 | Fact and fiction |  |
THE CHILDREN OF MOUNT IDA.
And seest, with finer eyes, what infants see,
Feeling all lovely truth,
With the wise health of everlasting youth,
Beyond the motes of bigotry's sick eye,
Or the blind feel of false philosophy—
O Spirit, O Muse of mine,
Frank, and quick-dimpled to all social glee,
And yet most sylvan of the earnest Nine—
O take me now, and let me stand
On some such lovely land,
Where I may feel me as I please,
In dells among the trees.”
In very ancient times there dwelt, among the Phrygian
hills, an old shepherd and shepherdess, named
Mygdomus and Arisba. From youth they had tended
flocks and herds on the Idean mountains. Their only
child, a blooming boy of six years, had been killed by
falling from a precipice. Arisba's heart overflowed
with maternal instinct, which she yearned inexpressibly
to lavish on some object; but though they laid
many offerings on the altars of the gods, with fervent
supplications, there came to them no other child.
Thus years passed in loneliness, until one day,
when Mygdomus searched for his scattered flock
among the hills, he found a babe sleeping under the
shadow of a plane tree. The grass bore no marks of
footsteps, and how long he had lain there it was impossible
but heard only echoes in the solitude of the mountains.
He took the child tenderly in his arms, and conveyed
it to Arisba, who received it gladly, as an answer to
her prayers. They nurtured him with goat's milk,
and brought him up among the breezes of the hills,
and the boy grew in strength and beauty. Arisba
cherished him with exceeding love, but still her heart
was not quite satisfied.
“If he had but a sister to play with him,” said she,
“it would be so pleasant here under the trees.”
The boy was three years old, and beautiful as a
morning in spring, when his foster-parents carried him
down to the plains, to a great festival of Bacchus, held
during the vintage. It was a scene of riot and confusion;
but the shepherd loved thus to vary the loneliness
of his mountain life, and Arisba fondly desired
to show her handsome boy, with his profusion of dark
glossy curls bound in a fillet of ivy and grape leaves.
Her pride was abundantly satisfied; for everywhere
among the crowd the child attracted attention. When
the story was told of his being found in the mountain
forest, the women said he must have been born of
Apollo and Aurora, for only they could produce such
beauty. This gossip reached the ears of an old woman,
who came hobbling on her crutch, to look at the
infant prodigy.
“By the Adorable! he is a handsome boy,” said
she; “but come with me, and I too will show you
something for the Mother of Love to smile upon.”
She led the way to her daughter, who, seated under a
tree, apart from the multitude, tended a sleeping babe.
“By the honey sweet! isn't she pretty, too?” exclaimed
the old woman, pointing to the lovely infant,
whose rosy lips were slowly moving, as if she suckled
in her dreams. “My son, who hunts among the hills,
found her on the banks of the Cebrenus, with one
little foot dipped in the stream. Methinks the good
Mountain Mother scatters children on our Phrygian
hills, as abundant as the hyacinths.”
“Then she is not your own?” eagerly inquired
Arisba.
“No; and, pretty as she is, I do not want her, for
I have ten. But what can I do? One must not leave
babes to be devoured by wild beasts.”
“Oh, give her to me,” cried Arisba: “My boy so
needs a playmate.”
The transfer was readily made; and the child-loving
matron, rejoicing in her new treasure, soon after
left the revellers, and slowly wended her way back to
the silent hills.
A cradle of bark and lichen, suspended between two
young olive trees, held the babe, while Arisba, seated
on a rock, sung as she plied the distaff. The boy at
her side built small altars of stones, or lay at full length
on the grass, listening to the gurgling brook, or watching
the shadows at their play. Thus peacefully grew
these little ones, amid all harmonies of sight and
sound; and the undisturbed beauty of nature, like a
pervading soul, fashioned their outward growth into
fair proportions and a gliding grace.
For a long time they had no names. They were
like unrecorded wild flowers, known at sight, on
which the heart heaps all sweet epithets. Their foster-parents
and the River-child. A lovelier picture could
not be imagined, than these fair children, wreathing
their favourite kid with garlands, under the shadow
of the trees, or splashing about, like infant Naiades,
in the mountain brook. On the hill side, near their
rustic home, was a goat's head and horns, bleached by
sun and winds. It had been placed on a pole to scare
the crows; and as it stood there many a year, the
myrtle had grown round it, and the clematis wreathed
it with flowery festoons, like the architectural ornaments
of a temple. A thrush had built her nest between
the horns; and a little rill gushed from the
rock, in a cleft of which the pole was fastened. Here
the boy loved to scoop up water for his little playmate
to drink from his hand; and as they stood thus under
the vines, they seemed like children of the gods. But
the most beautiful sight was to see them kneeling hand
in hand before the altar of Cybele, in the grove, with
wreaths about their heads and garlands in their hands,
while the setting sun sprinkled gold among the shadow-foliage
on the pure white marble. Always they were
together. When the boy was strong enough to bend
a bow, the girl ran ever by his side to carry his arrows;
and then she had a smaller arrow for herself,
with which she would shoot the flowers from their
stems, as skilfully as Cupid himself.
