Hestia (Vesta).[1] In the domestic life of the Greeks Hestia, the hearth goddess, occupied an important position. She was one of the twelve great divinities, and her expressive symbol, the fire, they carefully guarded and kept constantly burning. In the more rude, barbaric state of society her worship was, perhaps, not general, as there is no mention of her by Homer in the “Iliad” or “Odyssey.” But as society advanced and the importance of domestic order and purity was more fully recognized, no other deity was held in greater veneration. She gives security to the dwelling, and especially guards the virtue and happiness of the family. “The hearth possessed among the ancients a far higher significance than it does in modern life. It served not only for the preparation of the daily meals, but was esteemed the sacred altar in the house. There the images of the Penates,[2] or household gods, were placed; and then, after the old patriarchal fashion, the father and priest of the family offered sacrifice on all important occasions of their domestic life.” (Seemans.)

The well-ordered home, under the guardianship of the virgin goddess, herself pure as the bright flame that was her symbol, is the secure abode of happiness as complete as mortals know. For the maintenance of its purity and peace the most solemn vows were made and the tutelary[3] goddess invoked to avenge the injured and reward the faithful. For those without, the hearth itself was a sacred shrine before which suppliants, if danger threatened, sought not in vain protection from the inhabitants of the house. And, as the state is an extended family, embracing all the domestic organizations in its domain, Hestia, protectress of the home circle, regards also the interest and safety of every civil community. So, thoughtful men of upright character, their statesmen and wise senators, did not hesitate to carry the religion of their homes into political matters that engaged their best endeavors.

In the Greek states the senate house, or department of the governing body, was solemnly dedicated to Hestia, and in it they built her an altar, on which fire was kept ever burning. That the daily sacrifice might not be wanting, or that sacred fire ever become extinct, it was assiduously guarded by vestal[4] virgins, whose negligence would be severely punished.

The name Hestia is not only very sacred, but has a stem or root meaning that indicates the fixed abiding position of her altar in the room where the family dwelt, or the senators met for business.

Hermes (Mercury). For the accredited pedigree, characteristics, and exploits of this sly deity—things of much interest to students of the old mythology—we are mostly indebted to Homer and his imitators, the Rhapsodists, some of whose productions were accepted as Homeric. He was the reputed son of Zeus and the mountain nymph Maia, and born in a cave, or grotto, on Mount Cyllene,[5] in Arcadia. The so-called “Homeric Hymn,” assuming cunning and dexterity as his principal characteristics, tells in a way to interest the reader, with what amazing capacity his powers developed. Having such a father, and his mother a daughter of Atlas, he grew as none but gods can, almost instantly revealing his divine powers. Only a few hours after his birth he sprung from his mother’s arms, or from the cradle where he lay, already planning an expedition of vast proportions, and escaped from the grotto to at once execute his purpose. On the way he met a beautiful tortoise that he killed, and extracting the carcass from the shell, stretched resonant cords across the cavity, and thus made him a harp on which he played most skilfully. The same day he hurried off to Pieria, where he stole fifty kine from the herd of Apollo, and undertook to drive them to the grotto of his mother. Fearing that the theft, so adroitly accomplished, might be detected by their tracks in the sand, he managed to drive them in such circuitous paths that, where most exposed to observation, the tracks showed them to be going toward the place from which they were stolen. His own footsteps he disguised by wrapping his feet with tamarisk and myrtle leaves. The next morning, at early dawn, he reached the stream of Alpheus,[6] and then rubbed sticks of wood against each other till they were ignited. Thus Hermes is said to have first given fire to mortal men. Another legend attributes the same to Prometheus,[7] who is said to have stolen fire from the altars of the gods. But this was kindled in the forest by the friction of dry branches rubbed against each other by the wind. In that forest Hermes slaughtered two of the herd, but, though pressed with hunger, he ate none of the roasted meat. After quenching the fire, and effacing all signs of it, he proceeded to Cyllene, where he concealed the cattle, and, having entered the place of his birth softly as a summer breeze, resumed his place as a babe, and lay innocently playing with the cradle clothes, while his right hand held the tortoise lyre hidden under them. His absence and the booty with which he returned were not unobserved by his mother, who chided him for the theft, but was assured that, by such exploits, he would secure for her and for himself admission to the assembly of the gods. In the morning Apollo, missing part of his herd, set out in search of them. An old man informed him that a child was seen the day before driving cows along the road. At Pylos he saw confused tracks of his cattle, but was amazed at the strange footprints of the driver. Greatly chagrined at his loss, and meditating chastisement for the thief, he entered the cave of the nymph. Hermes, seeing him, gathered himself under the clothes, feigning fear of the angry god. Apollo searched all the premises for his stolen property to no purpose. But convinced that the child, his own younger brother was certainly guilty of the theft, he threatened to hurl him into Tartarus[8] if he did not tell at once where the cows were. The little fellow in his cradle, winking slyly, and making a low whistling sound, as if amused at Apollo’s excitement, denies any knowledge of the matter, and innocently asks what cows are like. “I know nothing of cows,” he said, “but their name. We must refer the matter to Zeus, who will decide for us.”

