The Greatest Christmas Books of All Time. Люси Мод Монтгомери

their fate, for they volunteered to assist in that first impious voyage in quest of the golden fleece; but Jason should be spared the general doom, for the task had been imposed upon him by his usurping uncle, Pelias.

      As the next scene opens, the old nurse voices the feeling that we all have upon the eve of some expected but unknown horror.

      My spirit trembles, for I feel the near approach

       Of some unseen disaster. Swiftly grows her grief,

       Its own fires kindling; and again her passion's force

       Hath leaped to life. I oft have seen her, with the fit

       Of inspiration in her soul, confront the gods,

       And force the very heavens to her will. But now,

       A monstrous deed of greater moment far than these

       Medea is preparing. For, but now, did she

       With step of frenzy hurry off until she reached

       Her stricken home. There, in her chamber, all her stores

       Of magic wonders are revealed; once more she views

       The things herself hath held in fear these many years,

       Unloosing one by one her ministers of ill,

       Occult, unspeakable, and wrapt in mystery.

      We omit the remainder of the nurse's speech out of regard for Seneca's reputation as an artist, for in a long passage of sixty lines he proceeds to scour heaven, earth, and the waters under the earth, for every form of venomous serpent, noxious herb, and dread, uncanny thing that the mind of man can conceive; and by the time he has his full array of horrors marshaled before us, we have grown so familiar with the gruesome things that we cease to shiver at them. But at last the ingredients for the hell-broth are ready.

      These deadly, potent herbs she takes and sprinkles o'er

       With serpent venom, mixing all; and in the broth

       She mingles unclean birds, a wailing screech-owl's heart,

       A ghastly vampire's vitals torn from living flesh.

       Her magic poisons all she ranges for her use:

       The ravening power of hidden fire is held in these,

       While deep in others lurks the numbing chill of frost.

       Now magic runes she adds, more potent far.

       But lo!

       Her voice resounds, and as with maddened step she comes

       She chants her charms, while heaven and earth convulsive

       rock.

      Medea now enters, chanting her incantations. Madness has done fearful work with her in the last few hours. We see at a glance that she has indeed, as the nurse has told us, gone back to

      The things herself hath held in fear these many years,

      and has been changed from a true wife and loving mother to a wild and murderous witch once more. She calls upon the gods of the underworld, the silent throng from the dark world of spirits, the tormented shades, all to come to her present aid. She recounts her miraculous powers over nature which she has used aforetime, and which are still in her grasp.

      Thou radiant moon,

       Night's glorious orb, my supplications hear and come

       To aid; put on thy sternest guise, thou goddess dread

       Of triple form! Full oft have I with flowing locks,

       And feet unsandaled, wandered through thy darkling groves,

       And by thy inspiration summoned forth the rain

       From cloudless skies; the heaving seas have I subdued,

       And sent the vanquished waves to ocean's lowest depths.

       At my command the sun and stars together shine,

       The heavenly law reversed; while in the Arctic Sea

       The Bears have plunged. The seasons, too, obey my will:

       I've made the burning summer blossom as the spring,

       And hoary winter autumn's golden harvests bear.

       The Phasis sends his swirling waves to seek their source;

       And Ister, flowing to the sea with many mouths,

       His eager water checks and sluggish rolls along.

       The billows roar, the mad sea rages, though the winds

       All silent lie. At my command primeval groves

       Have lost their leafy shade, and Phoebus, wrapped in gloom,

       Has stood in middle heaven; while falling Hyades

       Attest my charms.

      Here again Seneca's love for the curious runs counter to his art; for he represents Medea as possessed of a veritable museum of curious charms which she has in some occult way gathered from various mythological and traditionary sources, and which she now takes occasion to recount. And it is to this catalogue that we are compelled to listen, though we are waiting in breathless suspense to know what is to come of all this preparation!

      After these and much more somewhat confused ravings, Medea at last says to her attendants:

      Take now Creüsa's bridal robe, and steep in these

       My potent drugs; and when she dons the clinging folds,

       Let subtle flames go stealing through her inmost heart.

      We are told that these magic flames are compounded of some of that fire which Prometheus stole from heaven; certain sulphurous fire which Vulcan had given her; a flame gained from the daring young Phaëthon, who had himself perished in flames because of his overweening folly; the fiery Chimera's breath, and some of "that fierce heat that parched the brazen bull of Colchis." The imagination flags before such an array of fires. The mystery of the burning robe and crown is no longer mysterious. Truly, he doth explain too much.

      But now, in more hurried strain, we hasten on the dénouement.

      Now, O Hecate,

       Give added force to these my deadly gifts,

       And strictly guard the hidden seeds of flame;

       Let them escape detection of the eye,

       But spring to instant life at human touch.

       Let burning streams run through her veins;

       In fervent heat consume her bones,

       And let her blazing locks outshine

       Her marriage torches!—Lo, my prayer

       Is heard: thrice have replied the hounds,

       The baying hounds of Hecate.

       Now all is ready: hither call

       My sons, and let them bear the gifts

       As costly presents to the bride. [Enter sons.] Go, go, my sons, of hapless mother born, And win with gifts and many prayers The favor of the queen! Begone, but quick your way retrace, That I may fold you in a last embrace.

      [Exit sons toward the palace, Medea in the opposite direction.]

      The chorus, which but dimly comprehends Medea's plans, briefly voices its dread of her unbridled passion. It knows that she has one day only before her banishment from Corinth, and prays that this day may soon be over.

      And now, as the chorus and the old nurse wait in trembling suspense for what is to follow, a messenger comes running breathless from the direction of the royal palace. All ears are strained to hear his words, for his face and manner betoken evil tidings. He gasps out his message:

      Lo, all is lost! The kingdom totters from its base!

       The daughter and the father lie in common dust!

      Chorus.

       By what snare taken?