As they grew older, they came under the law of
utility; but this likewise received a poetic charm from
their free and simple mode of life. While the lad
tended the flocks, the maiden sat on a rock at his feet,
spinning busily while she sang summer melodies to
tended flocks on separate hills, they relieved the weary
hours by love messages sent through the air on the
wings of music. His Phrygian flute questioned her
with bold bright voice, and sweetly answered her
Lydian pipe, in mellow tones, taking their rest in
plaintive cadences. Sometimes they jested sportively
with each other; asking mischievous questions in
fragments of musical phrases, the language of which
could be interpreted only by themselves. But more
frequently they spoke to each other deeper things than
either of them comprehended; struggling aspirations
towards the infinite, rising and lowering like tongues
of flame; half uttered, impassioned prophecies of emotions
not yet born; and the wailing voice of sorrows
as yet unknown.
In the maiden especially was the vague but intense
expression of music observable. In fact, her whole
being was vivacious and impressible in the extreme;
and so transparent were her senses, that the separation
between earthly and spiritual existence seemed to
be of the thinnest and clearest crystal. All noises
were louder to her than to others, and images invisible
to them were often painted before her on the air,
with a most perfect distinctness of outline and brilliancy
of colouring. This kind of spirit-life was indicated
in her face and form. Her exquisitely beautiful
countenance was remarkably lucid, and her deep blue
eyes, shaded with very long dark fringes, had an intense
expression, as if some spirit from the inner shrine
looked through them. Her voice was wonderfully full
of melodious inflexions, but even in its happiest utterance
The outline of her slight figure swayed
gracefully to every motion, like a young birch tree to
the breath of gentle winds; and its undulations might
easily suggest the idea of beauty born of the waves.
Her companion had the perfection of physical beauty.
A figure slender but vigorous; a free, proud carriage
of the head, glowing complexion; sparkling
eyes, voluptuous mouth, and a pervading expression
of self-satisfaction and joy in his own existence. A
nature thus strong and ardent, of course exercised a
powerful influence over her higher but more ethereal
and susceptible life. Then, too, the constant communion
of glances and sounds, and the subtle influence
of atmosphere and scenery, had so intertwined their
souls, that emotions in the stronger were felt by the
weaker, in vibrations audible as a voice. Near or distant,
the maiden felt whether her companion's mood
were gay or sad; and she divined his thoughts with a
clearness that sometimes made him more than half
afraid.
Of course they loved each other long before they
knew what love was; and with them innocence had
no need of virtue. Placed in outward circumstances
so harmonious with nature, they were drawn toward
each other by an attraction as pure and unconscious
as the flowers. They had no secrets from their good
foster-mother; and she, being reverent towards the
gods, told them that their union must be preceded by
offerings to Juno, and solemnized by mutual promises.
She made a marriage feast for them, in her humble
way, and crowned the door-posts with garlands. Life
wooded hills. Two souls that are sufficient to each
other; sentiments, affections, passions, thoughts, all
blending in love's harmony, are earth's most perfect
medium of heaven. Through them the angels come
and go continually, on missions of love to all the lower
forms of creation. It is the halo of these heavenly
visitors that veils the earth in such a golden glory,
and makes every little flower smile its blessing upon
lovers. And these innocent ones were in such harmony
with nature in her peaceful spring time! The
young kids, browsing on the almond blossoms, stopped
and listened to their flutes, and came ever nearer, till
they looked in the eyes of the wedded ones. And
when the sweet sounds died away into silence, the
birds took up the strain and sang their salutation to
the marriage principle of the universe.
Thus months passed on, and neither heart felt an
unsatisfied want. They were known to each other
by many endearing names, but the foster-parents usually
called them Corythus and Œnone. These names
were everywhere cut into the rocks, and carved upon
the trees. Sometimes, the child-like girl would ask,
nothing doubting of the answer, “Will you love me
thus when I am as old as our good Arisba?” And he
would twine flowers in the rich braids of her golden
hair, as he fondly answered, “May the Scamander
flow back to its source, if ever I cease to love my
Œnone.” That there were other passions in the
world than love, they neither of them dreamed. But
one day Corythus went down into the plains in search
of a milk-white bull, that had strayed from the herd.
a troop of hunters, from the city on the other
side of the river. The tramp of their horses and the
glitter of their spears frightened the bull, and he
plunged madly into the waves of the Scamander.
The uncommon beauty of the powerful beast, and his
fiery strength, attracted attention. Some of the hunters
dismounted to assist in bringing him out of the
river, and with many praises, inquired to whom he
belonged. The shepherd answered their questions
with a graceful diffidence, that drew some admiration
upon himself. As the troop rode away, he heard one
of them say, “By Apollo's quiver! that magnificent
bull must be the one in which Jupiter disguised himself
to carry off Europa.”
“Yes,” replied another, “and that handsome rustic
might be Ganymede in disguise.”
A glow of pleasure mantled the cheeks of Corythus.
