BULFINCH’S MYTHOLOGY

THE AGE OF FABLE

OR STORIES OF GODS AND HEROES

by Thomas Bulfinch

[1855]

CHAPTER IX

CEYX AND HALCYONE OR THE HALCYON BIRDS

CEYX was king of Thessaly, where he reigned in peace, without
violence or wrong. He was son of Hesperus, the Day-star, and the
glow of his beauty reminded one of his father. Halcyone, the
daughter of AEolus, was his wife, and devotedly attached to him. Now
Ceyx was in deep affliction for the loss of his brother, and direful
prodigies following his brother’s death made him feel as if the gods
were hostile to him. He thought best, therefore, to make a voyage to
Carlos in Ionia, to consult the oracle of Apollo. But as soon as he
disclosed his intention to his wife Halcyone, a shudder ran through
her frame, and her face grew deadly pale. “What fault of mine, dearest
husband, has turned your affection from me? Where is that love of me
that used to be uppermost in your thoughts? Have you learned to feel
easy in the absence of Halcyone? Would you rather have me away;” She
also endeavoured to discourage him, by describing the violence of
the winds, which she had known familiarly when she lived at home in
her father’s house,- AEolus being the god of the winds, and having
as much as he could do to restrain them. “They rush together,” said
she, “with such fury that fire flashes from the conflict. But if you
must go,” she added, “dear husband, let me go with you, otherwise I
shall suffer not only the real evils which you must encounter, but
those also which my fears suggest.”

These words weighed heavily on the mind of King Ceyx, and it was
no less his own wish than hers to take her with him, but he could
not bear to expose her to the dangers of the sea. He answered.
therefore, consoling her as well as he could, and finished with
these words: “I promise, by the rays of my father the Day-star, that
if fate permits I will return before the moon shall have twice rounded
her orb.” When he had thus spoken, he ordered the vessel to be drawn
out of the shiphouse, and the oars and sails to be put aboard When
Halcyone saw these preparations she shuddered, as if with a
presentiment of evil. With tears and sobs she said farewell, and
then fell senseless to the ground.

Ceyx would still have lingered, but now the young men grasped
their oars and pulled vigorously through the waves, with long and
measured strokes. Halcyone raised her streaming eyes, and saw her
husband standing on the deck, waving his hand to her. She answered his
signal till the vessel had receded so far that she could no longer
distinguish his form from the rest. When the vessel itself could no
more be seen, she strained her eyes to catch the last glimmer of the
sail, till that too disappeared. Then, retiring to her chamber, she
threw herself on her solitary couch.

Meanwhile they glide out of the harbour, and the breeze plays
among the ropes. The seamen draw in their oars, and hoist their sails.
When half or less of their course was passed, as night drew on, the
sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the east wind to blow a
gale. The master gave the word to take in sail, but the storm
forbade obedience, for such is the roar of the winds and waves his
orders are unheard. The men, of their own accord, busy themselves to
secure the oars, to strengthen the ship, to reef the sail. While
they thus do what to each one seems best, the storm increases. The
shouting of the men, the rattling of the shrouds, and the dashing of
the waves, mingle with the roar of the thunder. The swelling sea seems
lifted up to the heavens, to scatter its foam among the clouds; then
sinking away to the bottom assumes the colour of the shoal-a Stygian
blackness.

The vessel shares all these changes. It seems like a wild beast that
rushes on the spears of the hunters. Rain falls in torrents, as if the
skies were coming down to unite with the sea. When the lightning
ceases for a moment, the night seems to add its own darkness to that
of the storm; then comes the flash, rending the darkness asunder,
and lighting up all with a glare. Skill fails, courage sinks, and
death seems to come on every wave. The men are stupefied with
terror. The thought of parents, and kindred, and pledges left at home,
comes over their minds. Ceyx thinks of Halcyone. No name but hers is
on his lips, and while he yearns for her, he yet rejoices in her
absence. Presently the mast is shattered by a stroke of lightning, the
rudder broken, and the triumphant surge curling over looks down upon
the wreck, then falls, and crushes it to fragments. Some of the
seamen, stunned by the stroke, sink, and rise no more; others cling to
fragments of the wreck. Ceyx, with the hand that used to grasp the
sceptre, holds fast to a plank, calling for help,- alas, in vain,-upon
his father and his father-in-law. But oftenest on his lips was the
name of Halcyone. To her his thoughts cling. He prays that the waves
may bear his body to her sight, and that it may receive burial at
her hands. At length the waters overwhelm him, and he sinks. The
Day-star looked dim that night. Since it could not leave the
heavens, it shrouded its face with clouds.

