Here, one dismal morning, some travellers landed, driven by a tempest much more than by their own free will. They were mostly savants, members of great academies from Stockholm and St. Petersburg, who had undertaken a voyage of discovery to the polar regions. The arid, almost {391}bare soil did not promise a pleasant resting place, but the mountain slopes towards the south produced fine grass and dwarf gooseberry bushes, and the immense number of holes in the ground, together with distinct traces of debris left at the openings, proved that the island was at all events inhabited by countless numbers of rabbits. Of other animal life, however, no trace could be found. Rabbits seemed to be the only inhabitants of the island, and that was tempting enough for poor sailors who had for some time been put on salt rations. Our savants prepared, therefore, a large number of traps and snares, when suddenly a fierce tempest of snow and hail broke out, and compelled them instantly to seek refuge in a spacious cave which opened in that direction. They were not a little surprised to find here an old man, bald, hollow cheeked, and pale, whose body was emaciated and decrepit and who was hardly clothed in spite of the rigor of the climate. But beneath all these signs of extreme old age, and great destitution, the stranger displayed an air of authority, and on his serene and lofty brow such supernatural majesty, that the travellers were filled with respect and reverence, and well-nigh trembled at his appearance. {392}An eagle of the largest variety, but so reduced that he looked the mere skeleton of a bird, and with faded and disheveled plumage, sat in a corner, the picture of misery, with his dull eyes and his drooping wings. He was the old man’s sole companion. The two hermits, having no other means of subsistence, lived by hunting, and the old man found in addition, means to carry on a modest traffic in the furs of the only game that the island contained; he laid up large supplies of the small peltry and exchanged it for luxuries..... But my pen refuses to go on. I cannot reconcile it to my principles as an author nor to my conscience as an honest student of genuine myths, to repeat here a story, which is altogether apocryphal, and which belongs much less to tradition than to mystification. Now, this old man was Jupiter, and as I think it over, I come to the conclusion that Mr. Heine, who laughs at the most serious things, has skillfully concealed his irony under the cloak of an interesting story, for the mere purpose of telling us that the Chief of the Gods, dread Jupiter, has become--a dealer in rabbit skins! I cannot follow his example. Without wandering from my subject, for I am still speaking of false gods, I will substitute for {393}this necessarily much curtailed account, another story which I can warrant as authentic.