He stood for a moment proudly caressing the neck
and head of the superb animal, and gazed earnestly
after the hunters. The adventure made a strong impression
on his mind; for by the brazen helmets and
shields, richly embossed with silver, he rightly conjectured
that they who had spoken thus of him were
princes of Ilium. From that day he dressed himself
more carefully, and often looked at the reflection of
himself in the mountain pool. Instead of hastening
to Œnone, when they had by any chance been separated
for a few hours, he often lingered long, to gaze
at the distant towers of Ilium, glittering in the setting
sun. The scene was indeed surpassingly fair. The
Scamander flowed silverly through a verdant valley
Europe and Asia smiled at each other across
the bright waters of the Ægean, while the lovely islands
of Imbros and Tenedos slept at their feet. But
it was not the beauty of the scene which chiefly attracted
his youthful imagination. The spark of ambition
had fallen into his breast, and his shepherd
life now seemed unmanly and dull. Œnone soon
felt this; for the usually quick perception of love
was rendered still more keen by her peculiar impressibility
to spiritual influence. For the first time, in
her innocent and happy life, came conscious sadness
without a defined reason, and unsatisfied feelings that
took no name. She gave out the whole of her soul,
and not being all received, the backward stroke of unabsorbed
affection struck on her heart with mournful
echoes. It made her uneasy, she knew not why, to
hear Corythus talk of the princes of Ilium, with their
dazzling crests and richly embroidered girdles. It
seemed as if these princes, somehow or other, came
between her and her love. She had always been
remarkable for the dreaming power, and in her present
state of mind this mysterious gift increased.
Her senses, too, became more acute. A nerve seemed
to be thrust out at every pore. She started at the
slightest sound, and often, when others saw nothing,
she would exclaim—
“Look at that beautiful bird, with feathers like the
rainbow!”
The kind foster-mother laid all these things to her
heart. Something of reverence, tinged with fear
She said to her husband—
“Perhaps she is the daughter of Apollo, and he
will endow her with the gift of prophecy, as they say
he has the beautiful princess Cassandra, in the royal
halls of Ilium.”
The attention of Corythus was quite otherwise employed.
All his leisure moments were spent in making
clubs and arrows. He often went down into
the plains, to join the young men in wrestling
matches, running, leaping, throwing of quoits. In
all games of agility or strength, he soon proved his
superiority so decidedly that they ceased to excite
him. Then he joined hunting parties, and in contests
with wild beasts he signalized himself by such extraordinary
boldness and skill, that in all the country
round he came to be known by the name of Alexander,
or the Defender.
The echo of his fame flattered the pride of his
foster-father, who often predicted for him a career of
greatness; but poor Œnone wept at these periods of
absence, which became more and more frequent.
She concealed her tears from him, however, and
eagerly seized every little moment of sunshine to
renew their old happiness. But of all the sad tasks
of poor humanity, it is the most sorrowful to welcome
ghosts of those living joys that once embraced us with
the warmest welcome. To an earnest and passionate
nature it seems almost better to be hated, than to be
less beloved. Œnone would not believe that the
sympathy between them was less perfect than it bad
were gradually weakening her delicate frame; and an
event occurred which completely deranged her nervous
organization. One day they had both been tending
flocks on the hills, and had fallen asleep in the shade
of a gigantic oak. When they awoke, the flock had
wandered away, and they went in search of them.
Twilight drew her cloud-curtain earlier than usual,
and only a solitary star was here and there visible.
Bewildered by the uncertain light, they lost their way,
and were obliged to trust to the sagacity of their dog.
The sky, through the thickly interlacing boughs of
gigantic trees, looked down upon them solemnly;
bushes here and there started forth, like spectral shadows,
across their path; and their faithful dog now
and then uttered a long howl, as if he felt the vicinity
of some evil beast. Œnone was overcome with exceeding
fear. The wind among the trees distressed
her with its wailing song; and her acute senses detected
other sounds in the distance, long before they
reached the ear of her companion.
“Ha! what is that?” she exclaimed, clinging more
closely to his arm.
“ 'Tis only the evening wind,” he replied.
“Don't you hear it?” she said: “It is a horrible
noise, like the roar of lions. Ah, dear Corythus, the
wild beasts will devour us.”
He stood and listened intently.
“I hear nothing,” said he, “but the Dryads
whispering among the trees, and pulling green garlands
from the boughs. Your ears deceive you,
dearest.”
There was silence for a few moments; and then,
with a faint shriek, she exclaimed:
“Oh, did'nt you hear that frightful clash? The
dog heard it. Hark! how he growls.”
For some time, Corythus insisted that there were no
other sounds than those common to evening. But at
last a deep roar, mingled with howls, came through
the air too distinctly to be mistaken. Œnone trembled
in every joint, and the perspiration stood in large
drops on her lips and forehead. The sounds grew
louder and louder. Booming timbrels were answered
with the sharp clash of cymbals, and at every pause
of the rolling drums the Phrygian pipe moaned on the
winds. The roars, shrieks and howls of a furious
multitude rent the air with fierce discords, and the
earth shook as with the tramp of an army. As they
passed by, the glare of their torches came up from
below, and cast fantastic gleams on the dark foliage
of the firs.
