MINERVA
Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, was the daughter of Jupiter. She was said to have leaped forth1 from his brain, mature, and in complete armor. She presided over the useful and ornamental2 arts, both those of men—such as agriculture and navigation—and those of women,—spinning, weaving, and needlework. She was also a warlike divinity; but it was defensive3 war only that she patronized, and she had no sympathy with Mars’s savage4 love of violence and bloodshed. Athens was her chosen seat, her own city, awarded to her as the prize of a contest with Neptune5, who also aspired6 to it. The tale ran that in the reign7 of Cecrops, the first king of Athens, the two deities8 contended for the possession of the city. The gods decreed that it should be awarded to that one who produced the gift most useful to mortals. Neptune gave the horse; Minerva produced the olive. The gods gave judgment9 that the olive was the more useful of the two, and awarded the city to the goddess; and it was named after her, Athens, her name in Greek being Athene.
There was another contest, in which a mortal dared to come in competition with Minerva. That mortal was Arachne, a maiden10 who had attained11 such skill in the arts of weaving and embroidery12 that the nymphs themselves would leave their groves13 and fountains to come and gaze upon her work. It was not only beautiful when it was done, but beautiful also in the doing. To watch her, as she took the wool in its rude state and formed it into rolls, or separated it with her fingers and carded it till it looked as light and soft as a cloud, or twirled the spindle with skilful14 touch, or wove the web, or, after it was woven, adorned15 it with her needle, one would have said that Minerva herself had taught her. But this she denied, and could not bear to be thought a pupil even of a goddess. “Let Minerva try her skill with mine,” said she; “if beaten I will pay the penalty.” Minerva heard this and was displeased16. She assumed the form of an old woman and went and gave Arachne some friendly advice. “I have had much experience,” said she, “and I hope you will not despise my counsel. Challenge your fellow-mortals as you will, but do not compete with a goddess. On the contrary, I advise you to ask her forgiveness for what you have said, and as she is merciful perhaps she will pardon you.” Arachne stopped her spinning and looked at the old dame17 with anger in her countenance18. “Keep your counsel,” said she, “for your daughters or handmaids; for my part I know what I say, and I stand to it. I am not afraid of the goddess; let her try her skill, if she dare venture.” “She comes,” said Minerva; and dropping her disguise stood confessed. The nymphs bent19 low in homage20, and all the bystanders paid reverence21. Arachne alone was unterrified. She blushed, indeed; a sudden color dyed her cheek, and then she grew pale. But she stood to her resolve, and with a foolish conceit22 of her own skill rushed on her fate. Minerva forbore no longer nor interposed any further advice. They proceed to the contest. Each takes her station and attaches the web to the beam. Then the slender shuttle is passed in and out among the threads. The reed with its fine teeth strikes up the woof into its place and compacts the web. Both work with speed; their skilful hands move rapidly, and the excitement of the contest makes the labor23 light. Wool of Tyrian dye is contrasted with that of other colors, shaded off into one another so adroitly24 that the joining deceives the eye. Like the bow, whose long arch tinges25 the heavens, formed by sunbeams reflected from the shower,[14] in which, where the colors meet they seem as one, but at a little distance from the point of contact are wholly different.
Minerva wrought26 on her web the scene of her contest with Neptune. Twelve of the heavenly powers are represented, Jupiter, with august gravity, sitting in the midst. Neptune, the ruler of the sea, holds his trident, and appears to have just smitten27 the earth, from which a horse has leaped forth. Minerva depicted28 herself with helmed head, her ?gis covering her breast. Such was the central circle; and in the four corners were represented incidents illustrating29 the displeasure of the gods at such presumptuous30 mortals as had dared to contend with them. These were meant as warnings to her rival to give up the contest before it was too late.
Arachne filled her web with subjects designedly chosen to exhibit the failings and errors of the gods. One scene represented Leda caressing31 the swan, under which form Jupiter had disguised himself; and another, Dana?, in the brazen32 tower in which her father had imprisoned33 her, but where the god effected his entrance in the form of a golden shower. Still another depicted Europa deceived by Jupiter under the disguise of a bull. Encouraged by the tameness of the animal Europa ventured to mount his back, whereupon Jupiter advanced into the sea and swam with her to Crete. You would have thought it was a real bull, so naturally was it wrought, and so natural the water in which it swam. She seemed to look with longing34 eyes back upon the shore she was leaving, and to call to her companions for help. She appeared to shudder35 with terror at the sight of the heaving waves, and to draw back her feet from the water.