In the meanwhile Halcyone, ignorant of all these horrors, counted
the days till her husband’s promised return. Now she gets ready the
garments which he shall put on, and now what she shall wear when he
arrives. To all the gods she offers frequent incense, but more than
all to Juno. For her husband, who was no more, she prayed incessantly:
that be might be safe; that he might come home; that he might not,
in his absence, see any one that he would love better than her. But of
all these prayers, the last was the only one destined to be granted.
The goddess, at length, could not bear any longer to be pleaded with
for one already dead, and to have hands raised to her altars that
ought rather to be offering funeral rites. So, calling Iris, she said,
“Iris, my faithful messenger, go to the drowsy dwelling of Somnus, and
tell him to send a vision to Halcyone in the form of Ceyx, to make
known to her the event.”

Iris puts on her robe of many colours, and tinging the sky with
her bow, seeks the palace of the King of Sleep. Near the Cimmerian
country, a mountain cave is the abode of the dull god Somnus. Here
Phoebus dares not come, either rising, at midday, or setting. Clouds
and shadows are exhaled from the ground, and the light glimmers
faintly. The bird of dawning, with crested head, never there calls
aloud to Aurora, nor watchful dog, nor more sagacious goose disturbs
the silence. No wild beast, nor cattle, nor branch moved with the
wind, nor sound of human conversation, breaks the stillness. Silence
reigns there; but from the bottom of the rock the River Lethe flows,
and by its murmur invites to sleep. Poppies grow abundantly before the
door of the cave, and other herbs, from whose juices Night collects
slumbers, which she scatters over the darkened earth. There is no gate
to the mansion, to creak on its hinges, nor any watchman; but in the
midst a couch of black ebony, adorned with black plumes and black
curtains. There the god reclines, his limbs relaxed with sleep. Around
him lie dreams, resembling all various forms, as many as the harvest
bears stalks, or the forest leaves, or the seashore sand grains.

As soon as the goddess entered and brushed away the dreams that
hovered around her, her brightness lit up all the cave. The god,
scarce opening his eyes, and ever and anon dropping his beard upon his
breast, at last shook himself free from himself, leaning on his arm,
inquired her errand,- for he knew who she was. She answered,
“Somnus, gentlest of the gods, tranquillizer of minds and soother of
care-worn hearts, Juno sends you her commands that you despatch a
dream to Halcyone, in the city of Trachine, representing her lost
husband and all the events of the wreck.”

Having delivered her message, Iris hasted away, for she could not
longer endure the stagnant air, and as she felt drowsiness creep.
ing over her, she made her escape, and returned by her bow the way she
came. Then Somnus called one of his numerous sons,- Morpheus,- the
most expert in counterfeiting forms, and in imitating the walk, the
countenance, and mode of speaking, even the clothes and attitudes most
characteristic of each. But he only imitates men, leaving it to
another to personate birds, beasts, and serpents. Him they call
Icelos; and Phantasos is a third, who turns himself into rocks,
waters, woods, and other things without life. These wait upon kings
and great personages in their sleeping hours, while others move
among the common people. Somnus chose, from all the brothers,
Morpheus, to perform the command of Iris; then laid his head on his
pillow and yielded himself to grateful repose.

Morpheus flew, making no noise with his wings, and soon came to
the Haemonian city, where, laying aside his wings, he assumed the form
of Ceyx. Under that form, but pale like a dead man, naked, he stood
before the couch of the wretched wife. His beard seemed soaked with
water, and water trickled from his drowned locks. Leaning over the
bed, tears streaming from his eyes, he said, “Do you recognize your
Ceyx, unhappy wife, or has death too much changed my visage? Behold
me, know me, your husband’s shade, instead of himself. Your prayers,
Halcyone, availed me nothing. I am dead. No more deceive yourself with
vain hopes of my return. The stormy winds sunk my ship in the AEgean
Sea, waves filled my mouth while it called aloud on you. No
uncertain messenger tells you this, no vague rumour brings it to
your ears. I come in person, a shipwrecked man, to tell you my fate.
Arise! give me tears, give me lamentations, let me not go down to
Tartarus unwept.” To these words Morpheus added the voice, which
seemed to be that of her husband; he seemed to pour forth genuine
tears; his hands had the gestures of Ceyx.