“The gods be praised,” said Corythus, “these are
no wild beasts; but the Corybantes on their way to
the temple of Cybele. The sounds are awful indeed;
but the Mountain Mother has been kind to us, dear
Œnone; for by the route they have taken I see that
the good dog has guided us right, and we are not far
from our home.”
He received no answer and could hear no breathing.
He felt the arm that clutched him so convulsively,
and found it cold and rigid. Fitful flashes of lurid
light gleamed ever and anon in the distance; the hills
echoed the roar of Cybele's lions, and the passionate
clang of cymbals pierced into the ear of night. There
uproar; so he tenderly lifted his fair burthen and bore
it vigorously down the steep hill, pausing now and
then to take breath. At last, his eyes were greeted
by the welcome sight of Mygdomus with a torch,
anxiously looking out for them. Œnone's terror, and
its consequences, were briefly explained, and quickly
as possible they carried her into the dwelling.
The swoon continued so long, that it seemed like
death; but at last she opened her eyes, gazed around
with an unconscious stare, and soon fell into a deep
sleep. The next morning she appeared exceedingly
weak, and there was a strange expression about her
eyes. She so earnestly besought Corythus not to
leave her, that the old shepherd and his wife proposed
to go forth with the flocks; and it was agreed to call
them, in case of need, by a shrill summons on the
pipe. But Œnone, though much exhausted, and nervously
sensitive to light and sound, slept most of the
time quietly. Corythus had in his hand a branch of
laurel; and to amuse her waking moments, he wove
a garland of the leaves and playfully wreathed it
round her head. Her eyes lighted up with a singular
inward radiance, and she exclaimed joyfully, “I like
that. It makes me feel strong.”
Corythus gazed anxiously into her eyes, and a
superstitious fear crossed his mind that she had in
some way offended the dread goddess Cybele, and
been punished with insanity. But she smiled so
sweetly on him, and spoke so coherently, that he
soon dismissed the fear. An insect buzzed about her
to keep it away. When he paused, she said:
`Do that again. It is soothing and pleasant.”
He continued the motion, and with a delighted
smile, she said:
“Ah, the laurel bough has golden edges, and there
are rays about your head, like a shining crown.”
The smile was still on her lips, when she sunk into
a profound slumber. But when he rose and attempted
to go out, she said, imploringly:
“Oh, don't leave me!”
Yet she still seemed in the deepest possible sleep.
“Œnone, do you see me?” he asked.
“Yes, I see you on a hill where there is a marble
temple. There are three very beautiful women, and
they all beckon to you.”
“What do they ask of me?” said he.
“They ask of you to say which is the fairest. One
offers you a king's crown if you decide for her; another
holds forth a glittering spear, and says she will
make you the most renowned warrior in the world;
the other offers a myrtle wreath, and says, `Decide in
my favour, and you shall marry the most beautiful
princess in the world.' ”
“I choose the myrtle,” said Corythus; “but this
is an odd dream.”
“It is not a dream,” replied Œnone.
“Are you not asleep, then?”
“Yes, I am asleep; the motion of your hands put
me to sleep, and if you move that hazel twig over my
face, it will wake me.”
He waved the twig, and her eyes opened immediately;
but when questioned, she said she had seen
no marble temple, and no beautiful women.
This incident made an indelible impression on the
mind of Corythus. He merely told the foster-parents
that she had talked in her sleep, and had at times
looked very strangely. But, within himself, he pondered
much upon what she had said concerning the
beautiful princess. Some days after, when he and
Œnone were out on the hill-side, he told her what she
had said of the motion of his hands, and the effect of
the hazel twig; but an undefined feeling led him to
forbear mentioning her prophecy that he would marry
the most beautiful princess in the world.
She answered, playfully:
“Move your hands over my head again, and see if
I shall fall asleep.”
He did so, and in a few minutes, she said:
“Ah, all the leaves on the trees now wear a golden
edge, the flowers radiate light, there is a shining
crown around your head, and from your fingers dart
lines of fire. Dear Corythus, this is like what the
minstrel sung of the Argonauts, when they were benighted,
and Apollo's bow cast bright gleams along
the shore, and sparkled on the waves.”
She continued to talk of the beautiful appearance
more and more drowsily, and in a few minutes sunk
into slumber. Corythus watched the statue-like stillness
of her features, and the singularly impressive
beauty of their expression. It was unlike anything
he had ever seen. A glorious light beamed from the
countenance, but it shone through, not on it; like a
few moments, he was too much awed to interrupt the
silence. There was something divine in her loveliness,
as she lay there peacefully under the whispering
foliage, while the breezes gently raised her golden
ringlets. But curiosity was too powerful to be long
subdued by reverence; and Corythus at last asked:
“Œnone, where is the beautiful princess whom I
shall marry?”