When the father of gods and men heard the complaint and the evidence, little Hermes, to the great amusement of the celestials, stoutly denied the charge, and with his cradle clothes about his person, argued the absurdity of supposing a mere child like himself capable of such deeds.

Zeus admonished the contestants to be friends, but with a significant nod, the suit was decided in Apollo’s favor, and the brothers sent in quest of the missing kine. The miscreant led the way, and when the cattle were brought out of the cave, Apollo missed two, and was surprised to find their hides stretched on a rock to dry—more so, that when attempting to drive the others away their feet were found fastened in the earth. Again he seized the offender for punishment, but he in the emergency, thought of his lyre, and touching its chords, called forth music so sweet and soothing that Apollo, forgetting his anger, coveted the instrument and besought the musician to teach him his wondrous art. “Take it,” said he, “since you are wise, and will know how to use it well, but if touched by those unskilled in the divine art, it will utter strange nonsense, making uncertain, discordant moanings.” Delighted with his acquisition, Apollo gave his brother a magic wand, by which he could confer happiness on whom he would; and, henceforth, they dwelt together in great harmony and love, the honored sons of a common father.

Interpreting this myth one says, “while Apollo represents the genial sunshine, Hermes, as a power of nature, is the rain—rain and sunshine being both from the great God of heaven, or, in the language of mythologists, his sons. They are both beneficent and have many things so similar as to indicate a common origin.”

In the process of time their conceptions of the younger brother seem to have undergone some change, or possibly the different shades of opinion may indicate the places rather than the times in which they prevailed. To those who regarded him as sending the fertilizing rain, and thus the dispenser of manifold gifts, he also, and naturally, represented the wind that “bloweth where it listeth,” and carries the clouds about on their mission. This idea of personification may account for some things in their legends that otherwise seem inexplicable. Helpless infancy, in a very few hours leaving the cradle and performing exploits the most astonishing, has its parallel in the wind, which, at first only gentle zephyrs whispering softly, soon may freshen to a gale, and in an hour sweep over the earth with a force that defies resistance; and when people make inquest for the mischief done they hear but the mocking laugh as it hastens on, and the calm after a squall is like the quiet return of the adventurous god to the cave and cradle that were left for the exploits of that eventful day. Then the clouds of various shape and color that are seen grouped above the horizon, or scattered over the vast field of the sky, were, to a vivid imagination, the herd of Phoebus, who watches over them. When the rising wind, represented by Hermes’ leaving the cave, carries them away, a stupendous theft has been committed.

The offices of Hermes were many, and supposed to be useful, nor was his many sided character thought bad when judged by the moral code of a people who made him a god after their own likeness. Crafty, dishonest merchants did not mean to impeach his honesty when they implored him to give them such shrewdness as to outwit and supplant others in the bargains they made. Rogues and thieves prayed to him, just as bandits and robbers in the same country and in parts of Italy ask the patron saints to aid their assaults on defenseless travelers, and give them a rich booty.

Arcadian shepherds invoked Hermes as the guardian of flocks while he inspired their pastoral songs and directed in the manufacture of the rustic instruments on which they played.

Moreover, he was regarded and often spoken of as the fleet messenger and dextrous agent of his father, Zeus. In this character the epic poets most frequently present him. Swifter than the wind he passes over the land and sea to execute whatever commissions are intrusted to him. Once he destroyed the hundred eyed Argus, the guardian of Io, on which account he is called by Homer the Argus slayer.

Seemans suggests that Argus in that myth represents the starry heavens, and the suggestion is plausible—Argus is slain by the rain god; that is, the stars are hid by the thick clouds.

