Another myth in which we see the contrast between essential paganism and idealism is that of Orpheus.  The myth appears in countless forms and with innumerable excrescences, but in the main it is in three successive parts.  The first of these tells of the sweet singer loved by all the creatures, the dear friend of all the world, whose charm nothing that lived on earth could resist, and whose spell hurt no creature whom it allured.  The conception stands in sharp contrast to the ghastly statuary that adorned Medusa’s precincts.  Here, with a song whose sweetness surpassed that of the Sirens, nature, dead and living both (for all lived unto Orpheus), followed him with glad and loving movement.  Nay, not only beasts and trees, but stones themselves and even mountains, felt in the hard heart of them the power of this sweet music.  It is one of the most perfect stories ever told—­the precursor of the legends that gathered round Francis of Assisi and many a later saint and artist.  It is the prophecy from the earliest days of that consummation of which Isaiah was afterwards to sing and St. Paul to echo the song, when nature herself would come to the perfect reconciliation for which she had been groaning and travailing through all the years.

The second part of the story tells of the tragedy of love.  Such a man as Orpheus, if he be fortunate in his love, will love wonderfully, and Eurydice is his worthy bride.  Dying, bitten by a snake in the grass as she flees from danger, she descends to Hades.  But the surpassing love of the sweet singer dares to enter that august shadow, not to drink the Waters of Lethe only and to forget, but also to drink the waters of Eunoe and to remember.  His music charms the dead, and those who have the power of death.  Even the hard-hearted monarch of hell is moved for Orpheus, who

     “Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,
     And made hell grant what love did seek.”

But the rescue has one condition.  He must restrain himself, must not look upon the face of his beloved though he bears her in his arms, until they have passed the region of the shadow of death, and may see one another in the sunlight of the bright earth again.  The many versions of the tragic disobedience to this condition bear eloquent testimony, not certainly to any changing phase of the sky, but to the manifold aspects of human life.  According to some accounts, it was the rashness of Orpheus that did the evil—­love’s impatience, that could not wait the fitting time, and, snatching prematurely that which was its due, sacrificed all.  According to other accounts, it was Eurydice who tempted Orpheus, her love and pain having grown too hungry and blind.  However that may be, the error was fatal, and on the very eve of victory all was lost.  It was lost, not by any snatching back in which strong hands of hell tore his beloved from the man’s grasp.  Within his arms the form of Eurydice faded away, and as he clutched at her his fingers closed upon the empty air.  That, too, is a law deep in the nature of things.  It is by no arbitrary decree that self-restraint has been imposed on love.  In this, as in all other things, a man must consent to lose his life in order to find it; and those who will not accept the conditions, will be visited by no melodramatic or violent catastrophe.  Love which has broken law will simply fade away and vanish.