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SCHOOL OF THEOLOGY AT CLAREMONT
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CONTENTS

7 « Preface
9 * Acknowledgments

11 ¢ Introduction
11 * Gods and Heroes in the Garden
27 * Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the Mythology of Plants

31 ¢ Gods in Love
32 ¢ Bay Laurel: Daphne and Apollo
40 ¢ Pomegranate: Pluto and Persephone
48 « Hyacinth: Apollo and Hyacinthus
52 * Poppy Anemone: Venus and Adonis

II 57 © Hubris and Human Excess

58 « Narcissus: Echo and Narcissus
66 * Grape and Ivy: Bacchus and the Pirates
76 * Olive: Arachne and Minerva
84 * Common Myrrh: Myrrha and Cinyras

III 91° Piety and Devotion

92 ¢ Oak and Linden: Baucis and Philemon

IV 101 * Mortals in Love

102 * Black Mulberry: Pyramus and Thisbe
108 « Apple: Atalanta and Hippomenes
Vv 115 « A Guided Walk through Ovid’s Garden
117 « Aconite
118 « Barley
119 * Crocus
120 « Cypress
121 ¢ Frankincense
122 * Heliotrope
123 ¢ Lily
124 « Lotus
125 * Mint
126 * Mushroom
127 ¢ Pine
128 « Poplar
130 * Reed
130 « Smilax
131° Violet

133 « Notes

134 * Map of Ancient Greece and the Mediterranean World

135 ¢ Glossary
141 + Sources and Suggestions for Further Reading
144 « Illustration Credits
| | | ;
PREFACE

The Mythology of Plants is designed to provide enthusiasts of both

mythology and the garden with a sampling of the numerous plants
known and prized in ancient Greece and Rome. In those societies, all
life—whether plant, animal, or human—was believed to be intimately
connected with the divine; consequently the mythology of plants is a
topic of enormous scope. It is curious that few books are dedicated to
this subject; among those that are, even the best too often attempt to
be all inclusive, listing the myths associated with various plants, but
without relating the stories in any detail. This book, by contrast, limits
its selection of plants to those species that feature in the Metamor-
phoses, an epic poem written by Ovid, the Roman poet who is among
the finest and most celebrated storytellers of the classical world. In
addition, the descriptions herein of gardens, plants, and myths are
enhanced throughout by photographs of Greek painted vases, Pom-
peian gardens, and Roman frescoes and statuary; European paintings
from the fifteenth century and later; and nineteenth-century botan-
ical prints.
A brief introduction to the gardens, plants, and plant lore of ancient
Greece and Rome provides the background necessary for appreciat-
ing the intimacy of the plant-human relationship found in classical
culture. Thereupon follow the best known and most fully developed
of Ovid's plant-related myths, grouped first by theme (to give some
sense of the content and structure of Ovid’s poem)—gods in love,
 hubris and human excess, piety and devotion, and mortals in love—
and then by plant. Each tale is prefaced with botanical information
and an account of the plant’s religious, medicinal, culinary, and other
uses in antiquity. In these accounts Greek names for deities and he-
roes have been employed in references to Greek cultural contexts and
literary works, while Roman names have been adopted for referenc-
es to the culture and literature of Rome. The myths themselves are
new prose translations by the author, made from Ovid's original Latin
texts and incorporating creative license only when a literal transla-
tion could result in misreading or confusion. Ovid's poetic style is at
once dramatic and learned. His scholarly allusions, as well as his use
of second-person narration—he addresses the characters directly at
particularly emotional or tense times in the stories—have been pre-
served. Finally, the plant-associated myths that Ovid recounts brief-
ly or mentions only in passing are grouped alphabetically by plant,
without organization by theme, in the section entitled A Guided Walk
through Ovid’s Garden.
In order to assist the reader’s navigation of this garden of myth, a
map of the ancient Mediterranean world and a glossary, which in-
cludes the most frequently mentioned names (those of gods and of
ancient authors) and relatively obscure geographic and mythologi-
cal references in Ovid's poem, are provided. These are supplemented
by notes identifying direct references to the writings of other ancient
authors. Each book in the list of sources was consulted in the prepa-
ration of this work, and all are suitable references for readers wishing
to delve more deeply into this subject.

8. PREFACE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A debt of gratitude is owed to a number of individuals without whose

support this book could not have taken its present form. Among them
are Kenneth Lapatin, who encouraged the project from its inception;
Donald Dunham, who patiently fielded myriad questions regarding
organization and content; Melinda Zoehrer, who verified the text's
botanical accuracy; and Daniel Lees, who generously offered expert
guidance on matters of style. At Getty Publications, I am grateful to
Robert T. Flynn, editor in chief, for taking the project on; Beatrice
Hohenegger, project editor, for adeptly guiding the manuscript
through the editorial process; Jane Bobko for her sensitive copy edit-
ing; and designer Kurt Hauser, production coordinator Elizabeth
Kahn, and permissions coordinator Pam Moffat for enabling the
union of text and images on which this book’s identity so heavily
depends. The majority of the images could not have been obtained
without the assistance of Tim Murray and his staff at the University
of Delaware, Morris Library, Special Collections; Lauri Perkins at the
Winterthur Library, Printed Book and Periodical Collection; and
the Soprintendenza Speciale per i Beni Archeologici, in Naples and
Pompeii as well as Rome, all of whom allowed and facilitated exten-
sive study and photography.

Annette Giesecke
Figure 1. Venus in the shell. Fresco from the garden of the House
of Venus in the Shell (detail), Pompeii, regio 11.3.3, after A.D. 62
INTRODUCTION
Gods and Heroes in the Garden

The Garden of Venus in the Shell

n the shadow of Vesuvius lies an extraordinary domestic garden.
This botanical oasis, which contains some well-preserved garden
murals, is the focal point of the ancient Pompeian house known today
as the House of Venus in the Shell. For a visitor to the archaeological
site of Pompeii, the house would be easy to miss were it not for a
discreet sign posted on its exterior. The exteriors of ancient Roman
houses were, by modern standards, remarkably restrained, and like
all the other houses at Pompeii, this one does not boast of, or even
hint at, the treasures within. Passing from the street into the vesti-
bule, the visitor hasn't long to wait for the house to reveal its secret.
Opposite the entry, beyond a glittering pool of collected rainwater, a
mass of greenery is visible through an opening in the deep red and
ocher walls of the house’s atrium, or formal reception hall. This open-
ing is the point of transition from the more public to the more private
spaces of the house.
Once within the house’s private zone, one is surprised to real-
ize that the garden's plantings dominate the architecture that sur-
rounds them—and not the other way around. The garden is not
an unruly cottage garden but a precisely ordered topiary garden
of deep green, clumping myrtle and yew, punctuated by dark pink
roses and demarcated by squared myrtle hedges. Although the gar-
den’s original plantings are irretrievably lost, both the species and the
general arrangement of the flora here are based on diverse literary
and archaeological sources, and thus capture an original spirit and
intent. This rectangular garden space, situated so as to be visible
from every room around it, is laid out symmetrically in two beds

11
 divided by a path. As one approaches the path, a vivid mural painted
on the wall at the garden’s far end comes into view: in the center of
the fresco, the goddess Venus reclines on an oversized conch shell
that floats on a blue-green sea (fig. 1). Her cloak billowing behind
her in the breeze, the goddess wears only an array of elegant golden
jewels. Accompanying her are winged cupids, one riding a dolphin
through the waves. This painting simultaneously represents the birth
of Venus who, as the Greek poet Hesiod writes, was born from the
ocean’s waves, and mimics a view out to sea, such as that enjoyed by
some of the grander houses in Pompeii.’
Venus may be the centerpiece of the mural, but other arresting
scenes have been depicted here as well. On either side of the goddess
are paintings representing views into densely planted gardens popu-
lated by a variety of birds (figs. 2, 3). Orioles, pigeons, titmice, swal-
lows, thrushes, and shrikes flit through the air or settle on branches,
while herons perch on the low garden fence and stride along the gar-
den floor. Recognizable among the plantings are shrubs of oleander
and myrtle in flower, rosebushes laden with red blooms, diminutive
pines, and a clump of southernwood, as well as fruit-bearing straw-
berry trees and cherry plums. Both garden vistas are framed by a dec-
orative garland of ivy, with a theater mask hanging from its topmost
point, and both form backdrops for a piece of sculpted marble garden
art. Painted in front of the garden to the goddess’s right is a statue
of Mars, god of war, and painted before the garden to her left is a
bubbling fountain, which some of the birds use as a bath. The the-
ater masks are emblems of Bacchus, best known as the god of wine,
but also the patron of the dramatic arts—and a common presence in
Roman gardens (as is discussed below).
This exceptional garden, with its rich plantings and dramatic fres-
coes, was clearly the heart of the house in every sense, and greatly
valued. It made it possible for the owners to live immersed in nature.
Filled with birdsong and the scent of roses, this tranquil spot would |
have provided a refuge from the shouts of beggars and hucksters,
the clatter of carts, the raucous laughter of sailors, the clanging of
a smithy’s iron, and all the other clamor produced just outside the
house's door by the inhabitants of this once-bustling port town.

12° INTRODUCTION
Figure 2. Statue of Mars.
Fresco from the garden
of the House of Venus in
the Shell (detail), Pompeii,

regio 11.3.3, after A.D. 62

Figure 3. Garden fountain.

Fresco from the garden
of the House of Venus in
the Shell (detail), Pompeii,

regio 11.3.3, after A.D. 62

GODS AND HEROES ° 13

 The Roman House and Garden
s early excavations tended to ignore or destroy gardens and gar-
den paintings, the House of Venus in the Shell offers a unique
impression of Roman domestic space. Most houses in Pompeii, how-
ever, did have gardens embedded within, many of them visible from
the entry. So did the houses at Herculaneum and other ancient sites
on the Bay of Naples that were buried and preserved by the erup-
tion of Vesuvius in A.D. 79. There is a great deal of variation among
individual ground plans, but such variation occurs around a core of
rooms and garden areas having a more or less formulaic arrangement.

14 * INTRODUCTION
 Upon crossing the threshold of a Roman town house, one walks
through a constricted passageway called the fauces—literally, the
“jaws” of the house. The fauces lead directly into the atrium, a light-
filled public reception area at the center of which lies an impluvium,
a catch basin for collecting rainwater. In oldest times the core of the
Roman house, the atrium was surrounded by a series of rooms, some
of them likely bedrooms, called cubicula by the Romans. At the far
end of the atrium lies the tablinum, the homeowner's office, and
beyond that lies the garden, surrounded by a colonnaded covered
walkway known as a peristyle. A series of rooms for dining, relaxing,
and entertaining are arranged around the peristyle. The peristyle gar-
den is frequently more or less on an axis with the fauces, atrium, and
tablinum, and this is the reason it is often visible from the moment
of entry. This interior, open-air garden was fitted out with fountains
and collections of statuary that included likenesses of animals as well
as those of athletes, philosophers, gods, and various mythological
Figure 4. Peristyle garden, characters (fig. 4). If the gardens were particularly small or lay adja-
House of L. Caecilius cent to a wall, the planted spaces were illusionistically expanded by
Jucundus, Pompeii, regio garden murals like those of the House of Venus in the Shell. Such
v.1.26. This house was built
garden murals were not always painted with strict botanical accuracy;
in the late third or early
instead, they often coupled an impressionistic style with the paradisi-
second century B.c. and
was extensively remodeled
acal effect of spontaneous bloom and fruit production irrespective of
in the first halfofthe first seasonality. Nevertheless, garden paintings do provide some of the
century A.D. best evidence for the appearance of peristyle gardens and the plants
they contained. Judging from these paintings, as well as from scien-
Figure 5. Peristyle garden
tific evidence such as carbonized seeds and root cavities preserved
with ornamental fishponds,
by Vesuvius’s pyroclastic flow, Roman domestic gardens were lushly
Estate of Julia Felix, Pom-

peii, regio 11.4.2-12. The city

planted with herbs, flowers, trees, and shrubs. Some of the plants
block occupied by this ex- were native, others imported; some were ornamental, others—the
pansive estate was first in- vast majority—were also edible or otherwise potentially useful.
habited in the early second Although Vesuvius'’s eruption has preserved the impression that
century B.c., and the estate
Roman householders lived in harmony with nature, surrounded by
itsel{—some two-thirds
the sights, sounds, and scents of the gardens in their homes, this had
of which was dedicated to
garden spaces—continued
not always been the case. As exemplified by the House of the Surgeon
to evolve until the eruption in Pompeii, which likely dates from the second half of the third cen-
of Vesuvius in A.D. 79. tury B.c., early Italian houses did contain gardens, but these were

