Note 386 — Part 8.
Reading edition
Minerva accepts the challenge of the Mæonian Arachne, who will not yield to her in the praises of being first in weaving wool. The girls desert the vineyards round the little town of Hypæpa, to look at her admirable workmanship. She boasts that hers is finer than that of Pallas, and, desiring a vain victory, rushes upon her own destruction. “... They stretch out two webs on the loom, with a fine warp. The web is tied to the beam; the slay separates the warp; the woof is inserted in the middle with sharp shuttles, while the fingers hurry along, and being drawn with the warp, the teeth (notched in the moving slay) strike it. Both hasten on their labour, and girding up their garments to their bosoms, they move their skilful arms, their eagerness beguiling their fatigue. There are being woven both the purples, which are subjected to the Tyrian brazen (dyeing) vessel with fine shades of minute difference; as in the rainbow with its mighty rays reflected by the shower, where, though a thousand colours are shining, yet the very transition eludes the eyes that look upon it; to such a degree is that which is adjacent the same, and yet the extremes are different. The pliant gold is mingled with the threads, and ancient subjects are represented on the webs.” Then follows the list of the subjects. The web of Pallas had a large central design, and a smaller one on each corner, surrounded with a border of olive leaves. Arachne’s contained nineteen pictures, of two or more figures each, and was surrounded by a border of flowers, interwoven with the twining ivy. Ovid’s “Metamorphoses,” book vi.
Through the kindness of my friend, Lord Houghton, I am enabled to give the sequel of the story—Arachne’s transformation into the Spider, as—
A Paraphrase and a Parable. Lo! how Minerva, recklessly defied, Struck down the maiden of artistic pride, Who, all distraught with terror and despair, Suspended her lithe body in mid-air; Deeming, if thus she innocently died, The sacred vengeance would be pacified. Not so: implacable the goddess cried— “Live on! hang on! and from this hour begin Out of thy loathsome self new threads to spin; No splendid tapestries for royal rooms, But sordid webs to clothe the caves and tombs. Nor blame the Poet’s Metamorphoses: Man’s Life has Transformations hard as these; Thou shall become, as Ages hand thee down, The drear day-worker of the crowded town, Who, envying the rough tiller of the soil, Plies her monotonous unhealthy toil, Passing through joyless day to sleepless night With mind enfeebled and decaying sight, Till some good genius,[437] kindred though apart, Resolves to raise thee from the vulgar mart, And once more links thee to the World of Art.”