After a pause, she replied:
“In a fair city girdled by verdant hills, far south
from here, toward the setting sun.”
“Do you see her?” he asked.
“Yes. She is in a magnificent palace, the walls
of which are ivory inlaid with golden vines, and
grapes of amber. Beneath her feet is spread a rich
green cloth, embroidered with flowers. A handmaid
is kneeling before her, with a shining silver vase,
twined round with golden serpents, and heaped with
fine purple wool. Another sits at her feet, with the
infant princess in her arms.”
“She is married, then?”
“She is the famous Helena, of whose many lovers
the minstrels sing, and who was married to Menelaus,
king of Laconia.”
“How does she look?”
“Majestic as Juno, and beautiful as Venus. She
has large dark glowing eyes, a proud but very beautiful
mouth, and neck and shoulders as white as ivory.
Her glossy brown hair is bound round the forehead
with a golden fillet, and falls in waves almost to her
feet. She is very beautiful, and very vain of her beauty.”
“How then is it that she will consent to marry me,
a poor shepherd?”
“You are the son of a king; and when she sees
you, she will think you the most beautiful of men.”
“I the son of a king! Dearest Œnone, tell me of
what king?”
“Of Priam, king of Troy.”
“How then came I on Mount Ida?”
“The night you were born, your mother dreamed
of a torch that set all Ilium on fire. The dream
troubled her, and she told it to the king, her husband.
He summoned the soothsayers, and they told him
that the babe which was born would cause the destruction
of the city. While your mother slept, the king
gave you to his favourite slave, Archelaus, with
orders to strangle you. But he had not the heart to
do it, and so he left you under a plane tree on Mount
Ida, and prayed the gods to send some one to save
you.”
“Shall I be happy with the beautiful princess?”
“You shall have joy, but much, much more sorrow.
She will bring destruction on you; and you
will come to Œnone to die.”
Being further questioned, she said she knew the
healing virtues of all herbs, and the antidotes for all
poisons.
Corythus walked slowly back and forth, with folded
arms, revolving all that had been uttered. Could
it be that those handsome princes of Ilium were his
brothers? And the lovely Helena, the renown of
whose beauty had even reached the ears of shepherds
on these distant hills, could she ever be his wife?
He paused and gazed on Œnone, and compared in
his mind her innocent spiritual beauty with the voluptuous
picture she had given of Helena; and there
arose within him a vague longing for the unknown
one.
“Wake me! wake me!” exclaimed the sleeper:
“there is a strange pain in my heart.”
Marvelling much, and blushing at his own thoughts,
he hastily woke her. He felt an unwillingness to
reveal what she had uttered; and she was satisfied
when told that she had talked incoherently of the
splendours of a palace. From that day he often tried
the experiment, and was never satisfied with hearing
of her visions.
It was a sad task of this fair prophetess, thus unconsciously
to paint the image of a rival in the heart
of him she loved. And though there remained in the
waking state no remembrance of the revelations made,
yet the effect of them gave a more plaintive tone to
her whole existence. The angelic depth of expression
increased in her beautiful eyes, and evermore looked
out through a transparent veil of melancholy; for she
felt the estrangement of her beloved Corythus, though
she knew it not. In fact, his wayward behaviour attracted
the attention of even good old Arisba. Moody
and silent, or irritable and impetuous, he no longer
seemed like the loving and happy youth, whom she
had doated on from his infancy. Sometimes he would
hurl the heaviest stones, with might and main, down
the sides of the mountain, or wrench the smaller trees
up by the roots. He was consumed by a feverish
restlessness, that could find no sufficient outward expression;
itself. Into the smallest occasions of play or labour he
threw such vehemence and volcanic force, that Arisba
jestingly said, “We will call you no more Corythus,
but Cœculus, who is said to have been born of a spark
from Vulcan's forge.”
To Œnone, his conduct was wayward in the extreme.
Sometimes he seemed to forget that she was
in existence; and then, as if reproaching himself, he
treated her with a lavishness of love that laid her
weeping on his bosom. Then she would look up,
smiling through her tears, and say, “You do love me,
still? I know not what to make of you, dear Corythus.
Your love seems like the Scamander, that has
two sources, one warm and the other cold. But you
do love me; do you not?”
The allusion to two sources brought a faint flush
to his cheek; and when he kissed her, and said “I do,”
her listening spirit heard a broken echo in the answer.
Thus was life passing with them, when a messenger
from king Priam came to obtain the white bull,
which had been so much admired by the hunters.
There was to be a gladiatorial contest in Ilium, and
the king had promised to the victor the most beautiful
bull that could be found on Mount Ida. Corythus
proudly replied that he would not give up the noble
animal, unless he were allowed to enter the lists for
the prize. Mygdomus, fearing the royal displeasure,
remonstrated with him, and reminded him that the
contest was for princes and great men, and not for
shepherds and rustics. But Corythus persisted that
on such terms only would he send away the pride of
day with a message from the king, saying he liked
the bold spirit of the youth, and would gladly admit
into the lists one so famous for courage and skill.