GODS AND HEROES »* 15

 located to the rear of the house and were primarily what one would
describe as kitchen gardens, provisioning the household. Two pri-
mary factors determined the relocation of the garden from the rear
to the heart of the house—and a shift in emphasis from productive
to increasingly ornamental plantings. The first of these was the inte-
gration of the peristyle into the plan of the traditional Roman house,
from the late third century B.c. onward. Peristyles were not a native
Italian architectural form; they were borrowed and adapted from the
Greek world, where they served as a feature of public rather than
domestic architecture. The Greeks, however, apparently did not plant
their public peristyle courtyards, nor did they plant the small open
courts at the center of their houses. Courtyards in the homes of clas-
sical Greece were additional spaces in which to work or play, but
were not used as gardens. Gardens in general were utilitarian in the
Greek world and took the form of orchards, vineyards, and fields of
grain, as well as market gardens where fruit, vegetables, and flowers
were grown. There were also sacred plantings associated with tem-
ples and tombs. Trees were planted in marketplaces and gymnasia
(exercise grounds) to provide shade from the harsh Mediterranean
sun, but there were no gardens that one could describe as being
purely ornamental pleasure gardens.
The second factor that influenced the evolution of the Roman
domestic garden from appendage to focal point was directly related
to the first—or rather, the two went hand in hand. This was the explo-
sion of Roman villa construction. Enriched by foreign conquests as
well as by increasingly available opportunities for gain in an Italy
ravaged by civil war (property was made available by proscriptions
and failed agricultural reforms, and there was an ample supply of
slave labor), wealthy Romans acquired a taste for sprawling villas
with lavish gardens that were both productive and ornamental. Their
owners filled these estates with magnificent collections of statuary,
much of it created by Greek sculptors, and they commissioned lively
frescoes having mythological and botanical themes to decorate their
houses’ walls. The estates’ grounds, meanwhile, contained orchards,
vineyards, and sculpture-filled formal gardens boasting elaborate
fountains and pools, the latter sometimes used for swimming or

16: INTRODUCTION
 raising exotic fish (fig. 5). The grounds also featured a wide variety
of architectural refinements such as towers and covered walkways
from which to enjoy expansive views, as well as exercise grounds,
bath complexes, aviaries, column-encircled halls, and vast chambers
to store the villas’ own produce. From the letters of the Roman states-
man, philosopher, and author Cicero we learn that his villa incorpo-
rated a replica of the Academy, Plato famous school of philosophy,
which Cicero wanted to furnish with thematically appropriate statu-
ary.” Indeed, it was standard practice to outfit one’s villa with struc-
tures meant to recall a wide range of monuments or topographical
features from around a world increasingly under Roman control. The
Nile River, “Babylonian” hanging gardens, and Persian-style hunting
parks, known as paradeisoi (paradises), were all reproduced, though
Figure 6. Fresco with
on a scale suited to an estate setting.
sanctuary garden, oecus
Such monuments, many of them having some connection with
(entertainment room) 15

of the Villa of Poppaea at

gardens, were re-created not only in built form as garden follies but
Oplontis (detail), Torre also in paint, on the walls of bedrooms, dining rooms, and chambers
Annunziata, ca. 50-40 B.C. of entertainment. Among the best-preserved paintings of this sort is

GODS AND HEROES = 17

 an illusionistic view into a sanctuary garden that adorns a wall of a
chamber in the so-called Villa of Poppaea (fig. 6). This villa, exca-
vated from its Vesuvian burial at the ancient site of Oplontis (modern
Torre Annunziata), is thought to have belonged to the family of the
emperor Nero's wife. The sanctuary portrayed here is a precinct of
Apollo, the god of prophecy and healing, whose sacred bronze tri-
pod stands in the center of a leafy peristyle garden, its gate left ajar.
At the neighboring site of Boscoreale a bedroom in a rustic villa was
decorated with a mural depicting a sanctuary of Diana, goddess of
wild places and of the hunt. In the painting, smoke still rises from
an incense burner standing before the goddess’s cult statue, lending
the composition a mystical feel. On another wall appears a cluster of
town houses, and on still another, a rustic grotto shaded by a pergola
and cooled by an ornate fountain.
Important models for Roman villa design were the palaces and
estates of the monarchs, governors, and officials who had inher-
ited administration of the massive empire forged by Alexander the
Great. This empire, created between 336 and 323 B.c., stretched from
the Ionian Sea to the Himalaya, uniting European Greece with the
territories of the Persian Empire, including Asia Minor, Syria, and
Egypt. In the spirit of Alexander’s desire to mingle Greek culture
with the cultures of the peoples whom he conquered, these palaces
and estates blended Greek, Persian, Mesopotamian, and Egyptian
influences. Such amalgamation was especially evident in the great
palace built in Alexandria by the Ptolemaic kings of Egypt. Covering
a quarter of the city’s total area, this royal complex contained not
only a palace nestled amid spacious parks but also a theater, an area
for wrestling and boxing (a palaestra), a gymnasium, and temples, as
well as zoological and botanical gardens.
Roman villas were initially built as luxury retreats on the Tyr-
rhenian coast, from Pisa to Salerno, which offered both spectacu-
lar views and a pleasant climate. The Villa of Poppaea at Oplontis,
mentioned above, and the Villa of the Papyri at Herculaneum, as
well as the Villa Arianna and the Villa San Marco at Stabiae, are par-
ticularly good examples of coastal villas. Eventually, however, villas
came to be built not only in the areas just outside the walls of Rome

18- INTRODUCTION
but even in the city’s center, in spite of the difficulty of finding suf-
ficient open space to construct them. Moreover, it was not uncom-
mon for Romans with sufficient means to own more than one villa.
Naturally, ownership of multiple villas brought bragging rights that
could enhance one’s social prestige and political clout. Indeed, the
villa became an extraordinarily important symbol of one’s social sta-
tus, and for this reason wealthy Romans entered into a lively compe-
tition to outdo their peers in villa buying and decorating. The right
choice of sculpture for one’s collection—Greek masterpieces as well
as busts of renowned philosophers and statesmen—could make one
appear cultured and learned. Exotic landscape features would sug-
gest that the villa’s owner had symbolically achieved world dominion
and was equal in stature (at least in his own home) to the great kings
of Persia and Egypt, figures wealthy and powerful enough to create
lush, water-filled gardens in the harshest desert climates. At the same
time, though, the Romans were a people with extremely conservative
values, and it was important not to stray too far from the agrarian
ties of one’s virtuous ancestors. Much was therefore made of the pro-
ductive capacity of the Roman villa as well, which provided a potent
rationale for equipping one’s villas with orchards, vineyards, fisher-
ies, oyster beds, and rabbit farms—features simultaneously extrava-
gant and rustic.
It was not long before the villa fashion of the Roman aristoc-
racy spilled over into the lesser Italian towns of Pompeii and
Herculaneum, where householders began to transform their town
houses into miniature villas. Besides the House of Venus in the
Shell, described above, one such Pompeian miniature is the house
next door, whose garden is easily twice the size of its interior living
spaces. Known as the House of Octavius Quartio, this dwelling has
not one but three garden areas. The first is the atrium, containing a
flower-rimmed impluvium with a decorative fountain; the second,
a small peristyle; and the third, an expansive garden, part orchard
and part park, that lies beyond the peristyle. This large main garden,
outfitted with vine-clad pergolas creating a shaded walk, includes
elaborate water features—fountains and decorative channels recall-
ing both the temple tombs of Egypt and the palaces of ancient Persia.

GODS AND HEROES = 19

 Among the statuettes that decorated this garden were representa-
tions of Egyptian-style sphinxes; animals attacking their prey; the
god Bacchus; a pair of Muses, patron goddesses of the arts; and the
hero Hercules as a baby, strangling a snake. In addition to statuary,
Figure 7. Pyramus and
paintings of a Persian-style hunting park, of Venus’s birth, and of
Thisbe. Fresco from the
tragic themes drawn from the world of myth served to decorate
main garden terrace of the
House of Octavius Quartio
this garden. Here the handsome and fatally self-absorbed Narcissus
(detail), Pompeii, regio as well as the star-crossed young lovers Pyramus and Thisbe appear
11.2.2, after A.D. 62 (fig. 7; see also fig. 43).

20 + INTRODUCTION
Mythology in the Garden
A first glance, it might seem that the garden art, both statuary
and painting, found in the House of Venus in the Shell and in
the House of Octavius Quartio was largely an eclectic mix chosen
more for effect than thematic content. Even so, if sphinxes suggested
the gardens of Egyptian kings, and sculpted Muses conjured the dis-
tant sanctuary gardens of Greece, what meaning appropriate to gar-
dens did representations of gods such as Venus, Mars, and Bacchus
convey? And why fill one’s garden with heart-wrenching scenes from
the world of myth? Closer investigation reveals that these gods and
mythical personalities had strong ties with nature and plant life,
and their presence enhanced the religious or paradisiacal quality of
the garden. What’s more, even if gods and mythological characters
were not represented in garden art, so many garden plants had ties to
the world of myth that the Roman garden was always filled with an
otherworldly aura.
Among the gods found most frequently in Roman gardens is
Venus. As the goddess of love and erotic desire, Venus was believed
to be the source of fertility and life in humans, animals, and plants.
Since it was through her power and favor that flowers bloomed and
fruit ripened, Venus was viewed as the protector of gardens. Roman
religion, like other aspects of Roman culture, was heavily influenced
by the outside world, particularly by Greece, and early on Venus had
become identified with the Greek goddess Aphrodite, who came
equipped with an extensive mythology. Representations of the god-
dess’s miraculous birth from the sea made for wonderful garden decor,
as did fountains and other water features, which hinted at the goddess’s
presence. Cupid, whom the Greeks knew as Eros, was another potent
god of love, represented either as the goddess’s son or as a close com-
panion. Venus’s lover was Mars, an ancient Italian god of agriculture
and war, who became identified with the Greek god Ares. Both Cupid
and Mars, a god of love and a god of agriculture, would be natural
additions to garden art, and their close ties with the goddess of gar-
dens made them all the more appropriate. Although Venus was linked
to all plant life, certain plants were particularly sacred to her. These
included the rose and myrtle, both of which were associated in legend

GODS AND HEROES = 21

22 * INTRODUCTION
 with her birth. The most highly valued and most extensively cultivated
flower in antiquity, the rose was said to have sprung from the sand,
suffusing the earth with color, when Venus emerged from the waves.’
And before the Graces came to clothe the newly born goddess in robes
of divine splendor, she sought shelter behind a myrtle bush. Rose and
myrtle, planted around Venus’s temples and worn in garlands by her
celebrants, would remain symbols of the goddess and her powers.
An even more popular fixture of the Roman garden was Bacchus,
the Roman equivalent of the Greek god Dionysus, the god of wine and
the vintage (fig. 8). Bacchus’s presence in the garden signaled merri-
ment and good cheer, as did the presence of the nymphs and satyrs
who were his constant mythological companions. But there was more
to this god and his powers than an enabling of festive pleasures. He
originated as the god of liquid life—of the life-sustaining fluids in
plants, in particular. Luxuriant plant growth was therefore viewed as
a direct result of his influence. Over time the god also became asso-
ciated with wine, milk, and honey, all fluids that were both life-sus-
taining and derived from nature. Worshipping this god brought
tremendous benefits, for in his eyes all were equal: young and old,
male and female, slave and freeman, even animal and human. Wine,
considered his greatest gift to humankind, was an important source
of relief from the worries and hardships of daily life; and contrary to
the misconceptions of the unenlightened, this god frowned on over-
indulgence. One could commune with the god by drinking not only
wine but also milk, honey, or the blood of animals freshly killed in an
ecstatic trance. In their increasingly urban environment, the citizens
of Athens found a way other than animal slaughter to honor their
god. In Athens he would be honored by dramatic performances, and
as this art form had been invented in his honor, he became the god
of the theater. Thus the depiction of a tragic or comic mask—both
highly popular subjects among mosaicists, sculptors, and painters—
Figure 8. Head of the
was enough to suggest the god’s presence. The same was true of clus-
young Bacchus, Roman,
ters of grapes and the vines upon which they grew, whether they were
A.D. 1-50. Bronze and
silver, H. 21.6 cm (8% in.).
planted in the garden or appeared as a decorative motif on a painted
Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty wall, a mosaic pavement, or a carved garden furnishing. In addition
Museum, 96.AB.52 to the grape, ivy was particularly sacred to Bacchus. An evergreen