As represented in art, he bears the herald’s staff, or wand, given him by Apollo, by the means of which he can induce sleep or rouse the slumberer; but it was supposed to be used chiefly in guiding souls to their abodes in the under world. The earliest Greeks, as indeed men of all nations, and in every state of society, civilized, semi-civilized or savage, cherished the expectation of a state after death, and though vaguely hoping for happiness hereafter, they also felt the need of an escort, though unseen, to that “land of deepest shade unpierced by human thought.” The belief in Hermes as psychopompus,[9] or conductor of the soul, doubtless gave the dying mythologist when consciously loosing his hold on things visible and tangible, some crumbs of comfort. With no other rod or staff on which to lean, a heathen poet could say:

Such was at least the longing for immortality in the darkest ages.

The statues and plastic representations of Hermes, as also of the other divinities, changed with the progress of this ideal development. They represent him as a shepherd, sometimes a herald, or messenger, and always as a powerful, bearded man. Those of later date show him as a beardless youth, but of great strength, with broad chest, lithe but powerful limbs, curly hair, small mouth and eyes, a wonderful combination of grace and vigor. “If we add to this the expression of kindly benevolence which plays around his finely cut lips, and the inquiring look of his face as he bends forward thoughtfully, we have the principal characteristic features artists have given of this god.” Of existing statues, in bronze and marble, we can not speak more particularly—such are found in the Vatican, at Naples, and in the British Museum.

Hades.—This name now, and from the beginning of the Christian era, used only to distinguish a place, was in mythology a personal appellative, and given to one of the Olympic divinities who received, by allotment, control of the lower world. He was son of Cronos and Rhea, and there are but few legends of him that the reader would care to see recorded, on account of the mysterious gloom that enveloped his person and his kingdom. It is enough to say he was at first regarded with dread as the unpitying, unrelenting foe of mankind, and while all were fated in their appointed time to descend to his dismal realms, heedless of their mortal reluctance and agony, he gathered them in, and deaf to their prayers kept his gate so guarded by that hundred headed monster Cerberus[11] that none could ever escape. The conception was so horrible that men shrank from it in dismay. Hades, being inexorable, was not worshiped. Prayer had no encouragement, no utterance. Those who dreaded to become his victims might wail in their agony or curse bitterly, but no door of hope was open for them.

In the course of time—how long none can tell, as no details are given, but in after ages—the Greek conception of Hades as a divinity seemed to undergo considerable change. Not only other but very different characteristics were given to him. He even received a new name, Pluton (riches), possibly indicating for him some agency in sending up, from the bosom of the earth, nourishment for things that grow on its surface, and also as offering unbounded wealth to mankind in the metals whose mines are in the subterranean chambers. But though the original dismal conception of this stern, inexorable deity was partially relieved, mention of him seems always to have conveyed to the mind the idea of something grim and painfully mysterious, and that probably caused them to speak of him but seldom, and with fear.

We are more interested to trace their notions of the underworld itself, and respecting the state of the dead who have entered it. On these subjects there was evidently some diversity of opinion, not between different persons only, but of the same person at different times. Even Homer presents two distinct views respecting the abode and condition of the dead. In the “Iliad” he locates it beneath the flat earth, and not far from the upper surface. Describing the battle of the gods he says:

But in the “Odyssey,” the realm in which the shades of the departed wander, lies far west of the earth-girdling Oceanus, or is an island in the midst of that fabled stream. Nor is this at all wonderful, since, after the progress of centuries, and the partial unveiling of the future in the divine oracles, the heaven revealed, as to its latitude, longitude and topography, remains, even to Christians, a terra incognita.[12]

In the profoundly interesting problem of a future life the question of locality is of little importance. That which more concerns the mortal, yet immortal man, is what that life shall be; and, in their answers to that question, theology and mythology differ widely. The latter claims for departed spirits only a shadowy, dreamy, dismal existence, devoid of any real happiness. At first they seem to have had no thought of any difference in their allotments, and say nothing of the judgment of the dead. Further on in their history the idea of future reward and punishment had some development. Thenceforward there was a division in Pluto’s realm, and the nethermost part was called Tartarus, a deep, dark, cavernous abode of wretchedness and woe, where those condemned by the judges,[13] Minos, Rhadamanthus and Æacus were tormented by the Furies. The good, being special favorites of the gods, are transferred to elysian fields—isles of the blessed—and find their happiness complete, while those of a middle class, without either positive excellence or damning wrong, are permitted to remain in a dusky region, where, as dim but ghastly shades, they pass a dull, joyless existence, without much positive suffering.

