Gods and Heroes, translated by George P. Upton

In a rare little volume in my possession, written by William Sheldon, F.A.S., and published by Isaiah Thomas, Jr., at Worcester, Mass., in 1810, over a century ago, the author introduces his “History of the Heathen Gods and Heroes of Antiquity” in the following quaint manner: “People of weak minds and of little learning, who have tasted the Pierian spring but not drunk deep at it, when they read an account of the Heathen Gods and Goddesses and of the images dedicated to them, and hear that the heathens were Idolators, or worshippers of Images, give credit to these stories, without any further inquiry or trouble. It may not, therefore, be unnecessary to inform persons of this description, that the people of all the nations which ever existed under heaven have believed that there existed one God, who is Almighty and the Maker of all things. But there have been people who believed also in inferior or subordinate gods, who were agents or mediators between God and man; and who were employed in carrying on the works of Providence and of the creation or Nature.”

This quaint effort to show the impropriety of treating any description of religion with unnecessary disrespect applies to this volume, which the translator has adapted from the German. Our old author might have added to his statement that there is rare beauty and fascination in many of these Grecian myths and that many a one has wished with Wordsworth that he might

The old gods and minor deities in these “short stories” also appeal to us by their human qualities, and many an important moral lesson may be read in the fate of unfortunate minor deities who offended the higher gods. The sketches are in story form and are told in a refined and entertaining manner. Several of the higher gods and goddesses are not included in this volume, as they appear most interesting in the other volumes in this series—“Achilles,” “Ulysses,” “Argonauts’ Expedition and Labors of Hercules.”

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be

A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

Wordsworth

Gods and Heroes

Chapter I
Prometheus

Zeus (Jupiter), the mighty divinity, overcame the Titans [1] and became the master of the heavens and the earth. But notwithstanding his hard struggle, he would not have been victor had not Prometheus, the Titan, aided him. At last Zeus, ruler in the skies, became the enemy of Prometheus, who originated the hated race of the Titans, and only awaited an opportunity to punish him. He soon found the opportunity, for Prometheus was attached to mankind, whom Zeus intended to destroy, in order to people the earth with a race of older creation. Prometheus endeavored to dissuade him, but Zeus persisted in his purpose. Then Prometheus said: “Have you forgotten that the curse of the dethroned Cronus [2] rests upon you and that by the decrees of destiny a mortal only can deliver you from that curse?”

When Zeus heard this, he decided to spare the race of mortals. They were leading a wretched life and were unconscious of the spiritual or intellectual gifts conferred upon them by their creator. They knew not how to fell the trees and build houses to protect them against wind, rain, and the heat of the sun. Like the beasts, they lived in dens and caves which no ray of light penetrated. They knew none of the signs of the approach of the fruit-bringing Autumn, nor of Winter, nor blooming Spring. Destitute of purpose or perception, they lived like strangers in a barren world.

Prometheus pitied them. He explained to them the rising and setting of the stars and taught them how to recognize their orbits. He computed for them their numbers, a marvellous feat, gave them the power of recollection and the gift of writing, that highest of the sciences. He made the ox a useful servant to the race by placing the yoke upon it and harnessing it to the cart. He bridled the wild horse and showed them how to use it for riding and drawing the wagon. They also learned from him how to build vessels and manage sails. He disclosed the depths of the earth to them with its treasures of iron, silver, and gold. Up to this time, men had no knowledge of plants or their healing qualities. Prometheus taught them how to avail themselves of this knowledge so as to relieve pain and cure disease. He also imparted to them a knowledge of what was transacted in the councils of the gods and taught them to observe the flight of the eagle.

One element of comfortable living, however, was lacking for mankind. It was fire. Prometheus resolved to bring it to them from heaven, but the ruler of the skies ordered him to desist. Watching his opportunity, Prometheus soared aloft, approached the chariot of the sun, and stuck a rod which he carried in his hand in its blazing wheels. Then descending like a falling star, he brought to men the blessing of the fire.

Hermes (Mercury), the swift messenger of the gods, saw this and at once brought the news to the god father, Zeus. The all-powerful one wrathfully directed Hermes: “Up, hasten to Hephaestus (Vulcan) [3] and say that the ruler of the gods needs his service.” Vulcan, god of fire, was also god of all the artificers who are engaged with fire. He was honored as the discoverer of all the implements of the chase, the house, the field, and war, and was also famous as the builder of the gold-gleaming dwellings of the gods. So great was his skill that he constructed bellows which could make the flame stronger or weaker, as he wished, as well as sumptuous couches which, at a sign from him, were placed in the assemblies of the gods for their use.

