Bulfinch's Mythology: The Age of Fable

Ch. 4: Midas, Baucis, Pluto, and Proserpine

Bacchus, on a certain occasion, found his old school master and

foster father, Silenus, missing. The old man had been drinking,

and in that state had wandered away, and was found by some

peasants, who carried him to their king, Midas. Midas recognized

him, and treated him hospitably, entertaining him for ten days

and nights with an unceasing round of jollity. On the eleventh

day he brought Silenus back, and restored him in safety to his

pupil. Whereupon Bacchus offered Midas his choice of whatever

reward he might wish. He asked that whatever he might touch

should be changed into GOLD. Bacchus consented, though sorry

that he had not made a better choice. Midas went his way,

rejoicing in his newly acquired power, which he hastened to put

to the test. He could scarce believe his eyes when he found that

a twig of an oak, which he plucked from the branch, became gold

in his hand. He took up a stone it changed to gold. He

touched a sod it did the same. He took an apple from the tree

you would have thought he had robbed the garden of the

Hesperides. His joy knew no bounds, and as soon as he got home,

he ordered the servants to set a splendid repast on the table.

Then he found to his dismay that whether he touched bread, it

hardened in his hand; or put a morsel to his lips, it defied his

teeth. He took a glass of wine, but it flowed down his throat

like melted gold.

In consternation at the unprecedented affliction, he strove to

divest himself of his power; he hated the gift he had lately

coveted. But all in vain; starvation seemed to await him. He

raised his arms, all shining with gold, in prayer to Bacchus,

begging to be delivered from his glittering destruction.

Bacchus, merciful deity, heard and consented. "Go," said he, "to

the river Pactolus, trace the stream to its fountain-head, there

plunge in your head and body and wash away your fault and its

punishment." He did so, and scarce had he touched the waters

before the gold-creating power passed into them, and the river

sands became changed into GOLD, as they remain to this day.

Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the

country, and became a worshipper of Pan, the god of the fields.

On a certain occasion Pan had the temerity to compare his music

with that of Apollo, and to challenge the god of the lyre to a

trial of skill. The challenge was accepted, and Tmolus, the

mountain-god, was chosen umpire. Tmolus took his seat and

cleared away the trees from his ears to listen. At a given

signal Pan blew on his pipes, and with his rustic melody gave

great satisfaction to himself and his faithful follower, Midas,

who happened to be present. Then Tmolus turned his head toward

the sun-god, and all his trees turned with him. Apollo rose, his

brow wreathed with Parnassian laurel, while his robe of Tyrian

purple swept the ground. In his left hand he held the lyre, and

with his right hand struck the strings. Ravished with the

harmony, Tmolus at once awarded the victory to the god of the

lyre, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment. He

dissented, and questioned the justice of the award. Apollo would

not suffer such a depraved pair of ears any longer to wear the

human form, but caused them to increase in length, grow hairy,

within and without, and to become movable, on their roots; in

short, to be on the perfect pattern of those of an ass.

Mortified enough was King Midas at this mishap; but he consoled

himself with the thought that it was possible to hide his

misfortune, which he attempted to do by means of an ample turban

or headdress. But his hairdresser of course knew the secret. He

was charged not to mention it, and threatened with dire

punishment if he presumed to disobey. But he found it too much

for his discretion to keep such a secret; so he went out into the

meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down, whispered

the story, and covered it up. Before long a thick bed of reeds

sprang up in the meadow, and as soon as it had gained its growth,

began whispering the story, and has continued to do so, from that

day to this, with every breeze which passes over the place.

The story of King Midas has been told by others with some

variations. Dryden, in the Wife of Bath's Tale, makes Midas'

queen the betrayer of the secret.

Midas was king of Phrygia. He was the son of Gordius, a poor

countryman, who was taken by the people and made king, in

obedience to the command of the oracle, which had said that their

future king should come in a wagon. While the people were

deliberating, Gordius with his wife and son came driving his

wagon into the public square.

Gordius, being made king, dedicated his wagon to the deity of the

oracle, and tied it up in its place with a fast knot. This was

the celebrated GORDIAN KNOT, of which, in after times it was

said, that whoever should untie it should become lord of all

Asia. Many tried to untie it, but none succeeded, till Alexander

the Great, in his career of conquest, came to Phrygia. He tried

his skill with as ill success as the others, till growing

impatient he drew his sword and cut the knot. When he afterwards

succeeded in subjecting all Asia to his sway, people began to

think that he had complied with the terms of the oracle according

to its true meaning.