The punishment of great criminals was a fruitful theme for the imaginations and pens of the Greek poets. Tityus, who had offered violence to Leto, is chained to the earth while vultures constantly tear his ever growing liver. Tantalus,[14] who had been admitted to the table of the gods, but impiously thought to test their superior discernment by putting before them the flesh of his son Pelops, is for his crime doomed to suffer the torments of continual hunger and thirst. Just above his head are branches laden with beautiful and luscious fruits, but when he attempts to pluck them a gust of wind bears them quite beyond his reach. He stands on the bank of a beautiful stream clear as crystal, or in the midst of the water, but when he attempts to quench his raging thirst it is impossible even to wet his lips. Sisyphus, once king of Corinth, and a great sinner, was condemned to roll a block of stone up a high mountain, but, soon as the top was reached, the huge stone, by some sudden impulse, rolled back to the plain, and with weary limbs he must continue the fruitless struggle. Ixion, also an insolent offender, is chained, hands and feet, to an ever revolving wheel and tortured without respite or hope of release. And the daughters of Danaus, who at their father’s bidding had slain their husbands the night of their nuptials, are laboriously pouring water into a perforated cask with despair of ever accomplishing the required task of filling it. The punishment was deemed retributory, and in these examplary cases from its nature without end.

Eros and Psyche[15] (Cupid and the soul).—Eros, reputed a son of Aphrodite and Ares, in the earlier legends appears a winged child; then a boy of marvelous beauty on the verge of youth, but small of stature. His characteristic is the golden bow, from whose taut string arrows fly to their mark, with unerring aim, and inflict wounds that represent the consuming pangs of love. As the charming but mischief-making Eros, being solitary, did not grow, his mother, by the advice of Artemis, gave him as a play-fellow a brother whom they named Anteros; his company caused content and happiness. Eros was venerated not only as the god of love, kindly influencing the sexes toward each other, and kindling purest fires on their home altars, but as the author also of loving friendships between youths and men. For this reason probably, his statue was placed between those of Hermes and Hercules in the gymnasia, and the warlike Spartans sacrifice to him before battle, pledging themselves to be faithful, and stand by one another in time of need.

The significant myth showing the love of Eros for Psyche is of more recent origin and shows some higher religious notions. Various interpretations of the legend have been suggested, all of them sufficiently fanciful. We give here an abridgment of a much lengthier account found in “Stories from the Classics.”

In a certain city were three daughters of the king, of whom the youngest, Psyche, being exceedingly beautiful, was thought the loveliest of mortals. Her enraptured admirers built altars for her worship as a goddess, and strewed them with flowery garlands. The charming Psyche was too gentle and good to be elated by the homage, however extravagantly expressed, but the hearts of her less beautiful sisters were soon filled with envy and jealousy. Moreover Venus herself, the goddess of beauty, became like a mortal jealous of poor Psyche. Highly offended that her own altars should be neglected for those of an earth-born maiden, she retired in anger to her favorite isle, and there cherished purposes of revenge. Thither her winged boy, Cupid, came quickly at his mother’s call. With tears and many passionate lamentations she told him the story of her wrongs—how Psyche was honored and Venus neglected. “You alone, my son,” she said, “can punish this presumptuous beauty, and make her feel that it is a serious thing to incur the displeasure of the immortals.” When her plans were made known, soothing his mother with fond caresses, Cupid readily promised to execute all her wishes. Then, in obedience to her commands, he hastened away to a luxuriant island in the midst of the ocean, where were two fountains side by side, one clear as crystal, imparting health and happiness to all who drank of the delicious water; the other turbid and of a most deadly nature. Those who tasted its poisoned water were never happy again. From the one, a living fountain, he took water of joy, from the other of sorrow, and placing each in a little amber urn, flew away to the palace of Psyche, where he found her lying upon a couch, fragrant with roses, asleep, and smiling in her pleasant dreams. Too intent on accomplishing his mission to be deterred, even by the sight of such transcendent beauty, silently and lightly as falls a noxious dew upon a gentle flower he shed on her slightly parted lips the fatal drops of grief, and was preparing to wound her with his arrow, when his victim suddenly awoke. The scene was changed and the mischievous, cruel Cupid was now quite overcome with her strange loveliness, and the gentle expression of her lustrous eyes. Filled with remorse for what was done he hastily shed on her golden ringlets the balmy drops of joy, intended for another, and vanished from her sight.

