University of Virginia Library

THE INFLICTION.

The thunderbolts of Jove had triumphed, and impious Typhæus
stretched his prostrate length along the groaning earth.
Glad Sicily was laid upon the conquered monster, to keep
him down; for Jupiter knew well enough there 'd be another
bloody fight, if ever he got up. Upon his hundred heads
rested alarmed old Ætna, covering all save a few long straggling
locks. The imposition of such heavy weight, of stone,
and wood, and water, bore not the vanquished foe, with dutiful
submission; bore not the inhumation, and thanked the
hand that buried him; but up against the blackened sky, ingrate,
from his rebellious bowels, belched such showers of
ashes, and clouds of smoke, mixed up with lava and lumps of
coke, that Ocean roared with fear, and Ætna's peaceful seats
reeled, and rolled, to and fro, with terror and dismay.

The God of Tartarus upstarted at the din, heard in his
house profound, all trembling, lest his roof should suddenly
be cracked, and dayling enter, and the ghosts get out, and he
be overwhelmed with suits for the escape. Up! up! thou
wary jailor! He harnessed his black steeds, into his chariot
sprang, shook the loose reins, cracked his long lash,—of cast

off secondary lightning, twisted, his brother Jove's last new-year's
present,—and drove, impetuous, up to earth, to see
what in the d—l's name could be to pay.

Up to the regions of sunshine and day his coursers soon
galloped, running, with reckless leaps, their rude, rough way.
And now they stamp Trinacrian ground, and climb old ætna's
dizzy steep, and snuff the tainted air, and paw the yet warm
sulphur, wandering at will; while Pluto, far aloft, from peak
to peak springs anxious, thoughtful, surveying cracks, chasms,
and craters.

Within a bower, on Ida's side, the Cytherean goddess slept
—her cherished trysting place of old, when good Anchises
was a juvenal. The dusky form of Pluto, leaping over the
hills, threw its long shadow on the peaceful grove. The
shadow, and the form, dismal, and cold, and grim, awoke the
jealous queen, awoke to call her archer boy, with summons
quick and shrill. “Eros! my son! Cupid! fly quick!
Hither! come hither!”

Cupid was frolicking, down in a vale, busy, as usual, sticking
a pin in the breast of a captive beetle. He ran to his
mother, and buried his head in her bosom.

“If ever thou did'st love me, boy; if in thy gentle mother's
breast thou hast delight, and dreamy joy, pillowed, in
deep and balmy rest; be now my grateful Eros, my darling
avenger; our long insulted shrines are thirsting for vengeance
on Pluto's chill philosophy,—his haughty heart,—his stubborn
knee, that bends not—owns not woman, nor me;—thine
is the grace, to bring you reprobate to know, redeemed, a
Benedict's condition; to bid him at my footstool kneel, the
pangs of torturing love to feel, fearing, hoping, wishing. But
now, he treads the withering earth, secure in pride of regal
birth, and spurns the joys of woman's arms, rejects her love,

derides her charms; the murky craven! By Styx! the old
cold-hearted rip deserts for whiskey, rum, and flip, the eye,
the brow, the cheek, the lip, replete with happy heaven!
And shall we then confess, conquered, despised, our power is
less than haughty Pluto's? What! has high heaven confessed
a rape, and shall low Erebus escape, and we excuse
the duty which the brute owes! No! bring your bow and
arrows!

It was a goodly sight to see the queen of beauty, with
flushed and anxious face, hurry and help the god of love. It
was a goodly sound to hear, with voice subdued, but accents
clear, queen Venus cheer her son. “Shoot! till he feels
the glowing flame; shoot! for your mother's glorious fame;
shoot! for the honor of your name, love, and love's archery.”

“Your word is law, good mother,” said fun-loving Cupid,
unbuckling his quiver. “Your breath upon this arrow. I'll
do the business for the old bachelor in a twinkling. Speak
softly, on this barb, her name whom he shall love.”

