Bulfinch's Mythology: The Age of Fable

Ch. 18: Arion, Ibycus, Simonides, Sappho

The poets whose adventures compose this chapter were real

persons, some of whose works yet remain, and their influence on

poets who succeeded them is yet more important than their

poetical remains. The adventures recorded of them in the

following stories rest on the same authority as other narratives

of the Age of Fable, that is, that of the poets who have told

them. In their present form, the first two are translated from

the German, the story of Arion from Schlegel, and that of Ibycus

from Schiller.

ARION

Arion was a famous musician, and dwelt at the court of Periander,

king of Corinth, with whom he was a great favorite. There was to

be a musical contest in Sicily, and Arion longed to compete for

the prize. He told his wish to Periander, who besought him like

a brother to give up the thought. "Pray stay with me," he said,

"and be contented. He who strives to win may lose." Arion

answered, "A wandering life best suits the free heart of a poet.

The talent which a god bestowed on me, I would fain make a source

of pleasure to others. And if I win the prize, how will the

enjoyment of it be increased by the consciousness of my wide-

spread fame!" He went, won the prize, and embarked with his

wealth in a Corinthian ship for home. On the second morning

after setting sail, the wind breathed mild and fair. "Oh,

Periander," he exclaimed, "dismiss your fears! Soon shall you

forget them in my embrace. With what lavish offerings will we

display our gratitude to the gods, and how merry will we be at

the festal board!" The wind and sea continued propitious. Not a

cloud dimmed the firmament. He had not trusted too much to the

ocean, but he had to man. He overheard the seamen exchanging

hints with one another, and found they were plotting to possess

themselves of his treasure. Presently they surrounded him loud

and mutinous, and said, "Arion, you must die! If you would have

a grave on shore, yield yourself to die on this spot; but if

otherwise, cast yourself into the sea." "Will nothing satisfy

you but my life?" said he. "Take my gold, and welcome. I

willingly buy my life at that price." "No, no; we cannot spare

you. Your life will be too dangerous to us. Where could we go

to escape from Periander, if he should know that you had been

robbed by us? Your gold would be of little use to us, if, on

returning home, we could never more be free from fear." "Grant

me, then," said he, "a last request, since nought will avail to

save my life, that I may die as I have lived, as becomes a bard.

When I shall have sung my death-song, and my harp-strings shall

cease to vibrate, then I will bid farewell to life, and yield

uncomplaining to my fate." This prayer, like the others, would

have been unheeded, they thought only of their booty, but to

hear so famous a musician, that moved their rude hearts. "Suffer

me," he added, "to arrange my dress. Apollo will not favor me

unless I be clad in my minstrel garb."

He clothed his well-proportioned limbs in gold and purple fair to

see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned

his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his

neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors. His left

hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck

its chords. Like one inspired, he seemed to drink the morning

air and glitter in the morning ray. The seamen gazed with

admiration. He strode forward to the vessel's side and looked

down into the blue sea. Addressing his lyre, he sang, "Companion

of my voice, come with me to the realm of shades. Though

Cerberus may growl, we know the power of song can tame his rage.

Ye heroes of Elysium, who have passed the darkling flood, ye

happy souls, soon shall I join your band. Yet can ye relieve my

grief? Alas, I leave my friend behind me. Thou, who didst find

thy Eurydice, and lose her again as soon as found; when she had

vanished like a dream, how didst thou hate the cheerful light! I

must away, but I will not fear. The gods look down upon us. Ye

who slay me unoffending, when I am no more, your time of

trembling shall come. Ye Nereids, receive your guest, who throws

himself upon your mercy!" So saying, he sprang into the deep

sea. The waves covered him, and the seamen held on their way,

fancying themselves safe from all danger of detection.

But the strains of his music had drawn round him the inhabitants

of the deep to listen, and dolphins followed the ship as if

chained by a spell. While he struggled in the waves, a dolphin

offered him his back, and carried him mounted thereon safe to

shore. At the spot where he landed, a monument of brass was

afterwards erected upon the rocky shore, to preserve the memory

of the event.

When Arion and the dolphin parted, each to his own element, Arion

thus poured forth his thanks. "Farewell, thou faithful, friendly

fish! Would that I could reward thee; but thou canst not wend

with me, nor I with thee. Companionship we may not have. May

Galatea, queen of the deep, accord thee her favor, and thou,

proud of the burden, draw her chariot over the smooth mirror of

the deep."

Arion hastened from the shore, and soon saw before him the towers

of Corinth. He journeyed on, harp in hand, singing as he went,

full of love and happiness, forgetting his losses, and mindful

only of what remained, his friend and his lyre. He entered the

hospitable halls, and was soon clasped in the embrace of

Periander. "I come back to thee, my friend," he said. "The

talent which a god bestowed has been the delight of thousands,

but false knaves have stripped me of my well-earned treasure; yet

I retain the consciousness of wide-spread fame." Then he told

Periander all the wonderful events that had befallen him, who

heard him with amazement. "Shall such wickedness triumph?" said

he. "Then in vain is power lodged in my hands. That we may

discover the criminals, you must remain here in concealment, and

so they will approach without suspicion." When the ship arrived

in the harbor, he summoned the mariners before him. "Have you

heard anything of Arion?" he inquired. "I anxiously look for his

return." They replied, "We left him well and prosperous in

Tarentum." As they said these words, Arion stepped forth and

faced them. His well proportioned limbs were arrayed in gold and

purple fair to see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds,

jewels adorned his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden

wreath, and over his neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed

with odors; his left hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand

with which he struck its chords. They fell prostrate at his

feet, as if a lightning bolt had struck them. "We meant to

murder him, and he has become a god. O Earth, open and receive

us!" Then Periander spoke. "He lives, the master of the lay!