Arachne filled her canvas with similar subjects, wonderfully well done, but strongly marking her presumption36 and impiety37. Minerva could not forbear to admire, yet felt indignant at the insult. She struck the web with her shuttle and rent it in pieces; she then touched the forehead of Arachne and made her feel her guilt38 and shame. She could not endure it and went and hanged herself. Minerva pitied her as she saw her suspended by a rope. “Live,” she said, “guilty woman! and that you may preserve the memory of this lesson, continue to hang, both you and your descendants, to all future times.” She sprinkled her with the juices of aconite, and immediately her hair came off, and her nose and ears likewise. Her form shrank up, and her head grew smaller yet; her fingers cleaved39 to her side and served for legs. All the rest of her is body, out of which she spins her thread, often hanging suspended by it, in the same attitude as when Minerva touched her and transformed her into a spider.
Spenser tells the story of Arachne in his “Muiopotmos,” adhering very closely to his master Ovid, but improving upon him in the conclusion of the story. The two stanzas40 which follow tell what was done after the goddess had depicted her creation of the olive tree:
“Amongst these leaves she made a Butterfly,
With excellent device and wondrous41 slight,
Fluttering among the olives wantonly,
That seemed to live, so like it was in sight;
The velvet42 nap which on his wings doth lie,
The silken down with which his back is dight,
His broad outstretched horns, his hairy thighs43,
His glorious colors, and his glistening44 eyes.”[15]
“Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid
And mastered with workmanship so rare,
She stood astonied long, ne aught gainsaid45;
And with fast-fixed46 eyes on her did stare,
And by her silence, sign of one dismayed,
The victory did yield her as her share:
Yet did she inly fret47 and felly burn,
And all her blood to poisonous rancor49 turn.”
And so the metamorphosis is caused by Arachne’s own mortification50 and vexation, and not by any direct act of the goddess.
The following specimen51 of old-fashioned gallantry is by Garrick:
“Upon a Lady’s Embroidery
“Arachne once, as poets tell,
A goddess at her art defied,
And soon the daring mortal fell
The hapless victim of her pride.
“O, then beware Arachne’s fate;
Be prudent52, Chloe, and submit,
For you’ll most surely meet her hate,
Who rival both her art and wit.”
Tennyson, in his “Palace of Art,” describing the works of art with which the palace was adorned, thus alludes53 to Europa:
“. . . sweet Europa’s mantle54 blew unclasped
From off her shoulder, backward borne,
From one hand drooped55 a crocus, one hand grasped
The mild bull’s golden horn.”
In his “Princess” there is this allusion56 to Dana?:
“Now lies the earth all Dana? to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.”
NIOBE
The fate of Arachne was noised abroad through all the country, and served as a warning to all presumptuous mortals not to compare themselves with the divinities. But one, and she a matron too, failed to learn the lesson of humility57. It was Niobe, the queen of Thebes. She had indeed much to be proud of; but it was not her husband’s fame, nor her own beauty, nor their great descent, nor the power of their kingdom that elated her. It was her children; and truly the happiest of mothers would Niobe have been if only she had not claimed to be so. It was on occasion of the annual celebration in honor of Latona and her offspring, Apollo and Diana,—when the people of Thebes were assembled, their brows crowned with laurel, bearing frankincense to the altars and paying their vows,—that Niobe appeared among the crowd. Her attire58 was splendid with gold and gems59, and her aspect beautiful as the face of an angry woman can be. She stood and surveyed the people with haughty60 looks. “What folly,” said she, “is this!—to prefer beings whom you never saw to those who stand before your eyes! Why should Latona be honored with worship, and none be paid to me? My father was Tantalus, who was received as a guest at the table of the gods; my mother was a goddess. My husband built and rules this city, Thebes, and Phrygia is my paternal61 inheritance. Wherever I turn my eyes I survey the elements of my power; nor is my form and presence unworthy of a goddess. To all this let me add I have seven sons and seven daughters, and look for sons-in-law and daughters-in-law of pretensions63 worthy62 of my alliance. Have I not cause for pride? Will you prefer to me this Latona, the Titan’s daughter, with her two children? I have seven times as many. Fortunate indeed am I, and fortunate I shall remain! Will any one deny this? My abundance is my security. I feel myself too strong for Fortune to subdue64. She may take from me much; I shall still have much left. Were I to lose some of my children, I should hardly be left as poor as Latona with her two only. Away with you from these solemnities,—put off the laurel from your brows,—have done with this worship!” The people obeyed, and left the sacred services uncompleted.