GODS AND HEROES = 23

 Figure 9. Hercules and the golden apples of the Hesperides. Fresco from the caldarium (hot
bath chamber) of the Villa of Poppaea at Oplontis (detail), Torre Annunziata, ca. A.D. 1-15

24 ° INTRODUCTION
 plant, ivy symbolized eternal life and was there-
fore a fitting emblem of this miracle-working
deity.
Not only gods but also a variety of heroes
and heroines having ties to the plant world
could regularly be found in the Roman gar-
den—Hercules, for instance, revered for hav-
ing rid the world of a host of monsters such
as the dread Nemean Lion, the man-slay-
ing Stymphalian Birds, and the grotesque
Hydra of Lerna that grew new heads to
replace those that were lopped off. This
hero might seem slightly out of place in
gardens filled with references to a life-giv-
ing Venus or to Bacchus and his celebrants
until one recalls that Hercules ultimately
owed his fame to the goddess Juno, whose
persecution of the hero began at his birth (in
a rage this queen of the gods sent a serpent to
kill him). It was she who set in motion his perfor-
mance of the Twelve Labors. Goddess of marriage and
childbirth, Juno (known to the Greeks as Hera) likely
originated as another deity responsible for the fertil-
ity of the earth. In the world of horticulture, the vitex,
pomegranate, and apple were sacred to her. The apple tree
and its fruit, like the pomegranate, symbolized fertility, and according
to legend the earth goddess Gaia created the apple as a wedding gift
for Juno. The first apple tree, which happened to bear golden apples,
ee He tules ae was tended by nymphs known as the Hesperides and guarded by a
Cerberus. Black-figure serpent. Besides slaying the monsters mentioned above, the ostensi-
amphora (storage jar) with bly impossible tasks set for Hercules by Juno included fetching one of
Dionysus and Ariadne,
these golden apples (fig. 9; see also fig. 45); when he succeeded, the
Greek, Athens, ca. C. : >
. nani ae hero, too, became linked to the apple's lore. Later, Hercules was sent
Attributed to the Leagros ;
Group. Terracotta, H. 30.2 cm
to capture the triple-headed dog Cerberus, who guarded the under-
(11% in.). Los Angeles, J. Paul World (fig. 10). When Hercules dragged Cerberus up from his home
Getty Museum, 86.AE.80 beneath the earth, the dog barked and struggled furiously. As the

GODS AND HEROES »* 25

 Roman poet Ovid recounts, foam and slobber from the hellhound’s
mouth fell on the soil, producing monkshood, a suitably toxic plant.
Many characters from myth engendered or are linked with plants.
Among other well-known examples are Narcissus, who, entranced
by his own reflection, wasted away to become the flower that bears
his name; and Hyacinthus, fatally wounded by a discus and com-
memorated by a hyacinth growing from his pooling blood. The
lovely Daphne became a laurel tree to escape the love-struck god
Apollo’ relentless pursuit, and young Pyramus, believing his beloved
Thisbe dead, fell upon his sword, his spurting blood forever stain-
ing the mulberry’s white fruit. These stories and others are collected
in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the epic poem that has been the primary
source of Greek and Roman mythology since the end of the first cen-
tury A.D. Ovid was imitated even in his lifetime, was read and quoted
in the Middle Ages, and became a favorite in the Renaissance. Over
the ages countless authors and artists have incurred a debt to him,
among them Chaucer, Shakespeare, Titian, Bernini, and Mozart.
Plant mythology is not Ovid’s sole focus, so his treatment of it is not
exhaustive. Botanical myths pervade the Metamorphoses, however,
making it a worthy selection as the source of the myths recounted in
the following pages.

26 ° INTRODUCTION
Ovid's Metamorphoses and the Mythology of Plants
PuBLIus Ovipius Naso, known to us as Ovid (fig. 11), was born at
one of the most significant moments in Roman history. The precise date
of his birth was March 20, 43 B.C., just a year after the assassination of
Julius Caesar. The murder of Caesar, a shrewd and far-sighted politician
as well as a consummate military tactician, was momentous enough in
itself. That it also provided an opportunity for Caesar's adoptive son,
Octavian, to become the dominant figure in Roman politics was a con-
sequence of immense importance. The rise of Octavian, who would
come to be called Augustus, went hand in hand with the transforma-
tion of Rome from a republic governed by both elected officials and the
body of elite citizens making up the Senate to an empire controlled by a
single individual. This was a radical though perhaps inevitable shift, as
Rome had by then extended her territory far beyond the shores of Italy.
Rome’ old constitution, perfectly suitable for a relatively small, conser-
vatively minded agrarian community, had become obsolete. However
unavoidable constitutional change may have been, it was also the case
that Romans had a deep-seated suspicion of any protracted concentra-
tion of power in the hands of one person; this was, after all, what had
occasioned the untimely death of Caesar. The first de facto emperor in
a country intolerant of monarchy, Octavian had to tread with care. He
capitalized on his having put an end to decades of civil war so intense and
bloody that it threatened irreparably to rend Roman society, and pro-
moted himself as author of a new era of universal peace. Under the aus-
pices of Rome's First Citizen, as Octavian styled himself, the republican
constitution was restored, at least in name, as a new age of harmony and
plenty, founded on piety and the agrarian values of old, commenced.
It was, accordingly, an era of peace and stability in which Ovid
came of age; it was also what has come to be known as the golden age
of Roman literary production. Ovid’s education had not been geared

INTRODUCTION + 27
28 + INTRODUCTION
 toward preparing him for a literary career—his family envisioned a life
of politics for him—but the writing of poetry seems to have become
a full-time occupation for Ovid when he was in his twenties. Witty,
urbane, learned, and focused largely on matters of the heart, his early
poetic endeavors met with approbation and acclaim, reflecting as they
did a mood different from the lofty, often somber or moralizing tones
of Vergil and Horace, older contemporaries who had witnessed the
horrors of civil war and the heavy price of the ensuing Augustan peace.
But Ovid proved to be too free a spirit for the regime under which he
lived. In a.p. 8, the emperor ordered Ovid's exile to Tomi, a city on
the shore of the Black Sea, at the easternmost fringes of the Roman
Empire—in Roman eyes, the edge of the civilized world. In Ovid's own
words, this unwelcome development was the result of “a poem and a
mistake” (carmen et error).° Lively debate about Ovid's reference con-
tinues, but the poem and error may be one and the same, namely the
work entitled The Art of Love. Devoted to the art of seduction and glo-
rifying adultery, this poem appeared to mock much that Augustus and
his regime officially stood for: family values, piety, and the production
of legitimate offspring. Thus Ovid would spend his last years in what
he describes, with distaste, as an inhospitable, even savage cultural
wasteland.
The Metamorphoses, the poetic tour de force for which Ovid is
chiefly known, is thought to have been substantially complete when
Figure 11. Luigi Ademollo he left for Tomi. Indeed, it is fortunate that it survived, given that its
(Italian, 1764-1849), author reports angrily consigning it (“still taking shape and rough,” in
frontispiece for P. Ovidii his words) to flames prior to his exile.* In both form and content, the
Nasonis Metamorphoseon
Metamorphoses was unprecedented. The work was divided into fifteen
Libri XV cum Appositis
Italico Carmine
parts, signaling that it was an epic poem different from Homer's and
Interpretationibus ac Vergil’s texts, which were divided into an even number of books or
Notis (Florence, 1824; chapters. Nor was Ovid’s subject matter that of his predecessors: the
repr. 1832), vol. 1. The heroic deeds of a superhuman figure such as the warrior Achilles or
Phoenician princess Aeneas, originator of the future Roman state, do not dominate the
Europa, abducted by
narrative here. Instead, the reader encounters a vast, seemingly eclec-
Jupiter (disguised as a
white bull), holds aloft
tic assemblage of Greek and Roman myths tenuously united only by
a medal inscribed with the motif of transformation, generally of a human or divine being into
Ovid’s name and likeness. an animal or plant.

OVID'S METAMORPHOSES * 29
 The sheer number of collected myths, as well as their vivid poetic
treatment, secured for all posterity Ovid’s distinction as chief Greco-
Roman mythographer. But as one would expect of a poet with Ovid's
talent, the Metamorphoses is more than a repository of tales myriad and
colorful. The reader’s first impression of the work as an expression of
tumultuous spontaneity is quickly disproved upon closer inspection.
Indeed, the multiplicity of devices accounting for the poems intricate
architecture provides the stories with an inherent cohesion. Apart from
the fact that most of the myths recounted entail a change of form, the
overarching narrative progression is chronological, commencing at the
beginning of time, with the birth of the known world, and culminating
in the deification of Julius Caesar.
Within this temporal frame, three primary story divisions have been
recognized: a first group concentrating on gods and their interactions
with humans, a second on human actors, and a third on historical and
quasi-historical figures. Embedded in these groupings, which have
broad thematic connections with each other, are smaller clusters—
myths closely related in theme, setting, or the family ties of the protago-
nists. Thus, for example, the story of the self-absorbed youth Narcissus
shares the theme of hubris with the story of Pentheus, a young prince
of Thebes who refused to acknowledge the divinity of Bacchus, his own
cousin. Narcissus would become the flower that bears his name, and
Pentheus, the victim of a primal sacrifice to the god he disdained. The
tale of Pentheus, in particular, is one of a group of narratives that have to
do with members of the royal house of Thebes; another is the tale of the
princess Europa: she was abducted and raped by Jupiter, who had trans-
formed himself into an irresistibly lovely, tame white bull. What emerges
from Ovid's treatment of the assembled myths is a picture of both gods
and humans that is less than flattering; their actions are governed by
blinding lust, greed, and vengeance more often than magnanimity and
foresight. While the power of the gods is absolute, their dispensation
of justice is often quite unjust. The guilty can count on being punished,
but blamelessness and piety are no guarantee of divine reward. The only
constant in Ovid's universe is mutability: the earth and all its creatures—
even the gods above—are eternally subject to unpredictable change.