Poor Œnone could not overcome her reluctance to
have him go. There had always been in her mind
an uncomfortable feeling with regard to those princes
of Ilium; and now it returned with redoubled force.
But, alas, in those mysterious sleeps she prophesied
victory and glory, and thus kindled higher than ever
the flame of ambition within his breast.
At last the important day arrived; and with throbbing
hearts the shepherd-family saw their young
gladiator depart for the contest. He drew Œnone to
his heart and kissed her affectionately; but when they
parted, he did not stop to look back, as he used to do
in those blissful days when their souls were fused into
one. With vigorous, joyful leaps, he went bounding
down the sides of the mountain. Œnone watched his
graceful figure as he swung lightly from the trunk of
a young olive tree, down into the plain below. When
she could no longer see even a moving speck in the
distance, she retired tearfully, to tend the flocks alone.
All that day her eyes were fixed sadly on the towers
of Ilium, and the thought ever present was, “He did
not look back upon me, when we parted.”
He promised to return on the third day; but the
fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth passed, and still he
came not. Mournfully, mournfully, wailed Œnone's
pipe, and there came no answer now, but sad echoes
from the hills.
“What can have become of him?” said Arisba,
if harm had happened to him, they would send a
messenger.”
“He is either dead, or he has tasted the waters of
Argyra, which make people forget those they love,”
said Œnone; and as she spoke, hot tears fell on the
thread she spun.
* * * * * * * *
How had it fared meanwhile with Corythus?
Victor in all the games, his beauty and his strength
called forth shouts of applause. One after another
of the king's sons were obliged to yield to his superior
vigour and skill. At last came the athletic and
hitherto unconquered Hector. After a fierce protracted
struggle, the shepherd of Ida overthrew him also.
Enraged at being conquered by a youth of such inferior
birth, he started on his feet and rushed after him,
in a paroxysm of wrath. Corythus, to elude his fury,
passed through a gate which led into the inner court
of the palace. It chanced that queen Hecuba and her
daughter Cassandra were there, when he rushed in,
and panting threw himself upon the altar of Jupiter
for protection. Hecuba flung her mantle over him,
and summoned a slave to bring him water. Cassandra,
gazing earnestly at the youthful stranger, exclaimed,
“How like he is to my mother, as I first remember
her!”
The queen inquired his age, and Cassandra, listening
to his answer, said,
“If my brother Paris had lived, such also would
have been his years.”
“Fair Princess,” replied Corythus, “an oracle has
I pray you let him be summoned, and inquire of him
whether he destroyed the infant Paris.”
The old slave, being questioned, fell on his knees
and confessed that he had left the babe under a plane
tree, on Mount Ida, and that he had afterward seen
him in the hut of Mygdomus. With a cry of joy,
Hecuba threw herself into the arms of her beautiful,
her long-lost son. Slaves brought water for his feet
and spread rich carpets before him. They clothed
him in royal robes, and there was feasting and rejoicing,
and magnificent processions to the temples, and
costly sacrifices to the gods. Brothers and sisters
caressed him, and he was attended by beautiful bond-women,
whose duty it was to obey his every wish.
Electra, a handsome Greek girl, with glowing cheeks
and eyes of fire, brought water for his hands in vases
of silver; while Artaynta, a graceful Persian, with
kiss-inviting lips, and sleepy oriental eyes, always half-veiled
by their long silken fringes, knelt to pour perfumes
on his feet. Thus surrounded by love and
splendour, the dazzled youth forgot Œnone. It was
not until the fourth day of his residence in the palace,
that the new prince began to think how anxious must
be the humble hearts that loved him on Mount Ida.
Should he raise Œnone to his own royal rank? She
was unquestionably lovely enough to grace a throne;
but the famous Spartan queen had taken possession
of his imagination, and he was already devising some
excuse to visit the court of Menelaus. He had not
courage to reveal these feelings to Œnone; and a
selfish wish to screen himself from embarrassment and
with munificent presents to his foster-parents and his
wife, and a promise that he would come hereafter.
When Œnone heard the unexpected tidings, she
fell into a swoon more deadly than the one she had
experienced on the night of Cybele's procession. She
knew that her feelings could not have changed toward
Corythus, had the Fates offered her the throne of the
world; but she felt that it might be otherwise with
him. Weary weeks passed, and still he came not.
Œnone, wakeful and nervous, at last asked the foster-mother
to try to soothe her into sleep, as Corythus
had formerly done. Under this influence all the objects
around her again radiated light; and when the
mysterious slumber veiled her senses, she entered the
royal palace of Priam, and saw her beloved. Sometimes
she described him as reclining on a crimson
couch, while Electra brought him wine in golden
goblets. At other times, Artaynta knelt before him
and played on her harp, while he twined the long
ringlets of her glossy hair. At last she said he was
fitting out a fleet, and would soon sail away.
When Arisba asked where he would go, she answered:
“He says he is going to Salamis to redeem the
Princess Hesione, who was carried away prisoner by
the Greeks; but his real object is to visit the beautiful
queen of Sparta, whom I told him he would marry.”