On a certain hill in Phrygia stand a linden tree and an oak,

enclosed by a low wall. Not far from the spot is a marsh,

formerly good habitable land, but now indented with pools, the

resort of fen-birds and cormorants. Once on a time, Jupiter, in

human shape, visited this country, and with him his son Mercury

(he of the caduceus), without his wings. They presented

themselves at many a door as weary travellers, seeking rest and

shelter, but found all closed, for it was late, and the

inhospitable inhabitants would not rouse themselves to open for

their reception. At last a humble mansion received them, a small

thatched cottage, where Baucis, a pious old dame, and her husband

Philemon, united when young, had grown old together. Not ashamed

of their poverty, they made it endurable by moderate desires and

kind dispositions. One need not look there for master or for

servant; they two were the whole household, master and servant

alike. When the two heavenly guests crossed the humble

threshold, and bowed their heads to pass under the low door, the

old man placed a seat, on which Baucis, bustling and attentive,

spread a cloth, and begged them to sit down. Then she raked out

the coals from the ashes, kindled up a fire, and fed it with

leaves and dry bark, and with her scanty breath blew it into a

flame. She brought out of a corner split sticks and dry

branches, broke them up, and placed them under the small kettle.

Her husband collected some pot-herbs in the garden, and she shred

them from the stalks, and prepared them for the pot He reached

down with a forked stick a flitch of bacon hanging in the

chimney, cut a small piece, and put it in the pot to boil with

the herbs, setting away the rest for another time. A beechen

bowl was filled with warm water that their guests might wash.

While all was doing they beguiled the time with conversation.

On the bench designed for the guests was laid a cushion stuffed

with sea-weed; and a cloth, only produced on great occasions, but

old and coarse enough, was spread over that. The old woman, with

her apron on, with trembling hand set the table. One leg was

shorter than the rest, but a shell put under restored the level.

When fixed, she rubbed the table down with some sweet-smelling

herbs. Upon it she set some olives, Minerva's-fruit, some

cornel-berries preserved in vinegar, and added radishes and

cheese, with eggs lightly cooked in the ashes. All were served

in earthen dishes, and an earthenware pitcher, with wooden cups,

stood beside them. When all was ready, the stew, smoking hot,

was set on the table. Some wine, not of the oldest, was added;

and for dessert, apples and wild honey; and over and above all,

friendly faces, and simple but hearty welcome.

Now while the repast proceeded, the old folks were astonished to

see that the wine, as fast as it was poured out, renewed itself

in the pitcher, of its own accord. Struck with terror, Baucis

and Philemon recognized their heavenly guests, fell on their

knees, and with clasped hands implored forgiveness for their poor

entertainment. There was an old goose, which they kept as the

guardian of their humble cottage; and they bethought them to make

this a sacrifice in honor of their guests. But the goose, too

nimble for the old folks, eluded their pursuit with the aid of

feet and wings, and at last took shelter between the gods

themselves. They forbade it to be slain; and spoke in these

words: "We are gods. This inhospitable village shall pay the

penalty of its impiety; you alone shall go free from the

chastisement. Quit your house, and come with us to the top of

yonder hill." They hastened to obey, and staff in hand, labored

up the steep ascent. They had come within an arrow's flight of

the top, when turning their eyes below, they beheld all the

country sunk in a lake, only their own house left standing.

While they gazed with wonder at the sight, and lamented the fate

of their neighbors, that old house of theirs was changed into a

TEMPLE. Columns took the place of the corner-posts, the thatch

grew yellow and appeared a gilded roof, the floors became marble,

the doors were enriched with carving and ornaments of gold. Then

spoke Jupiter in benignant accents: "Excellent old man, and woman

worthy of such a husband, speak, tell us your wishes; what favor

have you to ask of us?" Philemon took counsel with Baucis a few

moments; then declared to the gods their united wish. "We ask to

be priests and guardians of this your temple; and since here we

have passed our lives in love and concord, we wish that one and

the same hour may take us both from life, that I may not live to

see her grave, nor be laid in my own by her." Their prayer was

granted. They were the keepers of the temple as long as they

lived. When grown very old, as they stood one day before the

steps of the sacred edifice, and were telling the story of the

place, Baucis saw Philemon begin to put forth leaves, and old

Philemon saw Baucis changing in like manner. And now a leafy

crown had grown over their heads, while exchanging parting words,

as long as they could speak. "Farewell, dear spouse," they said,

together, and at the same moment the bark closed over their

mouths. The Tyanean shepherd long showed the two trees, standing

side by side, made out of the two good old people.