30° INTRODUCTION
32° GODS IN LOVE
 PEAY AUSELGiais nosis
he mythological associations of the bay laurel (figs. 12, 13), known
also by the common names of sweet bay, bay tree, and Grecian
laurel, made it one of the most culturally significant plants in ancient
Greece and Rome. Native to the Mediterranean region, this broad-
leaved evergreen can take the form of a large shrub or relatively small
tree, reaching heights of eight to twelve meters (26-40 ft.). Its bushy
growth habit and small leaves make it an ideal plant for trimming
into hedges or topiary. In spring the laurel’s glossy leaves are offset
by yellow-green flowers that, on female plants, are followed by black
berries. While certainly popular in antiquity as an ornamental garden
plant, the laurel was also used in cooking and for medicinal purposes.
Its aromatic leaves could enhance the flavor of meats or stews, and
whether soaked or pressed to extract their potent oil, were believed to
cure a host of illnesses ranging from general exhaustion to influenza
and disorders of the liver and kidneys.
In the mythological realm, the laurel was sacred to Apollo, god
of music, archery, healing, and prophetic utterances. Appropriately,
a famous laurel tree grew at the god’s primary sanctuary of Delphi,
which lies on the slopes of Mount Parnassus in Greece; and according
to the Greek travel writer Pausanias, Apollo's first temple on the site
was constructed entirely of laurel.‘ Thought to be the center of the
Figure 12. David Blair earth, Delphi was the location of the most important oracle in the clas-
(Scottish, 1852-1925),
sical world. It was this oracle that forewarned Oedipus that he would
Laurus nobilis, Linn. From
one day kill his father and marry his mother. It was this same oracle
Robert Bentley and Henry
Trimen, Medicinal Plants.
that predicted the overthrow of the wealthy Lydian king Croesus by
... (London, 1880), vol. 3, the Persians and that prophesied the future greatness of Alexander
no, 221 the Great. Those consulting the oracle posed their questions to the

GODS IN LOVE = 33
 Pythia, Apollo's priestess, who reportedly inhaled intoxicating vapors
arising from a fissure in the earth and chewed laurel leaves to enhance
Figure 13. Wreath with her psychic trance (fig. 14).
detached stem including Various myths relate the manner in which the laurel became sacred
leaves and detached ber- to Apollo. Best known is the story told by Ovid in which Apollo fell
ries, Greek, B.C. 300-100.
desperately in love with Daphne, the daughter of the river god Peneus.
Gold, 26.3 (front to back)
Although Daphne did not return Apollo's affection, he pursued her
x 34 (side to side) cm

(10% x 13% in.). Los

relentlessly. It is this story that explains both the Greek name daphne
Angeles, J. Paul Getty for the laurel and Apollo's motivation for designating this tree as his
Museum, 92.AM.89. Gold sacred emblem. Other sources link the laurel directly to the god’s
wreaths such as this— acquisition of the oracle at Delphi, which had not always belonged to
delicate and costly replicas
him. According to the Roman author Aelian, Delphi was first sacred
of wreaths made of real
to the earth goddess Gaia, whose monstrous son, the serpent Python,
laurel branches—were
dedicated as gifts to the
guarded the oracle.? Apollo slew Python, and having gone to the
gods or served as honorific nearby valley of Tempe to wash off the serpent’s blood, he returned
funerary offerings. victoriously to Delphi wearing a crown made of the laurel that grew

34 ° GODS IN LOVE
 abundantly throughout the valley. Thus the laurel became a symbol of
victory possessing an inherent purifying potency. In Greece, crowns
of laurel were given to victors at the Pythian Games, athletic contests
held at Delphi in honor of Apollo. Additionally, laurel branches were
used to sweep holy places, to purify houses polluted by death, and to
safeguard supplicants.
As was the case with much of Greek culture, the laurel and its
symbolism carried over into Rome. Here the laurel wreath not only
symbolized victory but also served as an emblem of distinction and
a signifier of peace, prosperity, and healing. In the Roman world the
Figure 14. Camillo Miola primary means of achieving prominence was through military con-
(Italian, 1840-1919), The quest, and Roman generals celebrating their triumphs wore crowns
Oracle, 1880. Oil on canvas,
of laurel and carried laurel branches in their hands. One such victo-
108 X 142.9 cm (42% x

5614 in.). Los Angeles,

rious general was Augustus, who attributed his success in avenging
J. Paul Getty Museum, Caesar’s murder and in establishing an era of peace and prosperity
72.PA.32 after years of civil war to the protection of Apollo. As a result, Apollo

GODS IN LOVE + 35
 and his symbols, the laurel among them, appeared everywhere in the
art, architecture, and general cultural fabric of Augustan Rome. Two
laurel trees flanked the entrance of Augustus’s house, purposefully
located next to the Temple of Apollo on Rome’s Palatine Hill.
The laurel’s symbolism of peace, abundance, healing, and vic-
tory guaranteed this plant a place of prominence in two of the most
extraordinary extant examples of Augustan art. One is the famous
paradisiacal garden mural that decorated the walls of a subterranean
dining room in the villa at Prima Porta belonging to the emperor's
wife, Livia (see pp. 31, 57, 91, 101, 115), and the other is the vegetal scroll
that decorates the Altar of Peace (Ara Pacis), erected by Augustus as a
monument to an anticipated eternal end to war.

Vi oO DAPHNE AND APOLLO

Met. 1.452-567 Daphne, Peneus’s daughter, was Apollos first love—a love born not of
blind fate but rather of Cupid’s savage anger. The god of Delos, full
of pride at his victory over the serpent, had recently caught sight of
Cupid flexing a bow, its string pulled tautly back, and said, “What do
you want, impudent boy, with powerful weapons? Those armaments
of yours are more suitable for my shoulders, as my aim is true when
seeking to wound beasts or a hostile foe. It is I who just a short while
ago laid low the rage-swollen Python with myriad arrows so that now
its noxious belly presses heavily on a vast tract of land. Be content to
ignite whatever loves you want with your torch, but lay no claim to the
source of my glory.”
To him the son of Venus made answer: “Better your bow strike
everything else, Phoebus Apollo, but let mine strike you. And however
much all living things are inferior to a god, so much lesser is your glory
than mine.”
Thus he spoke and tore forcefully through the air with beating wings,
alighting on the shady summit of Parnassus. Two arrows he drew from
out his quiver, each for a different purpose: the one to drive love away,
the other to cause it. The one for love gleams golden from its sharp
tip. The other is muted with lead within its shaft. At the daughter of

36° GODS IN LOVE

 Peneus he shot this last, while with the first he wounded Apollo to the
very marrow, right through the bone. Straightaway was Apollo filled
with love, while Daphne, now shunning the very idea of a lover, instead
rejoiced in the forest's haunts and the prize of animals taken captive,
as she, a ribbon binding her unruly locks, strove to emulate Diana,
Apollos maiden sister. Many men sought her hand, but spurning her
suitors, she wandered instead through the pathless forests. Unfettered
by a husband, she cared not at all formarriage or love or wedded life.
Yet often her father said, “My daughter, you owe me a son-in-law.”
Often he said, “My child, you owe me grandchildren.” But her abhor-
rence of the marriage ceremony as if it were a mortal crime sent a
modest blush over her lovely cheeks. Then clinging to her father’s neck,
hoping to persuade him, she pleaded, “Dearest Father, let me enjoy the
benefits of virginity forever! This a father once granted to Diana.” He,
for his part, was persuaded, yet that beauty of yours, Daphne, prohib-
ited what you desired. Your loveliness opposed your vow.
Once laying eyes on Daphne, Phoebus was in love and wanted to
marry her. What he desired, he hoped would actually happen, ignoring
his own oracles. As thin stalks of grain are burned when the heads
have been cut and as hedges are set ablaze by the torch of a traveler
who, by chance, has come too close or has dropped it at the arrival of
dawn, so the god burst into flames. So did his whole heart burn, as
he fed his unrequited love with hope. Gazing at the unadorned locks
hanging loose at her neck, he wondered aloud, “How might they look
if combed?” He beheld her eyes, shining like stars. He beheld her lips.
But looking was not enough. Praise he showered on her fingers and
hands andforearms and arms bared nearly to the shoulder. Ifany part
of her was hidden, he imagined it better still. Yet she, meanwhile, fled
more swiftly than a light breeze, nor did she pause as Apollo called
to her: “Nymph, daughter of Peneus, wait! Not with hostile intent do
I pursue you. Wait, nymph! So does a ewe flee the wolf, so a doe the
lion, so, too, fearful doves the eagle, for each tries to escape her own
enemies. But the cause for my pursuit is love! Oh, poor me! May you not
fall, may thorns not mar those legs that should suffer no such indignity.
The terrain over which you run is rough. I beg you, run more slowly,
and hold back somewhat in your flight; I myself will pursue with more

GODS IN LOVE + 37
 restraint. Yet ask, at very least, who it is whose fancy you have captured.
No mountain dweller I, no herdsman. I am not some unkempt rustic
who watches over flocks and herds. You know not, rash one—simply do
not know—who it is you flee and for that reason flee me. Delphi, Claros,
Tenedos, and the kingdom of Patara—all are subject to me. Jupiter him-
self is my father, and through my agency, future, past, and present are
all revealed. Through my power, songs harmonize with the lyre. True is
my arrow’s aim, yet another's, admittedly, was aimed more truly still.
How deeply it wounded my erstwhile carefree heart. Medicine is my
invention, and through all the world I am known as the one who brings
relief. The healing potency of herbs is subject to me. Oh, how unlucky
for me that no herbs can cure the ill of love and that those arts of mine,
available for the help of all others, are denied to me!
More still he would have said, but in fear the daughter of Peneus fled.
Both him and his unfinished words she left behind. Even then she was
lovely to behold, her body’s shape revealed by strong winds as she ran
through gusts that made her garments flutter, a breeze blowing back
her hair. In truth, her beauty was enhanced in flight. And since the
youthful god could endure to waste his flattery no longer, compelled by
love itself, he followed in her footsteps with unchecked stride. As when
a Gallic hound has spied a hare in an open field, the one relies on fleet
feet to reach his prey, the other to seek safety—the one, now almost close
enough to grasp with his teeth, trying again and again to seize his prey
and grazing the hare’ heels with his extended snout. His prey, uncertain
whether caught, bolts from reach of those deadly jaws and lips that just
were touching. So it was with the god and the maiden—he made swift
by hope and she byfear. But helped in his pursuit by wings of love, he
was swifter and denied her any rest. She fled headlong, and looming just
behind, he breathed upon the hair flowing down her neck. Her strength
completely spent, she grew pale. Overcome by flight’s exertion, she cried,
“Open your jaws, oh Earth, and annihilate those looks of mine that
cause me such injury’—then looking toward Peneus’s waves, said, “Help
me, Father! Ifyou have a river’s divine power, change and corrupt these
looks that have drawn too much attention.”
Scarcely did she finish her prayer when a heavy sluggishness overtook
her limbs, and her soft chest became enclosed by bark. Her hair grew

38- GODS IN LOVE

 into leaves, her arms into branches. Her foot, but recently so swift, clung
heavily to the earth with roots unyielding, and her face was supplanted
by a treetop (fig. 15). Her radiance alone remained intact. Yet even like
this Phoebus loved her, and touching the trunk with his right hand, felt
her heart still trembling beneath the freshly grown bark. Embracing the
branches as ifa body still, he planted a kiss upon the wood, but the wood
shrank before his kiss. “Though you cannot be my wife,’ spoke the god
Figure 15. Jan Boekhorst
(Flemish, born Germany,
to her, “you will be my sacred tree. My hair will always be adorned with
ca. 1604-1668), Daphne your leaves, sweet laurel, as will my cithara and quiver. You will accom-
and Apollo, ca. 1640. Black pany the commanders of Latium, a joyous voice singing “Triumph! as
chalk, pen and brown the Capitoline beholds long processions of victory. Most trusted sentinel,
ink, watercolor, and white
you will stand guard at the approach to Augustus’ door and will behold
gouache heightening,
the entrance’s wreath of oak. And just as uncut locks adorn my youthful
22.5 X 23.2 cm (8% Xx

9% in.). Los Angeles,

head, you, too, shall wear the eternal honor of your leaves!” So ended
J. Paul Getty Museum, Apollos speech; and to this the laurel signaled assent with her freshly
2003.112 grown branches, seeming to nod her crown.

