if I may not touch you." With this, and much more of the same

kind, he cherished the flame that consumed him, so that by

degrees he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which

formerly had so charmed the nymph Echo. She kept near him,

however, and when he exclaimed, "Alas! Alas!" she answered him

with the same words. He pined away and died; and when his shade

passed the Stygian river, it leaned over the boat to catch a look

of itself in the waters. The nymphs mourned for him, especially

the water-nymphs; and when they smote their breasts, Echo smote

hers also. They prepared a funeral pile, and would have burned

the body, but it was nowhere to be found; but in its place a

flower, purple within, and surrounded with white leaves, which

bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus.

Milton alludes to the story of Echo and Narcissus in the Lady's

song in Comus. She is seeking her brothers in the forest, and

sings to attract their attention.

"Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen

Within thy aery shell

By slow Meander's margent green.

And in the violet-embroidered vale,

Where the love-lorn nightingale

Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;

Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair

That likes thy Narcissus are?

Oh, if thou have

Hid them in some flowery cave,

Tell me but where,

Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere,

So may'st thou be translated to the skies,

And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies."

Milton has imitated the story of Narcissus in the account which

he makes Eve give of the first sight of herself reflected in the

fountain:

"That day I oft remember when from sleep

I first awaked, and found myself reposed

Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where

And what I was, whence thither brought, and how

Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound

Of waters issued from a cave, and spread

Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved

Pure as the expanse of heaven; I thither went

With unexperienced thought, and laid me down

On the green bank, to look into the clear

Smooth lake that to me seemed another sky.

As I bent down to look, just opposite

A shape within the watery gleam appeared,

Bending to look on me. I started back;

It started back; but pleased I soon returned,

Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks

Of sympathy and love. There had I fixed

Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,

Had not a voice thus warned me: 'What thou seest,

What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself.'"

Paradise Lost, Book IV

The fable of Narcissus is often alluded to by the poets. Here

are two epigrams which treat it in different ways. The first is

by Goldsmith:

"Sure 'twas by Providence designed,

Rather in pity than in hate,

That he should be like Cupid blind,

To save him from Narcissus' fate"

"Beware, my friend, of crystal brook

Or fountain, lest that hideous hook.

Thy nose, thou chance to see;

Narcissus' fate would then be thine,

And self-detested thou would'st pine,

As self-enamored he."

Clytie was a water-nymph and in love with Apollo, who made her no

return. So she pined away, sitting all day long upon the cold

ground, with her unbound tresses streaming over her shoulders.

Nine days she sat and tasted neither food nor drink, her own

tears and the chilly dew her only food. She gazed on the sun

when he rose, and as he passed through his daily course to his

setting; she saw no other object, her face turned constantly on

him. At last, they say, her limbs rooted in the ground, her face

became a sunflower, which turns on its stem so as always to face

the sun throughout its daily course; for it retains to that

extent the feeling of the nymph from whom it sprang.

One of the best known of the marble busts discovered in our own

time, generally bears the name of Clytie. It has been very

frequently copied in plaster. It represents the head of a young

girl looking down, the neck and shoulders being supported in

the cup of a large flower, which by a little effort of

imagination can be made into a giant sunflower. The latest

supposition, however, is that this bust represented not Clytie,

but Isis.

"I will not have the mad Clytie,

Whose head is turned by the sun;

The tulip is a courtly quean,

Whom therefore I will shun;

The cowslip is a country wench,

The violet is a nun;

But I will woo the dainty rose,

The queen of every one."

"The heart that has truly loved never forgets,

But as truly loves on to the close;

As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets

The same look that she turned when he rose."

It is only for convenience that the modern poets translate the

Latin word HELIOTROPIUM, by the English sunflower. The

sunflower, which was known to the ancients, was called in Greek,

helianthos, from HELIOS, the sun; and ANTHOS a flower, and in

Latin, helianthus. It derives its name from its resemblance to

the sun; but, as any one may see, at sunset, it does not "turn to

the God when he sets the same look that it turned when he rose."

The Heliotrope of the fable of Clytie is called Turn-sole in old

English books, and such a plant is known in England. It is not

the sweet heliotrope of modern gardens, which is a South American

plant. The true classical heliotrope is probably to be found in

the heliotrope of southern France, a weed not known in America.

The reader who is curious may examine the careful account of it

in Larousse's large dictionary.

Leander was a youth of Abydos, a town of the Asian side of the

strait which separates Asia and Europe. On the opposite shore in

the town of Sestos lived the maiden Hero, a priestess of Venus.

Leander loved her, and used to swim the strait nightly to enjoy

the company of his mistress, guided by a torch which she reared

upon the tower, for the purpose. But one night a tempest arose

and the sea was rough; his strength failed, and he was drowned.

The waves bore his body to the European shore, where Hero became

aware of his death, and in her despair cast herself down from the

tower into the sea and perished.

"Come hither, all sweet maidens, soberly,

Down looking aye, and with a chasten'd light,

Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,

And meekly let your fair hands joined be,

As if so gentle that ye could not see,

Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,

Sinking away to his young spirit's night,

Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea.