The story of Baucis and Philemon has been imitated by Swift, in a

burlesque style, the actors in the change being two wandering

saints and the house being changed into a church, of which

Philemon is made the parson The following may serve as a

specimen:--

"They scarce had spoke when, fair and soft,

The roof began to mount aloft;

Aloft rose every beam and rafter;

The heavy wall climbed slowly after.

The chimney widened and grew higher,

Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,

And there stood fastened to a joist,

But with the upside down, to show

Its inclination for below;

In vain, for a superior force,

Applied at bottom, stops its course;

Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,

'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost

Lost by disuse the art to roast,

A sudden alteration feels,

Increased by new intestine wheels;

And, what exalts the wonder more,

The number made the motion slower;

The flier, though 't had leaden feet,

Turned round so quick you scarce could see 't:

But slackened by some secret power,

Now hardly moves an inch an hour.

The jack and chimney, near allied,

Had never left each other's side.

The chimney to a steeple grown,

The jack would not be left alone;

But up against the steeple reared,

Became a clock, and still adhered;

And still its love to household cares

By a shrill voice at noon declares.

Warning the cook-maid not to burn

That roast meat which it cannot turn.

The groaning chair began to crawl,

Like a huge snail, along the wall;

There stuck aloft in public view,

And, with small change, a pulpit grew.

A bedstead of the antique mode,

Compact of timber many a load,

Such as our ancestors did use,

Was metamorphosed into pews,

Which still their ancient nature keep

By lodging folks disposed to sleep."

Under the island of Aetna lies Typhoeus the Titan, in punishment

for his share in the rebellion of the giants against Jupiter.

Two mountains press down the one his right and the other his

left hand while Aetna lies over his head. As Typhoeus moves,

the earth shakes; as he breathes, smoke and ashes come up from

Aetna. Pluto is terrified at the rocking of the earth, and fears

that his kingdom will be laid open to the light of day. He

mounts his chariot with the four black horses and comes up to

earth and looks around. While he is thus engaged, Venus, sitting

on Mount Eryx playing with her boy Cupid, sees him and says: "My

son, take your darts with which you conquer all, even Jove

himself, and send one into the breast of yonder dark monarch, who

rules the realm of Tartarus. Why should he alone escape? Seize

the opportunity to extend your empire and mine. Do you not see

that even in heaven some despise our power? Minerva the wise,

and Diana the huntress, defy us; and there is that daughter of

Ceres, who threatens to follow their example. Now do you, if you

have any regard for your own interest or mine, join these two in

one." The boy unbound his quiver, and selected his sharpest and

truest arrow; then, straining the bow against his knee, he

attached the string, and, having made ready, shot the arrow with

its barbed point right into the heart of Pluto.

In the vale of Enna there is a lake embowered in woods, which

screen it from the fervid rays of the sun, while the moist ground

is covered with flowers, and spring reigns perpetual. Here

Proserpine was playing with her companions, gathering lilies and

violets, and filling her basket and her apron with them, when

Pluto saw her from his chariot, loved her, and carried her off.

She screamed for help to her mother and her companions; and when

in her fright she dropped the corners of her apron and let the

flowers fall, childlike, she felt the loss of them as an addition

to her grief. The ravisher urged on his steeds, calling them

each by name, and throwing loose over their heads and necks his

iron-colored reins. When he reached the River Cyane, and it

opposed his passage, he struck the river bank with his trident,

and the earth opened and gave him a passage to Tartarus.