Kind Heaven protects the poet's life. As for you, I invoke not

the spirit of vengeance; Arion wishes not your blood. Ye slaves

of avarice, begone! Seek some barbarous land, and never may

aught beautiful delight your souls!"

Spencer represents Arion, mounted on his dolphin, accompanying

the train of Neptune and Amphitrite:

"Then was there heard a most celestial sound

Of dainty music which did next ensue,

And, on the floating waters as enthroned,

Arion with his harp unto him drew

The ears and hearts of all that goodly crew;

Even when as yet the dolphin which him bore

Through the Aegean Seas from pirates' view,

Stood still, by him astonished at his love,

And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar."

Byron, in his Childe Harold, Canto II., alludes to the story of

Arion, when, describing his voyage, he represents one of the

seamen making music to entertain the rest:

"The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve!

Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;

Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe;

Such be our fate when we return to land!

Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand

Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;

A circle there of merry listeners stand,

Or to some well-known measure featly move

Thoughtless as if on shore they still were free to rove."

IBYCUS

In order to understand the story of Ibycus which follows, it is

necessary to remember, first, that the theatres of the ancients

were immense buildings providing seats for from ten to thirty

thousand spectators, and as they were used only on festal

occasions, and admission was free to all, they were usually

filled. They were without roofs and open to the sky, and the

performances were in the daytime. Secondly, the appalling

representation of the Furies is not exaggerated in the story. It

is recorded that AEschylus, the tragic poet, having on one

occasion represented the Furies in a chorus of fifty performers,

the terror of the spectators was such that many fainted and were

thrown into convulsions, and the magistrates forbade a like

representation for the future.

Ibycus, the pious poet, was on his way to the chariot races and

musical competitions held at the Isthmus of Corinth, which

attracted all of Grecian lineage. Apollo had bestowed on him the

gift of song, the honeyed lips of the poet, and he pursued his

way with lightsome step, full of the god. Already the towers of

Corinth crowning the height appeared in view, and he had entered

with pious awe the sacred grove of Neptune. No living object was

in sight, only a flock of cranes flew overhead, taking the same

course as himself in their migration to a southern clime. "Good

luck to you, ye friendly squadrons," he exclaimed, "my companions

from across the sea. I take your company for a good omen. We

come from far, and fly in search of hospitality. May both of us

meet that kind reception which shields the stranger guest from

harm!"

He paced briskly on, and soon was in the middle of the wood.

There suddenly, at a narrow pass, two robbers stepped forth and

barred his way. He must yield or fight. But his hand,

accustomed to the lyre and not to the strife of arms, sank

powerless. He called for help on men and gods, but his cry

reached no defender's ear. "Then here must I die," said he, "in

a strange land, unlamented, cut off by the hand of outlaws, and

see none to avenge my cause." Sore wounded he sank to the earth,

when hoarse screamed the cranes overhead. "Take up my cause, ye

cranes," he said, "since no voice but yours answers to my cry."

So saying, he closed his eyes in death.

The body, despoiled and mangled, was found, and though disfigured

with wounds, was recognized by the friend in Corinth who had

expected him as a guest. "Is it thus I find you restored to me?"

he exclaimed; "I who hoped to entwine your temples with the

wreath of triumph in the strife of song!"

The guests assembled at the festival heard the tidings with

dismay. All Greece felt the wound, every heart owned its loss.

They crowded round the tribunal of the magistrates, and demanded

vengeance on the murderers and expiation with their blood.

But what trace or mark shall point out the perpetrator from

amidst the vast multitude attracted by the splendor of the feat?

Did he fall by the hands of robbers, or did some private enemy

slay him? The all-discerning sun alone can tell, for no other

eye beheld it. Yet not improbably the murderer even now walks in

the midst of the throng, and enjoys the fruits of his crime,

while vengeance seeks for him in vain. Perhaps in their own

temple's enclosure he defies the gods, mingling freely in this

throng of men that now presses into the ampitheatre.

For now crowded together, row on row, the multitude fill the

seats till it seems as if the very fabric would give way. The

murmur of voices sounds like the roar of the sea, while the

circles widening in their ascent rise, tier on tier, as if they

would reach the sky.

And now the vast assemblage listens to the awful voice of the

chorus personating the Furies, which in solemn guise advances

with measured step, and moves around the circuit of the theatre.

Can they be mortal women who compose that awful group, and can

that vast concourse of silent forms be living beings!