The goddess was indignant. On the Cynthian mountain top where she dwelt she thus addressed her son and daughter: “My children, I who have been so proud of you both, and have been used to hold myself second to none of the goddesses except Juno alone, begin now to doubt whether I am indeed a goddess. I shall be deprived of my worship altogether unless you protect me.” She was proceeding65 in this strain, but Apollo interrupted her. “Say no more,” said he; “speech only delays punishment.” So said Diana also. Darting66 through the air, veiled in clouds, they alighted on the towers of the city. Spread out before the gates was a broad plain, where the youth of the city pursued their warlike sports. The sons of Niobe were there with the rest,—some mounted on spirited horses richly caparisoned, some driving gay chariots. Ismenos, the first-born, as he guided his foaming67 steeds, struck with an arrow from above, cried out, “Ah me!” dropped the reins68, and fell lifeless. Another, hearing the sound of the bow,—like a boatman who sees the storm gathering69 and makes all sail for the port,—gave the reins to his horses and attempted to escape. The inevitable70 arrow overtook him as he fled. Two others, younger boys, just from their tasks, had gone to the playground to have a game of wrestling. As they stood breast to breast, one arrow pierced them both. They uttered a cry together, together cast a parting look around them, and together breathed their last. Alphenor, an elder brother, seeing them fall, hastened to the spot to render assistance, and fell stricken in the act of brotherly duty. One only was left, Ilioneus. He raised his arms to heaven to try whether prayer might not avail. “Spare me, ye gods!” he cried, addressing all, in his ignorance that all needed not his intercessions; and Apollo would have spared him, but the arrow had already left the string, and it was too late.
The terror of the people and grief of the attendants soon made Niobe acquainted with what had taken place. She could hardly think it possible; she was indignant that the gods had dared and amazed that they had been able to do it. Her husband, Amphion, overwhelmed with the blow, destroyed himself. Alas71! how different was this Niobe from her who had so lately driven away the people from the sacred rites72, and held her stately course through the city, the envy of her friends, now the pity even of her foes73! She knelt over the lifeless bodies, and kissed now one, now another of her dead sons. Raising her pallid74 arms to heaven, “Cruel Latona,” said she, “feed full your rage with my anguish75! Satiate your hard heart, while I follow to the grave my seven sons. Yet where is your triumph? Bereaved76 as I am, I am still richer than you, my conqueror77.” Scarce had she spoken, when the bow sounded and struck terror into all hearts except Niobe’s alone. She was brave from excess of grief. The sisters stood in garments of mourning over the biers of their dead brothers. One fell, struck by an arrow, and died on the corpse79 she was bewailing. Another, attempting to console her mother, suddenly ceased to speak, and sank lifeless to the earth. A third tried to escape by flight, a fourth by concealment80, another stood trembling, uncertain what course to take. Six were now dead, and only one remained, whom the mother held clasped in her arms, and covered as it were with her whole body. “Spare me one, and that the youngest! O spare me one of so many!” she cried; and while she spoke78, that one fell dead. Desolate81 she sat, among sons, daughters, husband, all dead, and seemed torpid82 with grief. The breeze moved not her hair, no color was on her cheek, her eyes glared fixed and immovable, there was no sign of life about her. Her very tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and her veins83 ceased to convey the tide of life. Her neck bent not, her arms made no gesture, her foot no step. She was changed to stone, within and without. Yet tears continued to flow; and borne on a whirlwind to her native mountain, she still remains84, a mass of rock, from which a trickling85 stream flows, the tribute of her never-ending grief.
The story of Niobe has furnished Byron with a fine illustration of the fallen condition of modern Rome:
“The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe86;
An empty urn48 within her withered87 hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered88 long ago;
The Scipios’ tomb contains no ashes now:
The very sepulchres lie tenantless89
Of their heroic dwellers90; dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness91?
Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress92.”
Childe Harold, IV. 79.
This affecting story has been made the subject of a celebrated93 statue in the imperial gallery of Florence. It is the principal figure of a group supposed to have been originally arranged in the pediment of a temple. The figure of the mother clasped by the arm of her terrified child is one of the most admired of the ancient statues. It ranks with the Laoco?n and the Apollo among the masterpieces of art. The following is a translation of a Greek epigram supposed to relate to this statue:
“To stone the gods have changed her, but in vain;
The sculptor’s art has made her breathe again.”
Tragic94 as is the story of Niobe, we cannot forbear to smile at the use Moore has made of it in “Rhymes on the Road”:
“?’Twas in his carriage the sublime95
Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme,
And, if the wits don’t do him wrong,
’Twixt death and epics96 passed his time,
Scribbling97 and killing98 all day long;
Like Ph?bus in his car at ease,
Now warbling forth a lofty song,
Now murdering the young Niobes.”
Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, and at the same time a very prolific99 and very tasteless poet, whose works are now forgotten, unless when recalled to mind by some wit like Moore for the sake of a joke.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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Neptune
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| n.海王星 | |
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aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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9
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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11
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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13
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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14
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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15
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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18
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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22
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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24
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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25
tinges
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| n.细微的色彩，一丝痕迹( tinge的名词复数 ) | |
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26
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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27
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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28
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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29
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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cleaved
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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41
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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42
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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68
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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71
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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76
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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78
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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80
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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81
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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82
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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84
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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85
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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86
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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87
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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96
epics
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| n.叙事诗( epic的名词复数 )；壮举；惊人之举；史诗般的电影（或书籍） | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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98
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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