BULFINCH’S MYTHOLOGY

THE AGE OF FABLE

OR STORIES OF GODS AND HEROES

by Thomas Bulfinch

[1855]

CHAPTER XIV

MINERVA – NIOBE

MINERVA

MINERVA, the goddess of wisdom, was the daughter of Jupiter. She was
said to have leaped forth from his brain, mature, and in complete
armour. She presided over the useful and ornamental 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 defensive war only that she patronized, and she had no
sympathy with Mars’s savage love of violence and bloodshed. Athens was
her chosen seat, her own city, awarded to her as the prize of a
contest with Neptune, who also aspired to it, The tale ran that in the
reign of Cecrops, the first king of Athens, the two deities
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 judgment 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 maiden who had
attained such skill in the arts of weaving and embroidery that the
nymphs themselves would leave their groves 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 skilful touch, or wove the web, or,
after it was woven, adorned 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 displeased. 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 dame with
anger in her countenance. “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 bent low in homage, and all the bystanders
paid reverence. Arachne alone was unterrified. She blushed, indeed;
a sudden colour dyed her cheek, and then she grew pale. But she
stood to her resolve, and with a foolish conceit 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 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 labour light. Wool of Tyrian dye is contrasted with that
of other colours, shaded off into one another so adroitly that the
joining deceives the eye. Like the bow, whose long arch tinges the
heavens, formed by sunbeams reflected from the shower,* in which,
where the colours meet they seem as one, but a little distance from
the point of contact are wholly different.

* This correct description of the rainbow is literally translated
from Ovid.

Minerva wrought 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 smitten the earth, from which
a horse has leaped forth. Minerva depicted herself with helmed head,
her AEgis covering her breast. Such was the central circle; and in the
four corners were represented incidents illustrating the displeasure
of the gods at such presumptuous 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
caressing the swan, under which form Jupiter had disguised himself;
and another, Danae, in the brazen tower in which her father had
imprisoned 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 longing eyes back upon the shore
she was leaving, and to call to her companions for help. She
appeared to shudder with terror at the sight of the heaving waves, and
to draw back her feel, from the water.

Arachne filled her canvas with similar subjects, wonderfully well
done, but strongly marking her presumption and impiety. 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 guilt 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 cleaved 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 stanzas 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 wondrous slight,
Fluttering among the olives wantonly,
That seemed to live, so like it was in sight;
The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,
The silken down with which his back is dight,
His broad outstretched horns, his hairy thighs,
His glorious colours, and his glistening eyes.”*

“Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid
And mastered with workmanship so rare,
She stood astonied long, ne aught gainsaid;
And with fast-fixed 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 fret and felly burn,
And all her blood to poisonous rancour turn.”

* Sir James Mackintosh says of this, “Do you think that even a
Chinese could paint the gay colours of a butterfly with more minute
exactness than the following lines: ‘The velvet nap,’ etc.?”- Life,
Vol. II. 246.

And so the metamorphosis is caused by Arachne’s own mortification
and vexation, and not by any direct act of the goddess.

The following specimen 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 prudent, 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 alludes to Europa:

“…sweet Europa’s mantle blew unclasped
From off her shoulder, backward borne,
From one hand drooped a crocus, one hand grasped
The mild bull’s golden horn.”

In his “Princess” there is this allusion to Danae:

“Now lies the earth all Danae 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 humility. 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
honour 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 attire was splendid with gold and gems, and her
aspect beautiful as the face of an angry woman can be. She stood and
surveyed the people with haughty 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 honoured 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 paternal 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 pretensions worthy 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
subdue. 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 proceeding in this
strain, but Apollo interrupted her. “Say no more,” said he; “speech
only delays punishment.” So said Diana also. Darting 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
foaming steeds, struck with an arrow from above, cried out, “Ah me!”
dropped the reins, and fell lifeless. Another, hearing the sound of
the bow,- like the boatman who sees the storm gathering and makes
all sail for the port,- gave the reins to his horses and attempted
to escape. The inevitable 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. Alas! how different was this Niobe from
her who had so lately driven away the people from the sacred rites,
and held her stately course through the city, the envy of her friends,
now the pity even of her foes! She knelt over the lifeless bodies, and
kissed now one, now another of her dead sons. Raising her pallid
arms to heaven, “Cruel Latona,” said she, “feed full your rage with my
anguish! Satiate your hard heart, while I follow to the grave my seven
sons. Yet where is your triumph? Bereaved as I am, I am still richer
than you, my conqueror.” 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 corpse 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
concealment, 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 spoke, that one fell dead. Desolate she sat, among sons,
daughters, husband, all dead, and seemed torpid with grief. The breeze
moved not her hair, no colour 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 veins 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 remains, a mass of rock, from which a
trickling 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 woe;
An empty urn within her withered hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;
The Scipios’ tomb contains no ashes now:
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.”
Childe Harold, IV. 79.

As an illustration of this story there is a celebrated 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
Laocoon 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.”

Tragic 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 sublime
Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme,
And, if the wits don’t do him wrong,
‘Twixt death and epics passed his time,
Scribbling and killing all day long;
Like Phoebus in his car at ease,
Now warbling forth a lofty song,
Now murdering the young Niobes.”

Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, and at same time a very
prolific 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.