Halcyone, weeping, groaned, and stretched out her arms in her sleep,
striving to embrace his body, but grasping only the air. “Stay!” she
cried; “whither do you fly? let us go together.” Her own voice
awakened her. Starting up, she gazed eagerly around, to see if he
was still present, for the servants, alarmed by her cries, had brought
a light. When she found him not, she smote her breast and rent her
garments. She cares not to unbind her hair, but tears it wildly. Her
nurse asks what is the cause of her grief. “Halcyone is no more,”
she answers, “she perished with her Ceyx. Utter not words of
comfort, he is shipwrecked and dead. I have seen him, I have
recognized him. I stretched out my hands to seize him and detain
him. His shade vanished, but it was the true shade of my husband.
Not with the accustomed features, not with the beauty that was his,
but pale, naked, and with his hair wet with sea water, he appeared
to wretched me. Here, in this very spot, the sad vision stood,”- and
she looked to find the mark of his footsteps. “This it was, this
that my presaging mind foreboded, when I implored him not to leave me,
to trust himself to the waves. Oh, how I wish, since thou wouldst
go, thou hadst taken me with thee! It would have been far better. Then
I should have had no remnant of life to spend without thee, nor a
separate death to die. If I could bear to live and struggle to endure,
I should be more cruel to myself than the sea has been to me. But I
will not struggle, I will not be separated from thee, unhappy husband.
This time, at least, I will keep thee company. In death, if one tomb
may not include us, one epitaph shall; if I may not lay my ashes
with thine, my name, at least, shall not be separated.” Her grief
forbade more words, and these were broken with tears and sobs.

It was now morning. She went to the seashore, and sought the spot
where she last saw him, on his departure. “While he lingered here, and
cast off his tacklings, he gave me his last kiss.” While she reviews
every object, and strives to recall every incident, looking out over
the sea, she descries an indistinct object floating in the water. At
first she was in doubt what it was, but by degrees the waves bore it
nearer, and it was plainly the body of a man. Though unknowing of
whom, yet, as it was of some shipwrecked one, she was deeply moved,
and gave it her tears, saying, “Alas! unhappy one, and unhappy, if
such there be, thy wife!” Borne by the waves, it came nearer. As she
more and more nearly views it, she trembles more and more. Now, now it
approaches the shore. Now marks that she recognizes appear. it is
her husband! Stretching out her trembling hands towards it, she
exclaims, “O dearest husband, is it thus you return to me?”

There was built out from the shore a mole, constructed to break
the assaults of the sea, and stem its violent ingress. She leaped upon
this barrier and (it was wonderful she could do so) she flew, and
striking the air with wings produced on the instant, skimmed along the
surface of the water, an unhappy bird. As she flew, her throat
poured forth sounds full of grief, and like the voice of one
lamenting. When she touched the mute and bloodless body, she
enfolded its beloved limbs with her new-formed wings, and tried to
give kisses with her horny beak. Whether Ceyx felt it, or whether it
was only the action of the waves, those who looked on doubted, but the
body seemed to raise its head. But indeed he did feel it, and by the
pitying gods both of them were changed into birds. They mate and
have their young ones. For seven placid days, in winter time, Halcyone
broods over her nest, which floats upon the sea. Then the way is
safe to seamen. AEolus guards the winds and keeps them from disturbing
the deep. The sea is given up, for the time, to his grandchildren.

The following lines from Byron’s “Bride of Abydos” might seem
borrowed from the concluding part of this description, if it were
not stated that the author derived the suggestion from observing the
motion of a floating corpse:

“As shaken on his restless pillow,
His head heaves with the heaving billow;
That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,
Then levelled with the wave…”

Milton, in his “Hymn on the Nativity,” thus alludes to the fable
of the Halcyon:

“But peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of light
His reign of peace upon the earth began;
The winds with wonder whist
Smoothly the waters kist
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.”

Keats also, in “Endymion,” says:

“O magic sleep! O comfortable bird
That broodest o’er the troubled sea of the mind
Till it is hushed and smooth.”