The father of Psyche fearing the wrath of the celestials on account of the adoration paid to his daughter, inquired, at the oracle of Apollo, what course he should pursue. The response filled him with anguish. He was directed to place the maiden on a barren rock on the top of the mountain, and there abandon her to her unknown fate. The poor king and his queen wept much, but dared not disobey the oracle, cruel as it seemed. Preparations were made in sadness, and on the day appointed Psyche was attended to the destined rock by a mournful procession of friends whose lamentations rent the air. When the broken-hearted parents bade a last adieu to their beloved child, they ordered the gates of their palace to be shut and gave themselves up to despair. As the train of mourners gradually disappeared Psyche stood trembling on the top of the lone mountain, and now overcome with grief and fear, she burst into tears, bemoaning her sad condition. Then the gently blowing zephyr caught and raised her in the air, and bearing her over the valley at the foot of the mountain left her on a flowery turf, in a sweet sleep. When she awoke all fear was gone. Looking around she saw, near a grove of lofty trees, a cool fountain gently flowing, and within the grove a palace so gorgeous that it was evidently the residence of a god. It was of costly materials, exquisite workmanship, and filled with immense treasures, all of which seemed secure without guards or doors. As the astonished but now delighted maiden entered, a voice of angelic sweetness addressed her, saying, “Lovely Psyche, all these treasures are yours, and we whose voices you hear, though invisible, are your servants, who will obey all your commands. Come to the banquet already prepared for our rightful mistress.” She was conducted to a rich repast of ambrosia and nectar, served by invisible hands, and entertained with delightful music from Æolian harps.

Psyche did not know who the lord of the palace was, but, without being suffered to behold him, she became his wife, and lived for a long time contented and happy; treated by him, when present, with the utmost kindness, and, in his absence, cheered by the voices of her unseen attendants.

When her sisters, wicked women, who had heard of her happiness, and were invited to share it, arrived at the palace they were received by Psyche most cordially. She tenderly embraced them, showed them her treasures, and bestowed such gifts as sisterly affection suggested. But their hearts were hard and cruel. More envious than before at the sight of such magnificence, they artfully planned to destroy their unsuspecting victim, who had been warned not to allow any idle curiosity about her husband, lest, by so doing, she might lose him forever. “Dearest sister,” they say, concealing their real feelings under a mask of sisterly kindness, “our love constrains us to make known to you that the being you call your husband is doubtless some malignant spirit who dares not show to you his hideous person, and who will some day destroy you. Take therefore, we entreat, this lamp and dagger; conceal the lamp in the tapestry of your chamber, and in the night satisfy your curiosity. If he prove the monster we suspect, you can kill him in his sleep and return to the home of your distracted parents.”

Poor Psyche was overwhelmed with sorrow, and after much talking they so wrought on both her fear and curiosity that she reluctantly promised to heed their advice. As night approached her courage failed, and all the past kindness of her husband coming in mind made her design appear most ungrateful, yet she must keep her promise, and at any risk, satisfy the doubts that were distracting her. So when all voices were hushed, the lights out, and deep silence reigned in the palace, she took the lamp from the place where she had concealed it, and, with trembling, drew near the couch where she saw her husband lying fast asleep. What was her glad surprise when she found him none other than the beautiful god Cupid himself. His countenance was so radiant that the very light of the revealing lamp seemed to grow dim. On his shoulders were wings of delicate whiteness, covered with a tremulous down. His bow and arrows lay at his feet. As she stood over him, entranced by the sight, the oil in the lamp, as if to punish her crime, bubbled over and the burning liquid fell on the shoulder of the sleeper. Immediately he started up, and looking reproaches stronger than words, at once flew away in silence. Alas! for the imprudent wife’s distress, when the husband she adored left her in anger, and, as she feared, never to return.

The deceitful sisters, themselves deceived by a false tale of Cupid’s regard for them, miserably perished. When the indignant Venus learned that Cupid, instead of punishing, had taken to his palace her detested rival, and then suffered injury at her hand, she threatened vengeance and sent Mercury in search of the object of her hate. Her wounded son was cared for, but not without upbraiding him for his conduct, and proposing such chastisement as anger mingling with maternal love suggested.