The goddess kissed its point—the pain-and-pleasure-bearing
weapon—and smoothed its plume upon her billowy bosom.
The dart was keen, and strait, and truly balanced, and Paphia
approved it, and whispered, on its edge, the name of “Proserpine,”
and laid it in the rest.

There was a fixing, a bending, a tension, a pulling of a
bowstring, a twang, a slip, and a whiz through the air, and it
straight was all over with Pluto.

“Ha! ha! look! look! mamma, ha! ha!” Cupid laughed
heartily, seeing the arrow quivering in Pluto's heart, and
hearing him swear, “By Orcus! what a sudden stitch I've
got in my left side!” “The gentleman from Styx is stuck,”
pursued my lord of love, merry as a cricket; “the judge of

Tartarus has caught a Tartar. Charon's old master has a
new care on his royal hands to manage.”

“Stop your nonsense, you monkey!” said Venus, hitting
the boy with her fan, “and bend your saucy knees, in love-suits
ever suppliant and successful, and wrestle with Olympus,
and move all gods to send the daughter of the wheat-and-indian
lady before his lovesick eyes? for if she be not seen,
our vengeance half is lost, and your great-uncle, there, will
soon go down to Erebus, not knowing whence or what the
pains that rack his frame.

“This cursed climate,” Pluto cried, deep sighing, to himself,
“delights not our condition; so rough, so raw, so cold,
and soon, again, so hot. I must be off, and seek in regions
more congenial, a steadier sky and heat more equable. This
long old giant here lies quietly enough, and I hope he'll not
raise such a rumpus again.—Alas! my side! my side!”

With such soliloquy, he nourished his deep wound, nor
knew the secret cause of his distress; knew not the subtle
venom that swelled his starting veins; knew not the glorious
agony from ordinary pains. His coursers feel the lash, burning
their trembling flanks. Now, onward, and away!—they
spring, they rear, they rush, bearing their sorrowful master.

And soon, before his wonder-smitten eyes, deep, dimpling,
pure, and cool, old Pergus lies, and lifts, upon his silver, crystal
wave, the songs of snowy swans, that wanton, lave their
spotless plumes, and swim, and swimming, sing, arch the
the proud neck, and curve the sounding wing. A grove, impervious,
crowns the lake, hanging above the cherished water,
and, sacred, guards with veil opaque the virgin revelry of
Ceres' daughter. There is she now, with her maidens, adjusting
her long hair, gazing into the mirror of that lake, and
humming to herself a sweet low tune. Her maidens, all

around, are gathering fragrant flowers; and flowers, and girls,
and buds, and blossoms, are mingled all together, in a confused
perplexing mass of beauty.

But O!the m istress of that troupe, how beautiful was she!
And that strange gazer on the group, how suddenly crazed
was he! Young Proserpine was flattered by Pluto's wild
confusion, and moved with more coquettish grace, and from
her eyes shot rays more brilliant, when, with half averted
head, she saw the royal stranger, bewildered by swans' songs,
and maidens' voices, rein up his coursers with a sudden
jerk, that brought them on their haunches. The dallying
breeze blew back the light transparent folds of her thin stola,
and played with her brown ringlets, and lifted up her necker-chief
from off her full deep bosom; up and down, up and
down, how heaved that beautiful bosom!

The kingly lover gazed, and drank the subtle poison;
drank and gazed, gazed and drank, and gazed and drank on
still. His parched tongue and lips refuse their usual function;
staring he sat, and dumb. So, bloodless, sits and stares, torn
from his ancient catacomb, the cold Egyptian mummy, uplifted
in his coffin, at feminine admirers at Scudder's, all
speechless, and dried up. His reins are on the grass, his
hands hang at his side, his eyes are dimmed and dark, his
mouth is stretched wide open, his head droops on his shoulder.
Strange languor o'ercomes him, fierce weakness consumes
him,—he wishes he was in Hell.