GODS IN LOVE + 39
40+ GODS IN LOVE
 Pomegranate PUNICA GRANATUM

=]Faas the form of an upright deciduous shrub or small rounded

tree (5-8 m, or 16-26 ft.), the pomegranate (figs. 16, 17) is native
to Persia (modern Iran). It was well known in Greece at least by the
eighth century B.c., when Homer depicts it in the Odyssey as planted in
the paradisiacal orchards of the mythical, island-dwelling Phaiakians.
An attractive ornamental specimen as well as a productive plant, the
pomegranate has glossy, bright green leaves, and over the summer
months bears striking orange-red flowers. These flowers are followed
by fruit of thick, red rind containing a multitude of seeds—from sev-
eral hundred to over a thousand—encased in iridescent red flesh.
Pomegranate seeds were eaten fresh, alone or as an accompaniment
for other foods. For instance, a character in the novel Satyricon, by the
Roman author Petronius, serves a dish of sausages accompanied by
plums and pomegranate seeds.* Pomegranate seeds were also pressed
to yield juice that could be used in the production of pomegranate
wine. But not only the seeds of the pomegranate were considered
useful in antiquity. In his Natural History, Pliny the Elder lists a great
variety of medicinal and practical household applications for which
virtually every part of the plant was employed.’ Pomegranate flowers,
having astringent qualities, were used to prevent the spreading of
sores; to remedy the sting of scorpions; to cure dysentery; and,
Figure 16. David Blair mixed with wine and vulture’s lungs, to stop the spitting up of
(Scottish, 1852-1925),
blood. Pomegranate rind could be burnt to deter gnats, or ground
Punica granatum, Linn.
to serve as an ingredient in perfumes and in a host of medicines,
From Robert Bentley and
Henry Trimen, Medicinal
the latter either applied topically or ingested. These were used in
Plants. . . (London, 1880), the treatment of ailments ranging from the relatively minor, such as
vol. 2, no. 113 earaches, bruises, indigestion, and morning sickness, to the severe,

GODS IN LOVE + 41
 such as paralysis, gangrene, and epilepsy. According to Pliny, the
pomegranate’s rind was also utilized in the curing of leather. He also
made the (somewhat baffling) claim that the pomegranate’s branches
“have the effect of repelling the attacks of serpents.”
Perhaps most interesting are observations made by the Greek
physician Soranus regarding the contraceptive agency of pomegranate
rind when applied in the form of a poultice or suppository.° Such a
theory is directly linked to the pomegranate’s numerous seeds and
blood-red juice, which together underlie its important function in
myth and religion as a potent symbol of fertility and life. As such,
the pomegranate appeared in representations of Aphrodite, the
divine incarnation of sexuality and desire, as well as of Hera, goddess
of marriage and childbirth. Even Apollo, god of the sun’s life-giving
warmth, and Hermes, who also had a connection with fertility, were
associated with the pomegranate.
Although a symbol of life, the pomegranate was also linked
with death and the afterlife, themes vividly illustrated in the tale of
Persephone'’s abduction. Persephone, or Proserpina, was the daughter
of Ceres, goddess of grain and the harvest (and known to the

Figure 17. Aryballos

(perfume container) in the
shape of a pomegranate,
Greek (Corinthian), early
6th century B.c. Terracotta,
H. 7.8 cm (3%e in.). Los
Angeles, J. Paul Getty
Museum, 78.A£.349. This
vessel was suitable for
everyday use, but because
of the pomegranate’s asso-
ciation with Persephone
and the underworld, it was
also a particularly appro-
priate funerary offering,
perhaps embodying hopes
for a felicitous afterlife.

42 * GODS IN LOVE
 Greeks as Demeter). While picking flowers in a Sicilian woodland,
Persephone was spotted by Hades (called also Dis and Pluto), god
of the underworld. Instantly smitten, he desired her as his bride. It
was a pomegranate’ fruit that consigned Persephone to a life divided
between the world of the living and the kingdom of Hades, where she
was the god’s unwilling queen. During Persephone’s months in the
underworld, Ceres would remain in mourning, thereby preventing
crops from growing. Persephone thus represents the seed corn that,
when sown in autumn, descends into the earth only to reemerge,
transformed into verdant shoots at the coming of spring.

O V | D PLUTO AND PERSEPHONE

Met. 5.385-571 Not far from Enna’ city walls is a lake of deep water, Pergus by name.
Even on the river Cayster’s flowing currents are not more swans’ songs
to be heard. A woodland encircles its waters, girding its full length and
protecting itfrom Phoebus’ rays with its foliage. Dense branches provide
a coolness, and the moist soil yields variegated flowers. Perpetually it
is spring. Here in this grove Proserpina amused herself, picking violets
and lilies gleaming white. Trying to outdo her friends in picking, filling
her baskets and her tunic’s hanging folds with the enthusiasm of a
child, she was spotted by Dis, desired by him, and snatched away by
force—so sudden was love’s onset (fig. 18). Terrified, the goddess in
sorrowful tones called out to both her mother and her companions,
most often to her mother. Distraught, she ripped her garment, tearing
it down from the neck. From the discarded tunic fell those gathered
flowers. Such was the innocence of her young years that these spilled
flowers became a further cause for sorrow. Her abductor urged his
chariot onward, calling his horses by name, slapping ominous, dark-
dyed reins on their necks and manes. Through the deep lakes and the
Palici’s sulfur-smelling pools, bubbling up from cracks in the earth, he
drove, and drove, too, by the place where the Bacchidae, a family to be
born at Corinth, that city situated between two seas, would build their
new city walls between unequal harbors.

GODS IN LOVE + 43
 Between neighboring springs, Cyane and Pisaean Arethusa, there is
a bay whose waters narrow, confined by jutting points of land. Here
lived the nymph Cyane, from whom the spring received its name, of
all Sicilian nymphs most honored. Rising up from the water's midst as
far as her waist, she recognized the goddess Proserpina. “Your journey
soon will end,’ Cyane said to Pluto, “for you cannot be Ceres’s son-in-
Figure 18. Alessandro law against her will. The maiden should have been sought in marriage
Allori (Italian, 1535-1607), properly, not seized by force! And ifImay compare lesser events with
The Abduction of
this one, Anapis took a fancy to me, yet courted me and married me,
Proserpine, 1570. Oil on
unlike this girl, without terror.” So she spoke and stretching her arms
panel, 228.6 x 348 cm
(90 x 137 in.). Los Angeles,
out wide, blocked his path. The god, Saturn's son, did not check his
J. Paul Getty Museum, anger: he urged on his dread horses and with his mighty arm hurled
73.PB.73 the royal scepter into the pool’s depths, burying it there. The earth,

44 + GODS IN LOVE
 when struck, opened a passage to Tartarus and received the chariot,
plunging headlong into the opening’s center.
Cyane lamented the rape of the goddess and the disrespect shown her
pool. Speechlessly she nursed the inconsolable wound, and consumed
by her own tears, dissolved to blend with those very waters whose great
protector she had once been. You could have watched her limbs grow
limp, her bones bend, her nails lose their stiffness, and the liquefaction
of her sky-blue locks, her frail toes and fingers, her ankles, and her feet:
for delicate parts the transition to icy water is swift. Next her shoulders,
back, side, and breast faded into the clear cold stream. At last water
took the place of living blood in her weakened veins, and nothing that
you could have touched remained.
Meanwhile, the fearful mother searched for her daughter in vain over
all the earth and the depths of the sea. Neither the arrival ofAurora, her
hair wet with dew, nor that of Hesperus found her resting; lighting two
branches ofpine with Etna’ fires, she carried them ceaselessly through
the frosty darkness. Then again, when the life-giving light of day had
blunted the stars, she would seek her daughter from the direction of the
sun's setting to that of its rising. ...
What lands and seas the goddess wandered through would be long to
tell—the whole of earth did not suffice to end her search. Traversing all
regions on her journey, she returned to Sicily, seeking Cyane. Had the
nymph not been transformed, she would have told Ceres everything—
though willing, Cyane had neither mouth nor tongue, nor any means
by which to speak. She revealed Persephone’ girdle, well known to her
mother, floating in the water, which, by chance, had fallen off there
in the sacred pool. Recognizing it and realizing that her daughter had
been stolen, the goddess tore at her disheveled hair and with her hands
beat her chest repeatedly. Still not grasping where her daughter was, she
reproached all lands of the earth, calling them ungrateful, undeserving
of her gift of crops, particularly Sicily, where she had come upon the
traces of her great loss. And so there with savage hand, she shattered the
plows that turn the soil and, filled with anger, joined both farmers and
the pasture-dwelling cattle equally in death. She ordered the very fields
to default on what was invested in them, causing the seed to spoil. The
reputation of the country for fertility, known in all quarters of the globe,

GODS IN LOVE + 45
 was now a lie, in ruins. As they sent up their first shoots, the crops died.
Sometimes excessive heat, sometimes excessive rain destroyed them.
Both stars and winds brought ill effects, and greedy birds consumed the
seed that had been sown. Darnel and thorny caltrop, and also stubborn
grasses, plagued the harvests of wheat.
Arethusa, nymph loved by Alpheus, then raised her head from the
currents of her Eleian spring, and pushing her wet hair away from
her brow to her ears, said, “Oh you who have sought your daughter
over all the earth and who are the mother of all crops, cease from your
prodigious toils and do not, in violence, grow angry at a land loyal to
you. This land deserved no punishment and only countenanced the
rape all-unwilling. Yet I am not a supplicant on behal f I
of homeland:
have come here as a guest. Pisa was my land of birth, and my waters
sprung from Elis. I live in Sicily as a foreigner, but this land is more
pleasing to me than any other. It is here I keep my household gods; it
is this place I call my home. May you, most gentle one, preserve it! Just
why I moved, borne to Ortygia across the waters of such vast seas, I
can tell you in a more suitable time, when you are unburdened from
worry and have a kindlier demeanor. The permeable earth provided
me passage, and flowing down beneath the caverns of the nether
regions, I raised my head here and beheld most unfamiliar stars. Well,
as I glided beneath the earth on the eddy of the river Styx, I with my
own eyes saw Proserpina there. Sad she was, indeed, fear still written
on her face. But she was a queen and most exalted in all the world of
darkness, powerful consort of the Infernal Lord.
The mother was stunned at these words, as if turned to stone, and
long remained like someone stricken speechless. But soon deep paralysis
was displaced by deep anger, and she departed in her chariot to the
realms of heaven. There she stood before Jove, her whole face clouded in
worry, an indecorous sight with her unkempt hair. “I have come to you
as a supplicant, Jupiter,” she pleaded, “on behalf of my child and yours.
IfI, the mother, hold no favor, may his daughter move her father. I pray
you, let not your concern for her be diminished because she was born
from my womb. Long sought, at last she was found by me—if learning
of her certain loss, or knowing where she is, means finding her. Her
abduction I will tolerate, so long as he returns her! Even if she were

46- GODS IN LOVE

 not my daughter but only yours, she surely does not deserve a thief
as husband.
“Our daughter,” Jupiter responded, “is a shared pledge and a worry
for both me and you. Ifyou want to assign right words to things, this
was not done by way of malice, rather of love. Nor is that son-in-law
a source of shame, if only you were willing to see this. Never mind
everything else—how great is it to be Jove’s brother! What for the fact
that he lacks nothing except what he lost to me by fate? Ifyou so desire
the dissolution of this union, Proserpina may return to the heavens,
though under this certain caveat: that no food has crossed her lips there
in the lower world, for thus it is decreed by the law of the Fates.”
So he spoke, convincing Ceres that she might retrieve her daughter.
But the Fates did not allow it, as the maiden had indeed broken her
fast: while wandering alone in the well-tended gardens, shed plucked
a ruby fruit, a pomegranate, from a bending tree, and taking seven
seeds from its pale rind, she pressed them in her mouth. Only one
witnessed that: Ascalaphus, born in the gloomy woods to Orphne (not
least known among Avernus’s nymphs) and the river god Acheron in
the gloomy woods. Yes, he saw it and cruelly prevented her return by
informing on her. At this the Queen of Erebus cried out and swiftly
changed that accursed witness into a bird... .
Jupiter, however, mediating between his brother and his sorrowing
sister, divided the year’s course equally. Now the goddess Proserpina,
a potent deity in both realms, would spend an equal number of
months with her mother and husband. Straightaway her appearance—
her thought, her mien—changed, and she, whom even Dis saw as sad,
bore an expression of joy, just as the sun bursts victorious through
obscuring clouds.

GODS IN LOVE + 47
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
The day arrived when the Duke of York was to find himself free to
apply without stint his theories of government. The king seemed
weary and languishing. His humor, habitually cheerful in exile and
in the midst of the crudest misfortunes, had for a short time past
become gloomy. On the 2nd of February, 1685, at the moment of
his rising from bed, the courtiers around him were struck by his
altered looks. His utterance was embarrassed; his intelligence
seemed clouded. A doctor who happened to be at hand to assist
the king in his chemical experiments bled him without delay.
Charles recovered his senses. A second attack soon put an end to
all hope of cure. The Duke of York had already taken possession of
the government. He gave his orders in all directions. It was the
king's favorite, the Duchess of Portsmouth, who, in the heart of this
depraved court, took care of the soul of the expiring monarch. She
apprised Barillon, who hastened to inform the Duke of York. "It is
true," cried James, "my brother is a Catholic at heart; he will
assuredly declare it, and fulfill the rites of his religion; there is not
a moment to lose." Some difficulty was experienced in procuring a
priest. The Anglican bishops had not delayed so long to press the
king to be mindful of his spiritual welfare. The Archbishop of
Canterbury, Sancroft, and the Bishop of Bath, the pious Ken, had
addressed Charles in the firmest language. "It is time to speak,
Sire, for you are about to appear before a Judge who is no
respecter of persons." The king made no reply.

