Page:The Mythology of the Aryan Nations.djvu/69

Rh idea of his toil and suffering for a master weaker than himself; nothing must be told of Athênê which would rather call up associations of the laughter-loving Aphroditê.

And, finally, there would be a constant and irresistible temptation to sever historical incidents and characters from the world of reality, and bear them into the cloudland of mythology. Round every hero who, after great promise, died in the spring-time of his life, or on whom the yoke of an unworthy tyrant lay heavy, would be grouped words and expressions which belonged to the myth of the brilliant yet quickly dying sun. The tale of Achilleus and Meleagros may be entirely mythical; but even if it be in part the story of men who really lived and suffered, that story has been so interwoven with images borrowed from the myths of a bygone age, as to conceal for ever any fragments of history which may lie beneath them.

But if the mythical phrases which gave birth to the legends of Heraklês, Endymion, and Orpheus, of Phaethôn, Meleagros, and Bellerophontes, spoke of the daily course of the sun, there were others which told of alternating seasons. For the character of mythical speech must necessarily be modified, and its very phrases suggested by the outward features and phenomena of the country. The speech of the tropics, and still more, of the happy zone which lies beyond its scorching heat, would tell rather of splendour than of gloom, of life rather than decay, of constant renovation rather than prolonged lethargy. But in the frost-bound regions of the North the speech of the people would, with a peculiar intensity of feeling, dwell on the tragedy of nature. It would speak not so much of the daily death of the sun (for the recurrence of day and night in other lands would bring no darkness to these), but of the deadly sleep of the earth, when the powers of frost and snow had vanquished the brilliant king. It would speak, not of Eôs rising from the Titan's couch, or of Hêlios sinking wearied into his golden couch behind the sea, but of treasures stolen from the earth and buried in her hidden depths beyond the sight and reach of man. It would tell of a fair maiden, wrapped in a dreamless slumber, from which the touch of one brave knight alone could rouse her; it would sing of her rescue, her betrothal, and her desertion, as the sun, who brought back the spring, forsook her for the gay and wanton summer. It would go on to frame tales of strife and jealousy, ending in the death of the bright hero ; it would speak of the bride whom he has forsaken as going up to die upon his funeral pile. This woful tragedy, whose long sorrow called forth a deep and intense sympathy which we,