As for the deserted Psyche, having attempted in vain to drown herself in a neighboring stream, she wanders through the world in search of her lost love. Relentlessly persecuted by her adversary, who subjected her to numerous and severe trials, the plants and animals, the reed, the swan, the eagle, offer advice and assistance. Pitied, but unaided, unprotected by the higher goddesses, Ceres and Juno, her case becomes desperate, and she determines, at once, to surrender herself into the hands of Venus. “Possibly she may be won by my good and dutiful conduct, and in the house of his mother I may get a sight of him I have so long sought in vain.” That hope, too, was doomed to disappointment. The haughty goddess, forgetting alike the dignity of her rank, and the tenderness of a mother, spoke bitter, revengeful words, and, calling two servants, Sorrow and Solicitude, she ordered them to chastise her in the severest manner. The suffering of her victim did not satisfy the angry Venus, and the most difficult tasks were enjoined. Having tried her ability by requiring many things thought impossible for mortals, but that were all, by the aid of favoring divinities, accomplished, as a last effort she bade her go to the palace of Pluto, in the infernal regions, and, carrying a box given her for the purpose, to request of Proserpine[16] a portion of her divine beauty, and bring back the treasure untouched. It was a perilous undertaking; but again helped and instructed how to proceed, it was accomplished in safety, and with entire success. She escaped the wiles with which Proserpine sought to detain her guest, and obtained the treasure box, filled and carefully closed. In her instructions she was enjoined not, on any account, to open the box or meddle with its precious contents. When returning, the chief difficulties and dangers of the way already past, her woman’s curiosity again prevails, and silencing her fears and her conscience, she decides to appropriate a very small portion of its contents, desiring to become more pleasing to her offended husband, whom she still hopes to meet. The lid was cautiously raised, when lo! instead of the celestial beauty that was expected, there issued from within, a black, dense vapor which enveloped her so closely, that, presently, overcome with a deep stupor, she fell senseless to the ground.

Cupid having escaped from the palace, and, having on his downy wings, witnessed the whole of this proceeding, flew to the spot, and, quickly gathering up the deadly vapor, confined it again within the casket. Then gently arousing the stupefied Psyche, with a touch of his arrow, “See,” said he, “how thou wouldst perish by this foolish curiosity! Arise now and complete the task imposed by my mother, while I supplicate the mighty Jupiter to appease her anger.” Thus saying he soared on high, nor ceased his flight till he reached Olympus, the lofty dwelling of the gods. Then kneeling before the throne he pleaded with such eloquence the cause of his hapless spouse that the king of gods was moved to pity, and promised, by the exercise of his sovereign will, to end forever Psyche’s misfortunes and sufferings. Mercury was ordered to conduct her to his presence, and, eager to fulfill so pleasant a commission, the winged messenger darted through the air with utmost speed and soon returned with his charge.

The joy of Cupid was boundless, when Psyche, more lovely than ever, stood by his side. Jupiter, regarding her for a time with silent admiration, then, presenting a cup of nectar, said: “Take this, and be henceforth immortal. The bitter waters that have occasioned all your sufferings, after this divine draught will be forgotten. Venus shall no longer mourn your union with her son. It has the approval of the gods, and shall endure forever.”

Psyche thus indued with a new and glorious nature, looked imploringly at mother Venus. Friendly influences stealing into her heart, the goddess yielded, and embraced her radiant daughter with maternal affection. The wedding banquet was prepared, and the Hours with roseate fingers decked the bride. Ganymede,[17] as commanded, poured for them the sparkling nectar, and cloud-capped Olympus echoed to the glad sounds of choral voices.

Neptune came from his ocean cave; Apollo and the Muses were attracted by the sweet notes of song; Minerva laid aside her helmet to grace the marriage feast with her presence; Mars, with swordless hand, and merry Bacchus, the grape wreath that bound his golden hair nodding as he stepped, all joined the festive company. The Graces had decorated the spacious hall; there were thrilling strains of music in the orchestra, and Venus herself danced for joy. Psyche, the admired of all, reclining on the bosom of her reconciled husband, in the bliss of so divine a union lost forever the remembrance of all her sorrows.

This beautiful fable, some say, represents the trials and destiny of human beings. The soul—so the mythologists held—though of divine origin, is here subjected to error and evil in its prison, the body. Trials and purifications are necessary, that it may become capable of purer pleasures and nobler aspirations. Two loves meet it, one earthly and degrading, the other heavenly and elevating. This, when victorious leads off the soul, disenthralled and purified, to the abodes of the blessed.

According to these expositors the myth is a moral one, and represents the dangers to which nuptial fidelity was exposed in such a country as degenerate Greece, and also gives an instance of true constancy subjected to many and strong temptations, but victorious over them all.

As allegorical myths are of doubtful interpretation, the reader may escape some perplexity by accepting the story as a tale of fancy, intended for innocent amusement, rather than for instruction in psychology or morals.