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DIANA AND ACTAEON
Thus in two instances we have seen Juno's severity to her rivals;
now let us learn how a virgin goddess punished an invader of her
privacy.
It was midday, and the sun stood equally distant from either goal,
when young Actaeon, son of King Cadmus, thus addressed the youths
who with him were hunting the stag in the mountains:
"Friends, our nets and our weapons are wet with the blood of our
victims; we have had sport enough for one day, and to-morrow we
can renew our labors. Now, while Phoebus parches the earth, let us
put by our implements and indulge ourselves with rest."
There was a valley thick enclosed with cypresses and pines, sacred
to the huntress queen, Diana. In the extremity of the valley was a
cave, not adorned with art, but nature had counterfeited art in
its construction, for she had turned the arch of its roof with
stones as delicately fitted as if by the hand of man. A fountain
burst out from one side, whose open basin was bounded by a grassy
rim. Here the goddess of the woods used to come when weary with
hunting and lave her virgin limbs in the sparkling water.
One day, having repaired thither with her nymphs, she handed her
javelin, her quiver, and her bow to one, her robe to another,
while a third unbound the sandals from her feet. Then Crocale, the
most skilful of them, arranged her hair, and Nephele, Hyale, and
the rest drew water in capacious urns. While the goddess was thus
employed in the labors of the toilet, behold Actaeon, having
quitted his companions, and rambling without any especial object,
came to the place, led thither by his destiny. As he presented
himself at the entrance of the cave, the nymphs, seeing a man,
screamed and rushed towards the goddess to hide her with their
bodies. But she was taller than the rest and overtopped them all
by a head. Such a color as tinges the clouds at sunset or at dawn
came over the countenance of Diana thus taken by surprise.
Surrounded as she was by her nymphs, she yet turned half away, and
sought with a sudden impulse for her arrows. As they were not at
hand, she dashed the water into the face of the intruder, adding
these words: "Now go and tell, if you can, that you have seen
Diana unapparelled." Immediately a pair of branching stag's horns
grew out of his head, his neck gained in length, his ears grew
sharp-pointed, his hands became feet, his arms long legs, his body
was covered with a hairy spotted hide. Fear took the place of his
former boldness, and the hero fled. He could not but admire his
own speed; but when he saw his horns in the water, "Ah, wretched
me!" he would have said, but no sound followed the effort. He
groaned, and tears flowed down the face which had taken the place
of his own. Yet his consciousness remained. What shall he do?--go
home to seek the palace, or lie hid in the woods? The latter he
was afraid, the former he was ashamed, to do. While he hesitated
the dogs saw him. First Melampus, a Spartan dog, gave the signal
with his bark, then Pamphagus, Dorceus, Lelaps, Theron, Nape,
Tigris, and all the rest, rushed after him swifter than the wind.
Over rocks and cliffs, through mountain gorges that seemed
impracticable, he fled and they followed. Where he had often
chased the stag and cheered on his pack, his pack now chased him,
cheered on by his huntsmen. He longed to cry out, "I am Actaeon;
recognize your master!" but the words came not at his will. The
air resounded with the bark of the dogs. Presently one fastened on
his back, another seized his shoulder. While they held their
master, the rest of the pack came up and buried their teeth in his
flesh. He groaned,--not in a human voice, yet certainly not in a
stag's,--and falling on his knees, raised his eyes, and would have
raised his arms in supplication, if he had had them. His friends
and fellow-huntsmen cheered on the dogs, and looked everywhere for
Actaeon, calling on him to join the sport. At the sound of his
name he turned his head, and heard them regret that he should be
away. He earnestly wished he was. He would have been well pleased
to see the exploits of his dogs, but to feel them was too much.
They were all around him, rending and tearing; and it was not till
they had torn his life out that the anger of Diana was satisfied.
In Shelley's poem "Adonais" is the following allusion to the story
of Actaeon:
"'Midst others of less note came one frail form,
A phantom among men: companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm,
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness,
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness;
And his own Thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursued like raging hounds their father and their prey."
Stanza 31.
The allusion is probably to Shelley himself.
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