The Duke of York at last succeeded in finding a priest; it was a

poor Benedictine monk, named Huddleston, who had saved the
king immediately after the battle of Worcester. Charles had a
grateful remembrance of this circumstance. Huddleston had been
excepted by name from all the proceedings against the Catholics.
James himself introduced him into his brother's chamber. All
present were desired to retire with the exception of the Frenchman,
Louis de Duras, Earl of Feversham, and of the Earl of Bath. They
could count on the fidelity of each other. "Sire," said the duke, "this
holy man once saved your life; he comes to-day to save your soul."
"He is welcome," said the king in a feeble voice. The poor monk
had never fulfilled the holy offices. He had just taken instructions
hurriedly from a Portuguese ecclesiastic in the suite of the Count de
Castelmelhor. When the pious ceremonies were completed, all the
natural children of the king were admitted to his presence.
Monmouth alone was absent. He had sought his safety in exile; the
king did not mention his name.

The queen was in too much trouble and suffering to appear at the
bedside of the dying monarch. She sent her excuses by Halifax,
asking pardon of the king. "Poor woman," murmured Charles, "I
ask hers with all my heart!"

The agony was protracted. The king asked that the curtains might
be drawn, so that he could see once more the light of day. "I beg
your pardon for giving you so much trouble," he said to those who
stood around him; "I am a very long time dying." His utterance
failed him; at noon on the 6th of February, 1685, King Charles II.
expired gently. He was not yet fifty-five years of age.

"He had received from nature," says Lord Macaulay, "excellent parts
and a happy temper. His education had been such as might have
been expected to develop his understanding, and to form him to
the practice of every public and private virtue. … He had been
taught by bitter experience how much baseness, perfidy, and
ingratitude may lie hid under the obsequious demeanor of courtiers.
He had found, on the other hand, in the huts of the poorest, true
nobility of soul. … From such a school it might have been expected
that a young man, who wanted neither abilities nor amiable
qualities, would have come forth a great and good king. Charles
came forth from that school with social habits, with polite and
engaging manners, and with some talent for lively conversation,
addicted beyond measure to sensual indulgence, fond of sauntering
and of frivolous amusements, incapable of self-denial and of
exertion, without faith in human virtue or in human attachment,
without desire of renown, and without sensibility to reproach.
According to him, every person was to be bought, but some people
haggled more about their price than others. … Thinking thus of
mankind, Charles naturally cared very little what they thought of
him. … He was a slave without being a dupe. … He detested
business. … He wished merely to be a king such as Louis XV. of
France afterwards was." Without regard for the state of his
kingdom, shut up in the selfish circle of his material pleasures,
indifferent to all religion, hostile to the Puritans from memory of the
past, from contempt for their ridiculous characteristics, and from
fear of their austerity; without faith or rule of conduct; absolutely
wanting in principles and moral sense, he had worn out the respect
of the nation without completely exhausting its affection, for he
was sagacious, prudent, little addicted to hazardous enterprises;
and he had measured with a cool and practical judgment the
degree of oppression which his people were capable of enduring.
The popular saying did him injustice in affirming that "he never said
a foolish thing, and never did a wise one." He was wise enough
more than once to stop in the path of despotism. His brother, who
had often impelled him in this direction, was now about to advance
to the brink of the abyss. England wept for the loss of Charles II.
Without being fully conscious of the feeling, she regarded James II.
with presentiment and with dread.
 Chapter XXXI.

James II. And The Revolution (1685-1688).

England never loved James II.: she dreaded his religion and that
unfeeling character of which he had so many times given proof.
The shrewd and liberal politicians had made great efforts to exclude
him from the throne; he was nevertheless proclaimed without
tumult and accepted peaceably by the nation. The great revolution
which was to be accomplished under his reign, and which was to
make England forever a free country, had not yet begun, nor was
there any presentiment of its approach.

This drama was to unfold itself slowly, and to display in its progress
successively the tyranny of the king and the resistance of the
nation. At the outset, James II. profited by the absolute victory
obtained by Charles II. in the last years of his reign. It was an
epoch of tranquillity and of good appearances, false at the
foundation, notwithstanding the royal protestations and the
assurances of confidence lavished on the new monarch. Already, in
the month of November, 1685, many disquieting acts and fatal
prognostics began to alarm the friends of liberty; and from this
time we may date the commencement of that progressive tyranny
which was to develop conspiracies and at the same time arouse
lively opposition and legal resistance throughout the country, both
within and without Parliament.
James II.
In the third period of the reign of James II. from July, 1687, to
December, 1688, the nation and the king had evidently broken all
ties: the one aspired without reserve to the absolute triumph of his
will, the other defended proudly its attacked liberties. The contest
ended only with the overthrow of James II. and his flight from
England. It is necessary to follow step by step the episodes of this
great conflict—a conflict unavoidable from the nature of the
monarch who had just taken possession of the crown. To the far-
seeing eye, the accession of James II. was the sure pledge of
tyranny.

The mass of the nation was contented; the disquiet of political

plots had counterbalanced the indignation caused by the Papist
conspiracies, and public sentiment rallied around the throne; the
great national calamities which signalized some years of the reign
of Charles II.—war, pestilence, and fire—did not return to scourge
the people. No hardy innovator among the literary or philosophical
writers threw among the public such brands of agitation and of
discord as Lilburne had scattered in spite of Cromwell or the Long
Parliament. Milton died in 1674, having been solely occupied since
the Restoration with his great poem, Paradise Lost, that
masterpiece of religious and philosophical poetry alone worthy of
saluting Dante in his sublime pilgrimage into the invisible world.
The political pamphlets which had but recently served his cause
and which had placed Milton in the front rank of English prose
writers were eclipsed, if not forgotten, by the brilliancy of that
poetical genius which had kept almost entirely silent during the
ardent contests for liberty. Cowley and Butler were also dead;
Otway and Waller mingled politics with their poetry. Hobbes opened
the door to a dangerous school of philosophy, against which
Bunyan, a poor laborer and strolling preacher, defended his country
without knowing it, by writing in the depths of his prison the
"Pilgrim's Progress," that strange and profound book destined to
take the first rank after the Bible in the popular libraries of England.
Dryden alone occupied a brilliant position: his verse and prose were
elegant, powerful, rich, and energetic; but personally he was often
corrupt, without principle and without respect for himself or for his
fame, as his pretended conversion to Catholicism subsequently
proved. Minds were contemplative without being active: the
revolution and the Republic had not been propitious to literary
development; while the Restoration had profited by the leisure of
Milton, it did not at first realize his value; it was during a period of
intellectual calm as well as of political quiet that James II.
ascended the throne. The treaty of Ratisbon gave Europe hope for
some relaxation of the ambition of Louis XIV. The Emperor and
Spain had accepted his new conquests, "recognizing" said the
Marquis de la Fare, "that the empire of the French was a necessary
evil to the other nations." After so many and such cruel blows, a
moment of calm seemed to rest upon the world.

James II. was destined ere long to trouble this repose. It seemed
when he ascended the throne that his only desire was to render his
people happy. "They have spread abroad the report that I have a
desire for arbitrary power," said he, February 6th, in the council
which had assembled a few hours after the death of Charles II.,
"but it is not the only calumny that they have invented against me.
I will do my utmost to maintain the government of the State and
the Church as I find it to-day. I know that the principles of the
Church of England are favorable to monarchy, and that its members
have proved themselves true and loyal subjects; I shall therefore
defend and sustain it. I know also that the laws of England are
sufficient to elevate a monarch as high as I should desire. I have
often risked my life to defend this nation; I shall use the utmost of
my power to preserve its rights and liberties."

This declaration was received with applause. Already the courtiers

of Charles II. seemed to have lost the royal favor. James II., though
as debauched as his brother, did not affect his license of conduct.
"The appearance of the court changed immediately," wrote Evelyn;
"the aspect is more grave and moral, the new king likes neither
buffoons nor scoffers." Parliament was convoked for the 15th of
May.

The elections assured to the Tories an overwhelming majority.

"There are not more than forty members of the House of Commons
that I have not chosen myself," said the king. At the opening of the
session he repeated the promises he had already made before the
council; a word only betrayed the absolute temper of the new
monarch; in demanding that they accord him a fixed revenue for
life, as they had done to the king, his brother, he added, "They
may say to you that the best means of securing the frequent
assembling of Parliament will be to allow me means only according
to your will, and as you may think suitable; speaking today from
the throne, I respond, once for all, to this argument. This will be a
bad plan to adopt with me; the best means of securing frequent
assemblings is to treat me well." Parliament voted the subsidies
demanded. Already James II. had performed an act of absolute
power in continuing to collect the custom duties, but recently
accorded by the Houses to Charles II. for life. Even the Whigs did
not protest; they trusted to the sincerity of the king. "We have for
the protection of our church the promise of a king," said a zealous
preacher, "and of a king who never belied his word." So soon were
forgotten the perfidy and faithlessness of the House of Stuart, of
which James II. was soon to show himself a worthy son.

Already some disquieting symptoms began to alarm the far-seeing

politicians. The king had thrown open the doors of his private
chapel, establishing thus at the outset his right of hearing mass
publicly. When Holy Week arrived and the services multiplied,
James required the most considerable personages of his household
to assist him in the ceremonies of his worship. Lord Godolphin, who
was a member of the queen's household, and accustomed to
accompanying her to the chapel, made no resistance. Lord
Rochester, although corrupt and arrogant, had nevertheless been
educated by his father, Lord Clarendon, to show a profound respect
for the Anglican Church; he refused to follow the king to mass and
obtained permission to retire to the country during Easter. The
Dukes of Ormond and Halifax remained in the ante-chamber. The
Duke of Norfolk, recently appointed to carry the sword of the crown
before the king, stopped at the door of the chapel. "Your father
would have gone farther, my lord," said James. "Yours, who valued
mine much, would not have come so far. Sire," responded the
duke. The religious pomps of the coronation, celebrated after the
Protestant ritual, did not suffice to reassure their minds. Some
remarked that the crown was too large for the head of the king,
and was also badly placed upon his head. The supports of the dais
gave way. Superstition, united to forebodings of evil, began to
awaken in the public the first germs of an increasing restlessness.

It was nevertheless with a true though confused sincerity that king

James had promised religious liberty to his people. In his desire to
protect the English Church and to allow freedom to the persecuted
Dissenters, James II. had first in view the relief of the Catholics, so
long and so cruelly oppressed. This was precisely what the Church
and the Nonconformists equally feared. One of the first acts of the
king was to open the doors of the prisons to all those who were
detained by questions of conscience. Scarcely had Parliament
assembled when a bill was presented begging of the crown the
rigid enforcement of the laws against all Dissenters, whoever they
might be. James opposed this measure, which would impose
persecution on the Catholics; the motion was modified. "The House
trusts to the oft-repeated promises of his Majesty to sustain and
defend the religion of the Church of England as established by law,
which is more dear to us than life." The king made no reply to this
address; the persecution of the Scotch Puritans was the only favor
that he granted.

The Scotch Parliament surpassed the English in submission and

zeal. The resources of the hereditary kingdom of the Stuarts were
limited; to the small subsidies which they were able to grant, the
Scotch Parliament added a decree which they believed would satisfy
King James: any preacher in a private meeting, any preacher or
auditor in a public assembly was to be from this fact alone liable to
the penalty of death. Persecution was redoubled. Graham of
Claverhouse overran the country at the head of his dragoons,
dispersing assemblies and seizing, even in their homes, suspected
persons. A poor carter of the county of Lanark was shot down in
the presence of his wife, who clasped her terrified children in her
arms. The fervent prayers of the victim already troubled and
alarmed Claverhouse. "The day will come when you will have to
render an account of this to God and to men," cried the unhappy
widow. "I will know well how to account for my actions to men,"
replied the madman, "and as for God, I challenge him."

Men and women died with equal courage. A young girl was
fastened to a post in the sea and left for the rising tide to engulf.
"Abjure, abjure!" they cried to her. "Leave me in peace," responded
she; "I belong to Jesus Christ." The waves swept over her.