When Hephaestus appeared before the ruler of the skies, he was requested to make a maiden of gold. He set about the work at once and when Apollo, the next morning, mounted his flaming chariot to shed the heavenly light both upon gods and men, a splendid image was finished which in appearance, speed, and movement resembled a beautiful mortal. Zeus then ordered the other deities to adorn the maiden, who was called Pandora, most sumptuously. The celestial ones came at once bearing gifts. From Athene (Minerva) she received a girdle. The Horae (Hours) crowned her with flowers and the Graces adorned her with exquisite rings and bracelets. Mercury brought her a pernicious gift, that of flattery and unfaithfulness, which was to bring misfortune to men. Thus fitted out with deluding charms and seductive graces, Pandora was conducted to earth by the beautiful winged messenger. From Zeus she had received a golden box, which contained a multitude of evils dangerous to men, and from which they had suffered before Prometheus relieved them. Pandora offered it to him as a gift from Zeus. The watchful son of Titan, however, rejected the gift of the god. Thereupon Pandora offered it to Epimetheus, a brother of Prometheus. He was deluded, forgot his brother’s warning, and married the fascinating Pandora. The false one immediately opened the golden box and the multitude of evils from which Prometheus had saved mortals spread themselves abroad once more and men found themselves again plunged into the very miseries from which they had been saved by the son of the Titan. Thus it happened that the seductive charm of woman brought misery to mortals. [4]

Zeus again summoned Hephaestus and the two giants, Kratos and Bia, and said to them: “Seize Prometheus, conduct him to the limit of earth, and fasten him to one of the loftiest cliff walls of the Caucasus.” The giants undertook the task willingly, but not so Hephaestus, who had compassion for Prometheus. But at last he had to submit to the will of the ruler of gods and men. Prometheus was seized and taken to the desolate cliff. Reluctantly Hephaestus went to work to fasten the son of Titan with adamantine fetters to the cliff, while Kratos and Bia helped in the task.

“Noble Prometheus,” said Hephaestus, “it pains my soul to lend my skill to such a deed as this. What wretchedness awaits thee! Thousands of years must pass and no end to thy suffering! Never wilt thou have sight of one human being to comfort thee. The strength of thy limbs will wane in the heat of the sun and longingly thou wilt yearn for the star-sown night to cover thee with its mantle and bring coolness to thy burning wounds.”

Thereupon Hephaestus and the two servants of Zeus left the fettered one, who cried out: “Thou sacred sky! Ye swift-winged winds! Thou billowy thundering ocean! Earth, thou all-giver! Sun, thou all-seer, I cry to you. Behold the fate which has overtaken me, a deity. By the decree of the ruler of all I must endure constant bitter pain a thousand years. But I will submit to the decree, knowing that the power of fate is irresistible.”

His groans were heard by the winged Oceanides in the crystalline grotto of their father, Oceanus. [5] They hurried to him and when they witnessed the fate of the son of Titan, they filled the air with lamentation. Sorrowfully they turned away. Soon appeared their father, the gray Oceanus, upon his winged sea horse, inquiring what Prometheus had done that he should be exposed to such a dreadful penalty. When he was told, he promised Prometheus to entreat mercy from Zeus. But Prometheus admonished him, saying: “Well I know you have always been my friend, worthy Oceanus, but I pray you do not appeal to Zeus for me. It would avail me nothing and only prejudice Zeus against you.”

A long time passed. Zeus, believing that the Titan’s obstinate spirit had been broken, sent his winged messenger, Hermes, to him, who said: “Zeus desires to know what you heard from your brother about that marriage which, if he enters into it, will some time precipitate his ruin. You know it and have found how severely he punishes the theft of the fire. So anger him no longer, but tell him what he wishes to know.”

Prometheus replied: “Never shall Zeus know what he desires to learn until I am freed from my fetters and relieved of my torments.”

Hermes returned to the ruler of the skies and told him that Prometheus, in spite of his unspeakable torments, still remained obstinate. Zeus stormed wrathfully and decided to subject his victim to still more dreadful punishment. All at once black clouds gathered over Caucasus, fiery thunderbolts, hurled by his hand, shook the lofty jagged cliffs, and the roar of the hurricane filled all the space between the sky and earth.

“Wrathful, implacable deity,” cried Prometheus, “I know this is the manifestation of thy power, but thou canst not move me.”

Then he heard a fearful bellowing issuing from the depths, the earth shook, and great waves hurled themselves upon him and the cliff to which he was fastened. A year ran its course, and when finished, Zeus again dispelled the darkness about the cliff, but with no intention of mitigating Prometheus’ punishment. On the other hand, he determined to make it harder. He sent a vulture who attacked his body and devoured his liver. This torment was renewed daily, for every night his liver grew again. Zeus also vowed that as Prometheus, being a god, could not die, he should hang on the cliffs of Caucasus forever. And thus it happened through many generations of men.