Ceres sought her daughter all the world over. Bright-haired

Aurora, when she came forth in the morning, and Hesperus, when he

led out the stars in the evening, found her still busy in the

search. But it was all unavailing. At length, weary and sad,

she sat down upon a stone and continued sitting nine days and

nights, in the open air, under the sunlight and moonlight and

falling showers. It was where now stands the city of Eleusis,

then the home of an old man named Celeus. He was out in the

field, gathering acorns and blackberries, and sticks for his

fire. His little girl was driving home their two goats, and as

she passed the goddess, who appeared in the guise of an old

woman, she said to her, "Mother," and the name was sweet to the

ears of Ceres, "why do you sit here alone upon the rocks?" The

old man also stopped, though his load was heavy, and begged her

to come into his cottage, such as it was. She declined, and he

urged her. "Go in peace," she replied, "and be happy in your

daughter; I have lost mine." As she spoke, tears or something

like tears, for the gods never weep fell down her cheeks upon

her bosom. The compassionate old man and his child wept with

her. Then said he, "Come with us, and despise not our humble

roof; so may your daughter be restored to you in safety." "Lead

on," said she, "I cannot resist that appeal!" So she rose from

the stone and went with them. As they walked he told her that

his only son, a little boy, lay very sick, feverish and

sleepless. She stooped and gathered some poppies. As they

entered the cottage they found all in great distress, for the boy

seemed past hope of recovery. Metanira, his mother, received her

kindly, and the goddess stooped and kissed the lips of the sick

child. Instantly the paleness left his face, and healthy vigor

returned to his body. The whole family were delighted that is,

the father, mother, and little girl, for they were all; they had

no servants. They spread the table, and put upon it curds and

cream, apples, and honey in the comb. While they ate, Ceres

mingled poppy juice in the milk of the boy. When night came and

all was still, she arose, and taking the sleeping boy, moulded

his limbs with her hands, and uttered over him three times a

solemn charm, then went and laid him in the ashes. His mother,

who had been watching what her guest was doing, sprang forward

with a cry and snatched the child from the fire. Then Ceres

assumed her own form, and a divine splendor shone all around.

While they were overcome with astonishment, she said, "Mother,

you have been cruel in your fondness to your son. I would have

made him immortal, but you have frustrated my attempt.

Nevertheless, he shall be great and useful. He shall teach men

the use of the plough, and the rewards which labor can win from

the cultivated soil." So saying, she wrapped a cloud about her,

and mounting her chariot rode away.

Ceres continued her search for her daughter, passing from land to

land, and across seas and rivers, till at length she returned to

Sicily, whence she at first set out, and stood by the banks of

the River Cyane, where Pluto made himself a passage with his

prize to his own dominions.

The river-nymph would have told the goddess all she had

witnessed, but dared not, for fear of Pluto; so she only ventured

to take up the girdle which Proserpine had dropped in her flight,

and waft it to the feet of the mother. Ceres, seeing this, was

no longer in doubt of her loss, but she did not yet know the

cause, and laid the blame on the innocent land. "Ungrateful

soil," said she, "which I have endowed with fertility and clothed

with herbage and nourishing grain, No more shall you enjoy my

favors" Then the cattle died, the plough broke in the furrow, the

seed failed to come up; there was too much sun, there was too

much rain; the birds stole the seeds, thistles and brambles

were the only growth. Seeing this, the fountain Arethusa

interceded for the land. "Goddess," said she, "blame not the

land; it opened unwillingly to yield a passage to your daughter.

I can tell you of her fate, for I have seen her. This is not my

native country; I came hither from Elis. I was a woodland nymph,

and delighted in the chase. They praised my beauty, but I cared

nothing for it, and rather boasted of my hunting exploits. One

day I was returning from the wood, heated with exercise, when I

came to a stream silently flowing, so clear that you might count

the pebbles on the bottom. The willows shaded it, and the grassy

bank sloped down to the water's edge. I approached, I touched

the water with my foot. I stepped in knee-deep, and not content

with that, I laid my garments on the willows and went in. While

I sported in the water, I heard an indistinct murmur coming up as

out of the depths of the stream; and made haste to escape to the

nearest bank. The voice said, 'Why do you fly, Arethusa? I am

Alpheus, the god of this stream.' I ran, he pursued; he was not

more swift than I, but he was stronger, and gained upon me, as my

strength failed. At last, exhausted, I cried for help to Diana.

'Help me, goddess! Help your votary!' The goddess heard, and

wrapped me suddenly in a thick cloud. The river-god looked now

this way and now that, and twice came close to me, but could not

find me. 'Arethusa! Arethusa!' he cried. Oh, how I trembled,

like a lamb that hears the wolf growling outside the fold. A

cold sweat came over me, my hair flowed down in streams; where my

foot stood there was a pool. In short, in less time than it

takes to tell it I became a fountain. But in this form Alpheus

knew me, and attempted to mingle his stream with mine. Diana

cleft the ground, and I, endeavoring to escape him, plunged into

the cavern, and through the bowels of the earth came out here in

Sicily. While I passed through the lower parts of the earth, I

saw your Proserpine. She was sad, but no longer showing alarm in

her countenance. Her look was such as became a queen, the

queen of Erebus; the powerful bride of the monarch of the realms

of the dead."