The choristers, clad in black, bore in their fleshless hands

torches blazing with a pitchy flame. Their cheeks were

bloodless, and in place of hair, writing and swelling serpents

curled around their brows. Forming a circle, these awful beings

sang their hymn, rending the hearts of the guilty, and enchaining

all their faculties. It rose and swelled, overpowering the sound

of the instruments, stealing the judgment, palsying the heart,

curdling the blood.

"Happy the man who keeps his heart pure from guilt and crime!

Him we avengers touch not; he treads the path of life secure from

us. But woe! Woe! To him who has done the deed of secret

murder. We, the fearful family of Night, fasten ourselves upon

his whole being. Thinks he by flight to escape us? We fly still

faster in pursuit, twine our snakes around his feet and bring him

to the ground. Unwearied we pursue; no pity checks our course;

still on and on to the end of life, we give him no peace nor

rest." Thus the Eumenides sang, and moved in solemn cadence,

while stillness like the stillness of death sat over the whole

assembly as if in the presence of superhuman beings; and then in

solemn march completing the circuit of the theatre, they passed

out at the back of the stage.

Every heart fluttered between illusion and reality, and every

breast panted with undefined terror, quailing before the awful

power that watches secret crimes and winds unseen the skein of

destiny. At that moment a cry burst forth from one of the

uppermost benches "Look! Look! Comrade, yonder are the cranes

of Ibycus!" And suddenly there appeared sailing across the sky a

dark object which a moment's inspection showed to be a flock of

cranes flying directly over the theatre. "Of Ibycus! did he

say?" The beloved name revived the sorrow in every breast. As

wave follows wave over the face of the sea, so ran from mouth to

mouth the words, "Of Ibycus! Him whom we all lament, with some

murderer's hand laid low! What have the cranes to do with him?"

And louder grew the swell of voices, while like a lightning's

flash the thought sped through every heart, "Observe the power of

the Eumenides! The pious poet shall be avenged! The murderer

has informed against himself. Seize the man who uttered that cry

and the other to whom he spoke!"

The culprit would gladly have recalled his words, but it was too

late. The faces of the murderers pale with terror betrayed their

guilt. The people took them before the judge, they confessed

their crime and suffered the punishment they deserved.

SIMONIDES

Simonides was one of the most prolific of the early poets of

Greece, but only a few fragments of his compositions have

descended to us. He wrote hymns, triumphal odes, and elegies.

In the last species of composition he particularly excelled. His

genius was inclined to the pathetic, and none could touch with

truer effect the chords of human sympathy. The Lamentation of

Danae, the most important of the fragments which remain of his

poetry is based upon the tradition that Danae and her infant son

were confined by order of her father Acrisius in a chest and set

adrift on the sea. The chest floated towards the island of

Seriphus, where both were rescued by Dictys, a fisherman, and

carried to Polydectes, king of the country, who received and

protected them. The child Perseus when grown up became a famous

hero, whose adventures have been recorded in a previous chapter.

Simonides passed much of his life at the courts of princes, and

often employed his talents in panegyric and festal odes,

receiving his reward from the munificence of those whose exploits

he celebrated. This employment was not derogatory, but closely

resembles that of the earliest bards, such as Demodocus,

described by Homer, or of Homer himself as recorded by tradition.

On one occasion when residing at the court of Scopas, king of

Thessaly, the prince desired him to prepare a poem in celebration

of his exploits, to be recited at a banquet. In order to

diversify his theme, Simonides, who was celebrated for his piety,

introduced into his poem the exploits of Castor and Pollux. Such

digressions were not unusual with the poets on similar occasions,

and one might suppose an ordinary mortal might have been content

to share the praises of the sons of Leda. But vanity is

exacting; and as Scopas sat at his festal board among his

courtiers and sycophants, he grudged every verse that did not

rehearse his own praises. When Simonides approached to receive

the promised reward Scopas bestowed but half the expected sum,

saying, "Here is p*****t for my portion of the performance,

Castor and Pollux will doubtless compensate thee for so much as

relates to them." The disconcerted poet returned to his seat

amidst the laughter which followed the great man's jest. In a

little time he received a message that two young men on horseback

were waiting without and anxious to see him. Simonides hastened

to the door, but looked in vain for the visitors. Scarcely

however had he left the banqueting-hall when the roof fell in

with a loud crash, burying Scopas and all his guests beneath the

ruins. On inquiring as to the appearance of the young men who

had sent for him, Simonides was satisfied that they were no other

than Castor and Pollux themselves.

Sappho

Sappho was a poetess who flourished in a very early age of Greek

literature. Of her works few fragments remain, but they are

enough to establish her claim to eminent poetical genius. The

story of Sappho commonly alluded to is that she was passionately

in love with a beautiful youth named Phaon, and failing to obtain

a return of affection she threw herself from the promontory of

Leucadia into the sea, under a superstition that those who should

take that "Lover's-leap," would, if not destroyed, be cured of

their love.

Byron alludes to the story of Sappho in Childe Harold, Canto II.:

Those who wish to know more of Sappho and her leap, are referred

to the Spectator, Nos. 223 and 229, and also to Moore's Evenings

in Greece.