The rigors exercised against the Scotch Presbyterians were not,

however, prejudicial to the king's cause. In England the idea of
liberty of conscience sometimes struck the persecuted. James
himself had been impressed by it when he suffered the penalties
imposed upon those of the Catholic faith. Having acquired power,
he soon forgot the sublime principle, and his people likewise
ignored it. The composition of his council, the want of favor that he
manifested towards certain popular men, the confidence that he
placed in others disliked by the people, occupied the public mind
more seriously than the sufferings of a few Covenanters revolted
from the Episcopal yoke. On ascending the throne, James II. had
openly announced his intention of maintaining near his person all
the councillors of his brother; only a small number, however, were
his friends. They soon perceived this. Sunderland and Godolphin
had lately voted for the bill of exclusion that Halifax had defeated
by the force of his eloquence. These two ministers nevertheless
were less suspected by James than the brilliant chief of the
Trimmers.
Irrevocably enrolled against the Papacy and tyranny, Halifax was
received by the king with flattering words. "I remember but a
single day in your life, my lord," said James; "it is that on which
you spoke against the Exclusion Bill." He said at the same time to
Barillon: "I know him; I cannot trust him. He shall not employ his
hand in public affairs."

Halifax soon succeeded, as president of the council, Lord Rochester,

who was placed at the head of the finances. The latter alone
shared with the Judge, Jeffreys, the confidence of the king. His
eldest brother, Lord Clarendon, replaced in Ireland the old Duke of
Ormond, a veteran of devotion to monarchy, honored by all, too
sincere in his Protestantism, too independent of character, to please
the government and serve the views of King James. When he
learned of his disgrace, the old servitor of Charles I. gathered
around him at a banquet all the officers of the garrison at Dublin.
He drank the health of the king, raising with a firm hand his glass
filled to the very brim. "I have not spilled a single drop, gentlemen;
my heart is as firm as my hand, still they accuse me at court of
having fallen into my dotage. Long live King James!" His return to
London resembled a triumph; a crowd of gentlemen claimed the
honor of escorting him.

Although disturbed by the religious and political tendencies of its

king, the English nation regarded with pleasure the proud and
independent attitude that he seemed to assume towards France
and Louis XIV. England had never pardoned Charles II. the sale of
Dunkirk, the treaty of Dover, nor any of the disgraceful bargains so
often negotiated between the two monarchs. A few days after the
accession of King James, Barillon received from his court a sum of
five hundred thousand pounds, destined to be immediately
delivered to the new sovereign. James II. was grateful, and at first
modest and flattering in his language towards the ambassador of
France. He excused himself for having convoked Parliament without
the advice of Louis XIV. "I know that I am able to do nothing
without the protection of the king, and that it would be a wrong to
my brother not to remain always faithful to France. I will take care
that Parliament does not meddle with foreign affairs. If I see them
disposed to act ill, I will send them about their business." As
testimony of his devotion, James broke the engagements that
bound him to Spain for the protection of the Low Countries. Lord
Churchill, the young favorite of the new king, destined to become
known throughout the entire world under the name of the Duke of
Marlborough, was charged with a solemn embassy to carry to Louis
XIV. the homage of the King of England. "My attachment will
endure as long as my life," were the words used by James II. to
the Grand Monarch. He was ignorant as yet of all the claims to his
devotion that Louis XIV. was to acquire.

Parliament had scarcely assembled when King James already

changed a little his tone towards France; he had found among his
people more docility and generosity than he had expected; his
revenues were assured to him during his life; he raised his head,
assumed boldly the equality due his rank, and resolved, he said, to
maintain with a firm hand the equilibrium of Europe. When the
Marshal of Lorge came to London to repay the visit of the embassy
of Lord Churchill, James received him, seated and covered, as his
envoy had been received at Versailles. "Our brother the King of
England speaks rather loftily," said Louis XIV. smiling, "but he
nevertheless loves well the guineas." A few months only elapsed
before James II. asked for new subsidies. The resources furnished
him by Parliament were no longer sufficient for his expenses. He
was in the face of an insurrection, and believed himself obliged
henceforth to maintain a standing army—a constant object of terror
in England. The Duke of Argyll and the Duke of Monmouth lived as
exiles in Holland, that refuge for all men driven from their country
on account of their political or religious opinions. The Duke of Argyll
had been there already four years; the Duke of Monmouth only a
few months. They were surrounded by a certain number of the
proscribed of all parties. Their origin and conditions were diverse—
men of law, as Ayloffe and Wade, compromised in the Whig
conspiracies; old Cromwellians like Rumboldt; gentlemen of the
court, as Lord Grey of Wark; ecclesiastics and pamphleteers, as
Ferguson. On the death of King Charles, the ambitious projects of
Monmouth were reawakened. The restless spirits among the exiles
conceived the idea of creating an insurrection in England, and
securing the aid of Monmouth by dazzling him with the prospect of
a crown.

He had already quitted The Hague; always prudent and

circumspect, William of Orange had given a refuge at his court to
the well-beloved son of Charles II. When James II. ascended the
throne he requested him to withdraw. The conspirators found him
at Brussels. He had retired there with Lady Wentworth, to whom he
was passionately attached, and it was with great difficulty that they
induced him to place himself at the head of the insurrection. He
had little confidence in the enterprise, and from the beginning had
but faint hopes of its success. At the same time it was determined
to make an attempt upon Scotland.

Argyll counted upon the fidelity of his clan; he knew that the
Campbells would sacrifice themselves, to the last man, in his name
and for his cause; he also believed himself assured of the rising of
the persecuted Presbyterians. The two conspiracies, at first distinct
and almost hostile, finally united. They resolved to make a descent
upon the west coast of Scotland. This movement, headed by Argyll,
was to be supported by a descent on England under the leadership
of Monmouth. Ayloffe and Rumboldt accompanied the Scottish
expedition. Fletcher of Saltoun, republican and aristocrat, eloquent
and learned, was to follow the fortunes of Monmouth. The young
chief became encouraged. Ambitious hopes were awakened in his
breast. He received letters from England urging him to action. "The
Earl of Richmond had but a handful of men when he landed in
England two hundred years ago," wrote Wildman, one of the most
dangerous instigators of this plot; "yet a few days later, after the
battle of Bosworth, he was proclaimed king as Henry VII." "True,"
responded Fletcher of Saltoun, "but Richmond had the support of
the barons and their retainers, while Richard III. had not at his
disposal a single regiment of regular troops." On May 2, 1685,
Argyll set sail with a fleet of three small vessels. King James,
informed of the preparations, demanded of the States of Holland
that measures should be taken to prevent the departure of the
expedition. The city of Amsterdam was hostile to the House of
Nassau, and her magistrates took pleasure in thwarting the plans
and wishes of the Prince of Orange, who was very desirous at this
time to maintain amicable relations with his father-in-law. The
Scotch expedition was consequently able to depart without
molestation. On the 6th, Argyll touched at the Orkney Islands.

The duke was nominally at the head of the expedition, but in

reality the control of the same was in the hands of a commission,
charged to watch and direct it actions. While they were wasting
their valuable time in discussions and quarrels. King James, with
prudent activity, occupied the country adjacent to the territory of
Argyll. He roused the peasantry by his appeals, but the gentry were
either absent or secretly favorable to the invaders; eighteen
hundred men only united themselves to Tarbet. The "fiery cross"
had overrun the country. A manifesto, prepared by James Stewart,
a Scotch lawyer, recalled the grievances of the nation against King
James. It was in the name of the persecuted Presbyterian Church,
so dear to its followers, that the Scotch were called upon to revolt.
Against his better judgment, Argyll was obliged to divide his little
army; he remained in the Highlands with Rumboldt, while Sir
Patrick Hume and Cochrane, more jealous of their chief than ardent
for combat, directed a small expedition towards the Lowlands. Their
expectation was that the entire people would rise at their approach.
The conspirators and their friends were deceived concerning the
temper of the persecuted Covenanters; they had no more
confidence in the religious faith of Argyll than in the Papacy of
James; persecuted, hunted, massacred, they hoped only for a
miraculous deliverance; they neither desired nor expected any
other; "the sword of the Lord and of Gideon" appeared alone
worthy to save the Church; they did not recognize these invaders
as a holy army come to their relief. The enthusiasts who had
defended their assemblies with the sword failed to join the army of
Cochrane; in vain the two detachments rejoined the Duke of Argyll
at Bute; disorder only increased, and each day some new defection
diminished the forces of the insurgents. The castle of Ealan Ghineg,
which contained all the provisions and supplies, was delivered
without a blow to the royal troops; their boats having been
captured, a panic seized the insurgents—the most ardent refused to
march on Glasgow, as Argyll desired. A strong detachment of red-
coats appearing on the horizon, both leaders and followers sought
safety in flight. Hume fled to the Continent; Cochrane was arrested
and sent to London; the Duke of Argyll, after wandering many days
about the country, was finally surrounded by a few straggling
militiamen; he endeavored to defend himself; when captured and
bound he disclosed his name to his countrymen; tears filled their
eyes on beholding the misfortunes of their celebrated chief; but the
love of gain soon caused them to stifle the feelings of compassion,
and they led Argyll to Renfrew. The duke was condemned in
advance; an unjust sentence of death had been for a long time
hanging over his head. "I know nothing about Scotch law," said
Halifax; "but I am well assured that here we would not hang a dog
on such evidence as they have employed to condemn the Duke of
Argyll." As the prisoner entered the Castle of Edinburgh, after
having passed through the city on foot and with head uncovered,
he received the announcement of his speedy death; he was
threatened at the same time with torture. They wished at any price
to extort from him information concerning his countrymen; as to
who were accomplices or abettors of the insurrection.
Although indifferent as a military commander, and ill qualified for a
politician, Argyll was firm in prison, bravely confronting death,
solely occupied regarding the evils that he had brought upon his
clan. Disdainful of suffering, piously absorbed in the thought of
soon appearing before his Maker, Argyll inspired with respect all
who approached him. "God has softened their hearts," he said; "I
did not expect so much kindness." He was not subjected to the
torture. "I have implicated no one," wrote the duke, the morning of
his execution (June 30th), "God, in his mercy, has marvellously
sustained me." He walked to the scaffold, whence he wrote to his
wife, "My heart, God is unchangeable; He hath always been good
and gracious to me; and no place alters Him. Forgive me all my
faults; and now comfort thyself in Him, in whom only true comfort
is to be found. The Lord be with thee, bless and comfort thee, my
dearest, adieu!"

Rumboldt died several days before his chief. Seized like him by a
band of troops, he fought so valiantly that there scarcely remained
a breath of life in his body. Supported under the gibbet by two
men, he raised his dying voice that he might be heard by the
people: "I die faithful to that which I have believed all my life,"
cried he. "I have always detested Papacy and tyranny; I have
always been a friend to limited monarchy, but I have never believed
that Providence sent a handful of men into the world booted and
spurred, to ride, and millions of other beings saddled and bridled,
to be ridden. I desire to bless and magnify God's holy name that I
am not here for any wrong that I have done, but for adhering to
His cause in an evil day. If each hair in my head were a man, in
this quarrel I would venture them all." The drum of the soldiers
drowned his last words. The Rye House plot was not forgotten in
the repentance of the old soldier of Cromwell. "I have always held
assassination in horror!" he said; nevertheless it was under his roof
that they conspired to ambuscade King Charles and the Duke of
York. Ayloffe opened a vein; he was carried to London and
questioned by James himself. "You will find it to your advantage to
be frank with me," said the king; "you know that it is in my power
to pardon you." "It may be in your power, but it is not in your
nature!" replied the prisoner. Many people were punished in
Scotland; a great number of Campbells were executed without a
trial. The Scotch rebels had not yet suffered the penalties of their
rebellion when England was already agitated by the descent of
Monmouth, who landed at the port of Lyme upon the coast of
Dorset. Having escaped from Holland like Argyll, by the connivance
of the commissaries of the admiralty at Amsterdam, he had been
detained by bad weather, and it was not until the 11th of June that
he reached the soil of England. The cry was raised, "A Monmouth!
a Monmouth! The Protestant religion!" A declaration of the most
libelous character was read at the market-cross; it was the work of
Ferguson. James was accused of having burned London, having
strangled Sir Edmondbury Godfrey, having cut the throat of Essex,
and having poisoned King Charles. It was for all these crimes that
he was declared to have forfeited his right to the throne, in the
name of the menaced religion. The Duke of Monmouth, who might
have proved his legitimate birth and claim to the crown, made no
pretensions to any title except that of captain-general of the English
Protestants-in-arms against tyranny and Papacy. The people of the
west of England had not forgotten the young man who had passed
triumphantly through the towns and villages so recently, by the
acclamations of the people. The peasants flocked in large numbers
to his standard; about fifteen hundred men had already assembled
around him, when he sent, on the 14th of June, a detachment
against Bridport. The royal troops began to assemble.