'Tis young Leander toiling to his death.

Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips

For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.

Oh, horrid dream! See how his body dips

Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;

He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!"

The story of Leander's swimming the Hellespont was looked upon as

fabulous, and the feat considered impossible, till Lord Byron

proved its possibility by performing it himself. In the Bride of

Abydos he says,

The distance in the narrowest part is almost a mile, and there is

a constant current setting out from the Sea of Marmora into the

Archipelago. Since Byron's time the feat has been achieved by

others; but it yet remains a test of strength and skill in the

art of swimming sufficient to give a wide and lasting celebrity

to any one of our readers who may dare to make the attempt and

succeed in accomplishing it.

"The winds are high on Helle's wave,

As on that night of stormiest water,

When Love, who sent, forgot to save

The young, the beautiful, the brave,

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter.

Oh, when alone along the sky

The turret-torch was blazing high,

Though rising gale and breaking foam,

And shrieking sea-birds warned him home;

And clouds aloft and tides below,

With signs and sounds forbade to go,

He could not see, he would not hear

Or sound or sight foreboding fear.

His eye but saw that light of love,

The only star it hailed above;

His ear but rang with Hero's song,

'Ye waves, divide not lovers long.'

That tale is old, but love anew

May nerve young hearts to prove as true."

Schiller has made one of his finest ballads from the tragic fate

of the two lovers. The following verses are a translation from

the latter part of the ballad:

"Upon Hellespont's broad currents

Night broods black, and rain in torrents

>From the cloud's full bosom pours;

Lightnings in the sky are flashing,

All the storms below are dashing

On the crag-piled shores.

Awful chasms gaping widely,

Separate the mountain waves;

Ocean yawning as to open

Downward e'en to Pluto's caves."

"Woe, ah! Woe; great Jove have pity,

Listen to my sad entreaty,

Yet for what can Hero pray?

Should the gods in pity listen,

He, e'en now the false abyss in,

Struggles with the tempest's spray.

All the birds that skim the wave

In hasty flight are hieing home;

T the lee of safer haven

All the storm-tossed vessels come.

"Ah! I know he laughs at danger,

Dares again the frequent venture,

Lured by an almighty power;

For he swore it when we parted,

With the vow which binds true-hearted

Lovers to the latest hour.

Yes! Even as this moment hastens

Battles he the wave-crests rude,

And to their unfathomed chasms

Dags him down the angry flood.

"Pontus false! Thy sunny smile

Was the lying traitor's guile,

Like a mirror flashing there:

All thy ripples gently playing

Til they triumphed in betraying

Him into thy lying snare.

Now in thy mid-current yonder,

Onward still his course he urges,

Thou the false, on him the fated

Pouring loose thy terror-surges.

Waxes high the tempest's danger,

Waves to mountains rise in anger,

Oceans swell, and breakers dash,

Foaming, over cliffs of rock

Where even navies, stiff with oak,

Could not bear the crash.

In the gale her torch is blasted,

Beacon of the hoped-for strand;

Horror broods above the waters,

Horror broods above the land.

Prays she Venus to assuage

The hurricane's increasing rage,

And to sooth the billows' scorn.

And as gale on gale arises,

Vows to each as sacrifices

Spotless steer with gilded horn.

To all the goddesses below,

To "all the gods in heaven that be,"

She prays that oil of peace may flow

Softly on the storm-tossed sea.

Blest Leucothea, befriend me!

>From cerulean halls attend me;

Hear my prayer of agony.

In the ocean desert's raving,

Storm-tossed seamen, succor craving,

Find in thee their helper nigh.

Wrap him in thy charmed veil,

Secret spun and secret wove,

Certain from the deepest wave

To lift him to its crests above."

Now the tempests wild are sleeping,

And from the horizon creeping

Rays of morning streak the skies,

Peaceful as it lay before

The placid sea reflects the shore,

Skies kiss waves and waves the skies.

Little ripples, lightly plashing,

Break upon the rock-bound strand,

And they trickle, lightly playing

O'er a corpse upon the sand.

Yes, 'tis he! Although he perished,

Still his sacred troth he cherished,

An instant's glance tells all to her;

Not a tear her eye lets slip

Not a murmur leaves her lip;

Down she looks in cold despair;

Gazes round the desert sea,

Trustless gazes round the sky,

Flashes then of noble fire

Through her pallid visage fly!

"Yes, I know, ye mighty powers,

Ye have drawn the fated hours

Pitiless and cruel on.

Early full my course is over.

Such a course with such a lover;

Such a share of joy I've known.

Venus, queen, within thy temple,

Thou hast known me vowed as thine,

Now accept thy willing priestess

As an offering at thy shrine."

Downward then, while all in vain her

Fluttering robes would still sustain her,

Springs she into Pontus' wave;

Grasping him and her, the god

Whirls them in his deepest flood,

And, himself, becomes their grave.

With his prizes then contented,

Peaceful bids his waters glide,

>From the unexhausted vessels,

Whence there streams an endless tide.

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