“Poor child,” thought Arisba, “then it was thou
thyself that kindled strange fires in his bosom. What
wrong hast thou done, in thy innocent life, that the
gods should thus punish thee?”
In her waking hours, Œnone asked eager questions
concerning all she had said in her state of inner consciousness.
“Oh, if I could only see him again!” she would
exclaim with mournful impatience. “To have these
painted visions, and to retain no memory of them—
this is worse than the doom of Tantalus. Oh, how
could he forget me so easily? We who have slept in
the same cradle, and so often folded each other in
mutual love. I could not thus have forgotten him.”
She invented many projects of going to Ilium in
disguise, that she might at least look upon him once
more. But timidity and pride restrained her.
“The haughty ones will scorn a poor shepherd
girl,” she said; “and he will be ashamed to call me
his wife. I will not follow him who wishes to leave
me. It would break my heart to see him caressing
another's beauty. Yet if I could only see him, even
with another folded to his heart! Oh, ye gods, if I
could only see him again!”
Arisba listened to these ravings with deep compassion.
“Poor child,” she would say, “when thou wert
born, the Loves sneezed to thee from the unlucky side.”
Œnone would fain have been in her mysterious
sleep half the time; so eager was she to receive tidings
from Corythus. But Arisba had not the leisure
to spare, nor did she think such constant excitement
favourable to the health of her darling child. Already
her thin form was much attenuated, and her complexion
had the pale transparency of a spirit. But
the restlessness, induced by hearing no news of her
excitement caused by her visions. So day by day,
Arisba tried to soothe her wretchedness, by producing
the sleep, and afterward repeating to her what she
had said. In this strange way, all that occurred at
the palace in Ilium was known in the hut on Mount
Ida. The departure of the young prince for Salamis,
the gorgeous fleet, with gay streamers and gilded
prows, the crowd about the shores waving garlands,
were all described in the liveliest manner. But
Œnone's sadness was not deepened by this event.
Corythus had been previously separated from her,
more completely than if he had already passed into the
world of spirits. One only hope consoled her misery;
her own prophecy that he would come to her to die.
Arisba was rejoiced to discover that her darling
would soon become a mother. She trusted this would
resuscitate withering affections, by creating a visible
link between her desolate heart and the being she so
fondly loved. And the first glance of the young mother
upon her innocent babe did seem to renew the
fountains of her life. She named the boy Corythus,
and eagerly watched his growing beauty, to catch
some likeness of his father. But the child had been
born under influences too sad to inherit his father's
vigorous frame, or his bounding, joyous, volatile spirit.
His nature was deep and loving, like his mother's,
and he had her plaintive, prophetic eyes. But his
rosy mouth, the very bow of Cupid, was the image
of his father's. And oh, with what a passionate mixture
of maternal fondness and early romantic love, did
poor Œnone press it to her own pale lips!
Less frequently now she sought the relief of super-natural
sleep; and when she did, it was not always
followed by visions. But at various times she saw
her beloved in Sparta, weaving garlands for the beautiful
queen, or playing upon his flute while he reclined
at her feet.
“She loves him not,” said the sleeper; “but his
beauty and his flattery please her, and she will return
with him. It will prove a fatal day for him, and for
Ilium.”
When little Corythus was a year old, the fleet returned
from Greece, bearing Paris and his beautiful
Spartan queen. Œnone was, of course, aware of
this event, long before the rumour was reported to Mygdomus
by neighbouring shepherds. A feverish excitement
returned upon her; the old intense desire to see
the loved one. But still she was restrained by fear
and womanly pride. She made unseen visits to the
palace, as before, and told of Paris forever at the feet
of his queenly bride, playing upon his silver lyre,
while she decorated his curling tresses with garlands.
Again and again, the question rose in Œnone's
mind, whether the forgetful one would love her fair
child, if he could see him; and month by month, the
wish grew stronger to show him this son of their love.
Little Corythus was about two years old, when she
foretold immediate war with the Grecian states, enraged
at the abduction of queen Helena. When this
was repeated to her, she said to herself,
“If I go not soon, the plain will be filled with warriors,
and it will be dangerous to venture there.”
She kept her purpose secret; but one morning,
hills, she disguised herself in some of Arisba's old
robes, and went forth to Ilium, hoping to gain entrance
to the palace under the pretence of having herbs to
sell. But when she came within sight of the stately
edifice, her resolution almost failed. A slave, who
was harnessing two superb white horses to a glittering
chariot, demanded what she wanted; and when she
timidly told her errand, he showed her an inner quadrangular
court, and pointed out the apartments of the
women. As she stood hesitating, gazing on the magnificent
marble columns and gilded lattices, Paris
himself came down the steps, encircling Helen with
his arm. It was the first time she had looked upon
him since he left her, in rustic garb, without pausing
to look back upon her. Now, he wore sparkling sandals,
and a mantle of Tyrian purple, with large clasps
of gold. His bride was clothed in embroidered Sidonian
garments, of the richest fashion, and a long
flowing veil, of shining texture, was fastened about
her head by a broad band of embossed gold. Poor
Œnone slunk away, abashed and confounded in the
presence of their regal beauty; and her heart sank
within her, when she saw those well-remembered eyes
gazing so fondly upon her splendid rival. But when
the slave brought the chariot to the gate, she tried to
rouse her courage and come forward with the child.