Parliament hurled declaration upon declaration against the

pretensions of Monmouth. King James profited by the alarm of the
Houses to obtain a subsidy; the members withdrew to their homes
to urge the people to remain faithful to the royal cause. The Duke
of Albemarle, son of General Monk, commanded a body of militia in
the west; Churchill and Lord Feversham advanced against the
insurgents at the head of the regular troops.
Lord Grey was easily repulsed before Bridport, and fled in a
cowardly manner. Fletcher of Saltoun, having killed his adversary in
a quarrel, was obliged on account of the public indignation to seek
refuge on board the boats of the duke, whence he fled to Hungary,
where he fought against the Turks. Nevertheless, Monmouth
advanced continually; Albemarle dared not give him battle, so many
of his troops seemed ill-disposed. The city of Taunton opened its
gates to the insurgents; the population was wealthy, had been
devoted to Parliament during the civil war, and numbered a great
many Nonconformists; the daughters of the best families came
before the duke offering him a standard and a Bible. He received
the holy volume with reverence. "I come," he said, "to defend the
truths contained in this book, and to seal them, if it must be so,
with my blood." Monmouth thus announced himself "Defender of
the Faith"—an integral part of the royal titles. He soon went further,
and on the 20th of June was proclaimed king at Taunton, not
without some repugnance on his part, history has assured us. In
order to avoid the confusion which must inevitably arise from his
name (James II.), the most of his followers saluted him with the
strange title of King Monmouth. From village to village the
proclamation was repeated, to the great indignation of the
partisans of the Princess Mary. The great lords and country
gentlemen failed to join this small army of rebels.

The peasants and workmen of the villages were for the most part
without arms; they had begun their undertaking at the wrong end,
as the Vendéan peasants did a hundred years later. Monmouth
lacked money; he meditated a surprise upon Bristol, where he
hoped to find abundant resources; but the king's troops had
already taken possession of that city, on their return through
Wiltshire; the rebels in vain summoned Bath to open its gates.
Obliged to seek refuge at Philips-Norton, into which the Duke of
Grafton had forced an entrance, Monmouth felt his courage
abandoning him; he thought of withdrawing and seeking safety on
the Continent, in place of the glory which he had labored for in
vain. He sought the advice of his adherents: Lord Grey urged him
not to abandon the poor peasants who had risked all for him.
Monmouth gave up his contemplated flight, but was uncertain what
plan of campaign to adopt, wandering from Wells to Bridgewater,
when the royal troops, commanded by Feversham, appeared in
view of the insurgent army. Four thousand men were encamped
upon the plain of Sedgemoor; the duke observing from afar the
standards of the regiment of Dumbarton, but recently so familiar to
him. "I know those men," sadly remarked the young invader; "they
will fight; if I had but them, all would go well."

Feversham was an indifferent general; Monmouth possessed more

than ordinary military talents, but it mattered little that his positions
were well chosen and his night attack well planned; he commanded
men badly armed, inexperienced and undisciplined, and no matter
how great their courage, it was not enough to enable them to
withstand the attack of regular troops and the discharges of
artillery to which they were soon unable to respond.

Lord Grey's progress being arrested by a trench of whose existence

he was not aware, immediately turned his back to the enemy. The
peasants defended themselves heroically; the miners from Mendip
knocked down all who approached them with the butt-end of their
muskets. They were still fighting when Monmouth took to flight,
abandoning his unfortunate followers. Fifteen hundred corpses of
the rebels strewed the plain, and five hundred prisoners were taken
before the struggle terminated. Two days later Monmouth fell into
the hands of a detachment of soldiers sent in search of him.
"Now," said Barillon, with a sagacity true but malicious, "all the
zealous Protestants will rest their hopes on the Prince of Orange."

No one hoped for mercy from the king. If Monmouth thought for a
moment that possibly his life might be spared, his interview with
James II. taught him his error. "Remember, Sire, that I am the son
of your brother," cried the unhappy young man, throwing himself at
the feet of the monarch; "it is your own blood that you shed in
shedding mine." "Your crime is too great," coldly replied the king.
The queen, it was said, was even more hard-hearted. Showing
great weakness at first, and apparently overcome at the thought of
death, piteously begging for "life, only life, life at any price,"
Monmouth nevertheless recovered his firmness in the presence of
such pitiless resolution. "Very well," said he at last, "I have nothing
more to do but to die."

For an instant, the unfortunate prisoner was cowardly enough to

seek to save his life by abjuring the Protestant faith, of which he
had styled himself the "Defender." Disabused, however, of that
hope, he refused the absolution offered him by the priests of the
royal chapel.

"Remember, Sire, I am your Brother's Son."

The Anglican bishops were not entirely satisfied with his
repentance. They wished to obtain from him a confession of that
doctrine of non-resistance which he had openly violated. The
irregularities of his private life also excited their pious indignation.
The duke at first refused to see his wife; when he finally received
her, their interview was brief and cold. "I die penitent," repeated
Monmouth; and as the bishops accompanied him to the foot of the
scaffold, "I come here not to speak, but to die," said the young
man; "pray for me." The name of the king was mingled in the
episcopal intercessions. "Will you not pray for the king?" asked one
of the clergy. Monmouth remained silent a moment; then, as if
making a great effort, finally said, "Amen." He turned towards the
executioner: "Look well to your axe," said he, "and do not hack me
as you did my Lord Russell." He placed his head upon the block.
Monmouth's appeal disconcerted the executioner; his hand
trembled; blow after blow was struck, and yet the neck was not
severed. The crowd were about to tear him in pieces when the
head of the victim finally fell. The populace rushed up to dip their
handkerchiefs in the blood of the young duke. Frivolous and
superficial, without true courage or personal valor, he possessed
that art of gaining hearts which seems sometimes independent of
all true merit. The peasants of the western counties long
worshipped Monmouth's memory; they refused to admit that he
was dead, and many times impostors passed through the counties
of Dorset and Wilts claiming to be the duke, miraculously raised
from the dead, and were honored and feted.

Men long remember those for whom they have suffered. Many
peasants of the west had perished on the field of battle, under the
standards of Monmouth; many more were to suffer severely for
their fidelity to him. Already Colonel Kirke, at the head of his
regiment from Tangier, overran the insurgent counties, and his
"Lambs," as his soldiers were called, in remembrance of the Pascal
Lamb—represented on their banner while in Africa—spread
everywhere terror and death. At each toast drunk by the officers, a
rebel prisoner was executed. The toasts were numerous, the orgies
prolonged. The love of money sometimes checked the cruelty of
"the Butcher of Taunton." Those who possessed sufficient fortune
were sometimes allowed to purchase their lives. Around the inn
where Kirke had established his quarters, they waded ankle deep in
blood. The country was depopulated; all those who were able to
gain the coast embarked for America: they fled from the barbarity
of Kirke and from the "justice" of Jeffreys.

Guilford, the Keeper of the Seals, had just died, sadly humbled and
discouraged towards the end of a life of cowardly servility. King
James promised the office to Jeffreys, on his return from the
circuit, which he had just undertaken in the western counties—a
splendid recompense for "The Bloody Assizes." The great judge
resolved to merit the reward.

Naturally cruel and basely corrupt, habitually excited by continual

intoxication, Jeffreys had consecrated to the service of the worst
passions an indomitable energy united to rare judicial qualifications.
He was never pleasing to Charles II., who had often employed him
at the instigation of the Duke of York. "This man," said he, "has
neither learning, good sense, nor manners, and more impudence
than ten depraved women." Under the reign of the hard and cruel
James, Jeffreys abandoned himself without reserve to his savage
passions; he was not contented with condemning, torturing, and
inflicting the extreme penalties permitted by law against his victims,
but he also delighted in taunting the accused, following them with
sarcasms and insults to the very foot of the scaffold. The odious
task with which he was charged after the insurrection of Monmouth
suited his disposition. While at London, Lord Grey, Sir John
Cochrane, and a few others purchased their lives by their cowardly
revelations. The great judge carried from village to village his
bloody tribunal and corps of executioners. Everywhere cynical and
cruel, obliging his victims to confess their guilt in order to obtain a
day's respite, and executing those on the spot who protested their
innocence, he surrounded himself with an atmosphere of such
terror that the people dared not speak in favor of the condemned.
The friends of Lady Lisle ventured, however, to plead her cause;
she was the aged widow of Lord Lisle, a judge during the reign of
Charles I., who was but lately assassinated in Scotland, whither he
had fled. She had given an asylum to more than one Cavalier
during the revolution, and "no woman in England," she said,
"mourned more bitterly the death of the king."

Always compassionate, she had concealed a Nonconformist minister

and an advocate compromised in the Rye House plot. Both were
found in her house; she was ignorant, she declared, of what they
were accused; neither of them had been brought to trial, when
Lady Lisle was led before the tribunal of Jeffreys. The witnesses
one after the other were terrified by the violence of the judge. The
jury hesitated, recoiling before the odious sentence that was
expected of them. "What liars these Presbyterians are!" cried
Jeffreys; "show me a Presbyterian and I'll show thee a lying
knave." He threatened to lock up the jury in the hall for the night if
they did not hasten their decision. Lady Lisle was condemned to be
burned. The clemency of the king mitigated the sentence. The
pious woman walked without fear to the scaffold. Some months
later, at London, another woman, of a more humble condition,
animated by the same charitable spirit, suffered at the stake for
assistance she had given to James Burton, compromised, like the
protégés of Lady Lisle, in the plots of 1683. "My fault was one
which a prince might well have forgiven," said Elizabeth Gaunt as
they arranged the straw of her funeral pile; "I did but relieve a
poor family, and lo! I must die for it." "The people were moved to
tears," relates William Penn, the illustrious founder of Pennsylvania,
who was present at the execution. Loud lamentations arose from
the western counties. Dorsetshire, Wiltshire, Devonshire, and
Somersetshire were strewn with corpses, bristling with gibbets,
depopulated by exile, transportation, and the sale of the
condemned, some of whom, abandoned to the avidity of courtiers,
were reduced to slavery in the West Indies. The ladies of honor of
the queen shared the fines imposed upon the young girls of
Taunton, who had made a part of the deputation sent to welcome
Monmouth. Some of the accused ventured to bring their complaints
to the foot of the throne. The sister of Benjamin and William
Hewling, young men of great promise, presented herself at
Whitehall with a petition. Lord Churchill introduced her. "I wish you
well to your suit," said he, as they entered; "but do not flatter
yourself with hopes; this marble," and he laid his hand on the
chimney-piece, "is not harder than the king." James was inexorable.
The soldiers wept while leading the young men to the gallows.

The "campaign of Jeffreys," as the king himself called it, was at last
completed; he returned to London stained with the blood of his
victims, loaded with silent maledictions which weigh even to this
day upon his memory. "The air of Somersetshire is tainted with
death, and one cannot go a step without encountering some
horrible spectacle," wrote Bishop Ken to the king. The assizes of
London were opened, directed against the middle class, still
obstinately rebellious. Many perished; some compromised like
Cornish in the Rye House plot; others convicted for trivial offences,
like the physician Bateman, who was hanged and quartered for
having dressed the wounds of Titus Oates, that cowardly and cruel
instigator of so many crimes, who had received his terrible
punishment at the beginning of the reign of James II. Religious
persecution was added to political persecution. Never in England
were the Nonconformists pursued with such rigor. Jeffreys received
the "seals" as a reward for his zeal. Nearly four years later, when
he was confined in the Tower, trembling under the popular
indignation, Jeffreys protested that he had never surpassed the
orders of his master, but had even softened their terror. At St.
Germain, James threw upon Jeffreys the overwhelming weight of
the "Bloody Assizes." The king and the judge are equally
condemned by posterity.

The national sentiment sustained James in his struggle against the

insurgents; both Parliament and the Church had demonstrated their
loyalty; but the cruelty of his vengeance revolted their honest
hearts, and disquieted those who feared the future. An event in
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