When Ceres heard this, she stood for a while like one stupefied;

then turned her chariot towards heaven, and hastened to present

herself before the throne of Jove. She told the story of her

bereavement, and implored Jupiter to interfere to procure the

restitution of her daughter. Jupiter consented on one condition,

namely, that Proserpine should not during her stay in the lower

world have taken any food; otherwise, the Fates forbade her

release. Accordingly, Mercury was sent, accompanied by Spring,

to demand Proserpine of Pluto. The wily monarch consented; but

alas! the maiden had taken a pomegranate which Pluto offered her,

and had sucked the sweet pulp from a few of the seeds. This was

enough to prevent her complete release; but a compromise was

made, by which she was to pass half the time with her mother, and

the rest with her husband Pluto.

Ceres allowed herself to be pacified with this arrangement, and

restored the earth to her favor. Now she remembered Celeus and

his family, and her promise to his infant son Triptolemus. When

the boy grew up, she taught him the use of the plough, and how to

sow the seed. She took him in her chariot, drawn by winged

dragons, through all the countries of the earth, imparting to

mankind valuable grains, and the knowledge of agriculture. After

his return, Triptolemus build a magnificent temple to Ceres in

Eleusis, and established the worship of the goddess, under the

name of the Eleusinian mysteries, which, in the splendor and

solemnity of their observance, surpassed all other religious

celebrations among the Greeks.

There can be little doubt but that this story of Ceres and

Proserpine is an allegory. Proserpine signifies the seed-corn,

which, when cast into the ground, lies there concealed, that

is, she is carried off by the god of the underworld; it

reappears, that is, Proserpine is restored to her mother.

Spring leads her back to the light of day.

"Not that fair field

Of Enna where Proserpine gathering flowers,

Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis (a name for Pluto)

Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain

To seek her through the world,

. . . . might with this Paradise

Of Eden strive."

"Forgive, if somewhile I forget,

In woe to come the present bliss;

As frightened Proserpine let fall

Her flowers at the sight of Dis."

The River Alpheus does in fact disappear under ground, in part of

its course, finding its way through subterranean channels, till

it again appears on the surface. It was said that the Sicilian

fountain Arethusa was the same stream, which, after passing under

the sea, came up again in Sicily. Hence the story ran that a cup

thrown into the Alpheus appeared again in Arethusa. It is this

fable of the underground course of Alpheus that Coleridge alludes

to in his poem of Kubla Khan:

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree,

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man,

Down to a sunless sea."

In one of Moore's juvenile poems he alludes to the same story,

and to the practice of throwing garlands, or other light objects

on the stream to be carried downward by it, and afterwards thrown

out when the river comes again to light.

"Oh, my beloved, how divinely sweet

Is the pure joy when kindred spirits meet!

Like him the river-god, whose waters flow,

With love their only light, through caves below,

Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids

And festal rings, with which Olympic maids

Have decked his current, as an offering meet

To lay at Arethusa's shining feet.

Think, when he meets at last his fountain bride,

What perfect love must thrill the blended tide!

Each lost in each, till mingling into one,

Their lot the same for shadow or for sun,

A type of true love, to the deep they run."

The following extract from Moore's Rhymes on the Road gives an

account of a celebrated picture by Albano at Milan, called a

Dance of Loves:

"'Tis for the theft of Enna's flower from earth

These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth,

Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath,

Those that are nearest linked in order bright,

Cheek after cheek, like rosebuds in a wreath;

And those more distant showing from beneath

The others' wings their little eyes of light.

While see! Among the clouds, their eldest brother,

But just flown up, tells with a smile of bliss,

This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother,

Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss."

Glaucus was a fisherman. One day he had drawn his nets to land,

and had taken a great many fishes of various kinds. So he

emptied his net, and proceeded to sort the fishes on the grass.

The place where he stood was a beautiful island in the river, a

solitary spot, uninhabited, and not used for pasturage of cattle,

nor ever visited by any but himself. On a sudden, the fishes,

which had been laid on the grass, began to revive and move their

fins as if they were in the water; and while he looked on

astonished, they one and all moved off to the water, plunged in

and swam away. He did not know what to make of this, whether

some god had done it, or some secret power in the herbage. "What

herb has such a power?" he exclaimed; and gathering some, he

tasted it. Scarce had the juices of the plant reached his palate

when he found himself agitated with a longing desire for the

water. He could no longer restrain himself, but bidding farewell

to earth, he plunged into the stream. The gods of the water

received him graciously, and admitted him to the honor of their

society. They obtained the consent of Oceanus and Tethys, the

sovereigns of the sea, that all that was mortal in him should be

washed away. A hundred rivers poured their waters over him .