Paris carefully lifted his bride into the chariot, and
leaped in, to seat himself by her side. In the agony
of her feelings, the suffering mother made a convulsive
movement, and with a shrill hysteric shriek, exclaimed,
“Oh Corythus, do look once upon our child!”
The frightened horses reared and plunged. The
chariot, turning rapidly, struck Œnone and she fell.
The wheels merely grazed her garments, but passed
over the body of the child. Paris being occupied with
soothing Helen's alarm, was not aware of this dreadful
accident. The slave reined in the startled horses
with a strong hand, and drove rapidly forward. Œnone
was left alone outside the gates, with the lifeless body
of her babe.
It was evening when she returned weary and heart-broken
to Arisba. A compassionate rustic accompanied
her, bearing her melancholy burden. The sad
story was told in a few wild words; and the old shepherds
bowed down their heads and sobbed in agony.
Œnone's grief was the more fearful, because it was so
still. It seemed as if the fountains of feeling were
dried up within her heart.
There was a painfully intense glare about her eyes,
and she remained wakeful late into the night. At
last, the good foster-mother composed her into an artificial
sleep. She talked less than usual in such slumbers,
and evinced an unwillingness to be disturbed.
But, in answer to Arisba's question, she said,
“He did not know a child was killed, nor did he
see us. In the confusion he thought only of Helen,
and did not recognise Œnone's voice. His sister Cassandra,
who sees hidden things by the same light that
I do, has told him that the child killed at the gates was
his own. But Helen and her handmaids are dancing
round him, laughing and throwing perfumes as they
our little Corythus, if he had known him.”
“Thank the gods for that,” said Arisba within herself;
“for I would not like to hate the nursling I reared
so fondly.”
They buried the child in the shade of a gigantic
oak, on which, in happier days, had been carved, with
the point of an arrow, the united names of Corythus
and Œnone. A beautiful Arum lily held its large
white cup over the grave; and the sorrowing mother
covered the broken soil with anemonies and the delicate
blossoms of the crocus. There she would sit
hours together, gazing on the towers of Ilium. But
her desire to visit the palace, visibly or invisibly, seemed
to have subsided entirely. No feeling of resentment
against Corythus came into her gentle heart;
but her patient love seemed to have sunk into utter
hopelessness. Sometimes, indeed, she would look up
in Arisba's face, with a heart-touching expression in
her deep mournful eyes, and say, in tones of the saddest
resignation,
“He will come to me to die.”
Thus years passed on. War raged in all its fury
in the plains below. Their flocks and herds were all
seized by the rapacious soldiery, and the rushing of
many chariots echoed like thunder among the hills.
The nervous wakefulness of Œnone was still occasionally
soothed by supernatural sleep; though she
never sought it now from curiosity. At such times,
she often gave graphic accounts of the two contending
armies; but these violent scenes pained her in her
sleep, and left her waking strength extremely exhausted.
in shining armour, over which a panther's skin was
gracefully thrown, with a quiver of arrows at his
shoulder, and a glittering spear balanced in his hand,
brave and beautiful as the god of day. But more frequently
she saw him at Helen's feet, playing on harp
or flute, while she wove her gay embroidery. In the
latter time, she often spoke of his handsome brother
Deiphobus, standing near them, exchanging stolen
amorous glances with the vain and treacherous Spartan.
“She is false to him,” murmured the sleeper, mournfully.
“But he will come to Œnone to die.”
At last, the predicted hour arrived. The towers of
Ilium were all in flames, and the whole atmosphere
was filled with lurid light, as the magnificent city sank
into her fiery grave. The wretched inhabitants were
flying in all directions, pursued by the avenging foe.
In the confusion, Paris was wounded by a poisoned
arrow. In this hour of agony, he remembered the
faithful, the long-forgotten one, and what she had said
of her skill in medicine. In gasping tones, he cried
out,
“Carry me to Œnone!”
His terrified slaves lifted him on a litter of boughs,
and hastened to obey his orders.
Œnone sat by the grave of her child, watching the
blazing towers of Ilium, when they laid Corythus at
her feet. She sprang forward, exclaiming,
“Dear, dear Corythus, you have come to me at
last!”
Bending over him, she kissed the lips, which, cold
gazed wildly on the pale countenance for an instant—
placed her trembling hand upon his heart—and then
springing upward convulsively, as if shot by an arrow,
she uttered one long shrill shriek, that startled all the
echoes, and fell lifeless on the body of him she loved
so well.
The weeping foster-parents dug a wide grave by
the side of little Corythus, and placed them in each
other's arms, under the shadow of the great oak, whose
Dryad had so often heard the pure whisperings of
their early love.
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