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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 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 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 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 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 a 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 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 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.
This affecting story has been made the subject of 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 the 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.
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