Then he lost all sense of his former nature and all

consciousness. When he recovered, he found himself changed in

form and mind. His hair was sea-green, and trailed behind him on

the water; his shoulders grew broad, and what had been thighs and

legs assumed the form of a fish's tail. The sea-gods

complimented him on the change of his appearance, and he himself

was pleased with his looks.

One day Glaucus saw the beautiful maiden Scylla, the favorite of

the water-nymphs, rambling on the shore, and when she had found a

sheltered nook, laving her limbs in the clear water. He fell in

love with her, and showing himself on the surface, spoke to her,

saying such things as he thought most likely to win her to stay;

for she turned to run immediately on sight of him and ran till

she had gained a cliff overlooking the sea. Here she stopped and

turned round to see whether it was a god or a sea-animal, and

observed with wonder his shape and color. Glaucus, partly

emerging from the water, and supporting himself against a rock,

said, "Maiden, I am no monster, nor a sea-animal, but a god; and

neither Proteus nor Triton ranks higher than I. Once I was a

mortal, and followed the sea for a living; but now I belong

wholly to it." Then he told the story of his metamorphosis and

how he had been promoted to his present dignity, and added, "But

what avails all this if it fails to move your heart?" He was

going on in this strain, but Scylla turned and hastened away.

Glaucus was in despair, but it occurred to him to consult the

enchantress, Circe. Accordingly he repaired to her island, the

same where afterwards Ulysses landed, as we shall see in another

story. After mutual salutations, he said, "Goddess, I entreat

your pity; you alone can relieve the pain I suffer. The power of

herbs I know as well as any one, for it is to them I owe my

change of form I love Scylla. I am ashamed to tell you how I

have sued and promised to her, and how scornfully she has treated

me. I beseech you to use your incantations, or potent herbs, if

they are more prevailing, not to cure me of my love, for that I

do not wish, but to make her share it and yield me a like

return." To which Circe replied, for she was not insensible to

the attractions of the sea-green deity, "You had better pursue a

willing object; you are worthy to be sought, instead of having to

seek in vain. Be not diffident, know your own worth. I protest

to you that even I, goddess though I be, and learned in the

virtues of plants and spells, should not know how to refuse you

If she scorns you, scorn her; meet one who is ready to meet you

half way, and thus make a due return to both at once." To these

words Glaucus replied, "Sooner shall trees grow at the bottom of

the ocean, and seaweed on the top of the mountains, than I will

cease to love Scylla, and her alone."

The goddess was indignant, but she could not punish him, neither

did she wish to do so, for she liked him too well; so she turned

all her wrath against her rival, poor Scylla. She took plants of

poisonous powers and mixed them together, with incantations and

charms. Then she passed through the crowd of gambolling beasts,

the victims of her art, and proceeded to the coast of Sicily,

where Scylla lived. There was a little bay on the shore to which

Scylla used to resort, in the heat of the day, to breathe the air

of the sea, and to bathe in its waters. Here the goddess poured

her poisonous mixture, and muttered over it incantations of

mighty power. Scylla came as usual and plunged into the water up

to her waist. What was her horror to perceive a brood of

serpents and barking monsters surrounding her! At first she

could not imagine they were a part of herself, and tried to run

from them, and to drive them away; but as she ran she carried

them with her, and when she tried to touch her limbs, she found

her hands touch only the yawning jaws of monsters. Scylla

remained rooted to the spot. Her temper grew as ugly as her

form, and she took pleasure in devouring hapless mariners who

came within her grasp. Thus she destroyed six of the companions

of Ulysses, and tried to wreck the ships of Aeneas, till at last

she was turned into a rock, and as such still continues to be a

terror to mariners.

"I plunged for life or death. To interknit

One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff

Might seem a work of pain; so not enough

Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt,

And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dwelt

Whole days and days in sheer astonishment;

Forgetful utterly of self-9ntent,

Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow.

Then like a new-fledged bird that first doth show

His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill,

I tried in fear the pinions of my well.

"Twas freedom! And at once I visited

The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed."

Keats.

In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time.