At last the spirit of Titan’s son was broken and he longed for peace and freedom. The other Titans who were once overcome by Zeus and hurled into Tartarus, had long regained their freedom. Reconciliation, however, seemed impossible, for Zeus had once vowed he would not send away the vulture and strike off his fetters unless a deity should undertake to descend into dark Tartarus.

At this time Heracles (Hercules), a son of Zeus by a mortal, was traversing the world, fighting every monster which was endangering the human race. In his travels he came to Caucasus. To his utter astonishment he saw the son of a god fastened there and asked him why he had to endure such agonies. Thereupon Prometheus told him of his fate and Hercules determined to rescue him. Throwing aside his lion skin and club, and taking a poisoned arrow from his quiver, he shot the vulture, tore his claws from the Titan’s groin, and threw him into an abyss. Then Hercules released him from his chains and conducted him to Zeus. Prometheus unwillingly announced to him that a marriage with the beautiful sea nymph Thetis would be his ruin. The reconciliation, however, was not complete, for Zeus’ vow was not yet satisfied. He gave Prometheus a gold ring in which Hephaestus had set a little stone from the Caucasus. “Promise me always to wear this ring,” said Zeus, “and my vow may be accomplished.” Prometheus took the ring and made the promise. Then Hercules fetched Cheiron, whom he had unintentionally wounded with a poisoned arrow, to the deity. Cheiron, who was suffering unspeakable torments and longed to die, gladly descended into Tartarus. Thus the conciliation was complete.

Warned by Prometheus, Zeus married Thetis to a mortal, King Peleus. At once a multitude of lovely sea nymphs came to escort the bride and groom in festal procession. Zeus and the other divinities also joined in the festivities and celebrated the marriage of the beautiful sea nymph.

Chapter II
Deucalion and Pyrrha

The human race, which had been steadfast under misfortune, could not bear good fortune. It became sensual, effeminate, and haughty. Zeus heard of this human degeneracy, assumed human form, and betook himself to earth to discover how much of truth there was in these evil reports. He found a worse state of things than he had feared. Every kind of abomination prevailed. At the close of day he went to the palace of Lycaon, king of Arcadia. To those assembled there he gave a sign that a deity was present. They immediately began to pray. Then said the king: “Let us see whether this is a deity or a mortal like ourselves.” If mortal, he resolved to slay him in the night. He first of all prepared a banquet for him. He cut the throat of a man who had been sent to him by the people of Molossia to be scourged, took the still quivering members, threw some of them into boiling water, and placed the rest of them upon a spit and held them over the fire.

When Zeus saw this he shook the earth and at once the mighty castle was in ruins. The king fled in terror to the fields. He tried to speak, but his voice was an awful howl. And as his voice changed, so did his whole body. He had hair instead of garments and his arms became feet. As a wolf, with eyes glaring, with a longing for blood, and with the action of the wild beasts, he sprang among the herds and his teeth were covered with the blood of the strangled animals.

Zeus not only determined to punish Lycaon, but prepared for the destruction of the whole human race. He betook himself to Olympus, entered his golden palace, called the other deities together, and announced his decision to them. Some approved of it; to others the word of their master caused pain and they said: “Who will build us sacrificial altars in future if the race of mortals is destroyed?”

Zeus promised to people the earth with another and better race and seized his thunderbolts to hurl them over all the earth. But suddenly he feared that the storm of fire might spread through the whole sacred firmament and reduce the universe to ashes. Therefore he dismissed the one-eyed Cyclops, who forged his bolts, and decided to destroy the world by a deluge. He summoned Æolus, god of the winds, and ordered him to retain in his grotto the winds which dispel the rain clouds and release only the south wind. This was done. The south wind immediately spread its heavy, wet wings over sea and land, its foreboding face was concealed by the night, mists covered its brow, its heavily waving beard dripped with rain, and from its curls torrents of water poured down. Zeus pressed the cloud with his broad hand and at once the thunder resounded through immeasurable space. Swiftly the goddess Iris ascended and descended her seven-hued rainbow, drawing water from the agitated sea and filling the clouds. All growing things were bent to the ground and it was not long before the husbandman’s hopes disappeared before the raging flood.

Poseidon (Neptune), god of the sea, was the ruler in the universe most actively engaged in the work of destruction. He ordered the rivers to break through the dikes and overflow the land. He himself rode over the sea in his chariot and excited it so that it hurled its foaming waves upon the shore. Then he smote the earth with his golden trident so that it trembled and the water covered every place. Trees, houses, and temples fell before the wrath of the flood. The rush of the storm drowned the piteous shrieks of men, who, sitting in the trees or upon ridge-poles, vainly stretched out their hands to the darkened heavens. Others fled in multitudes to the mountains to save themselves among the peaks. But higher and higher rose the flood. Some died of fright, some of despair. Others, bereft of reason, rushed aimlessly here and there, until with horrible shrieks they were swallowed up in the raging flood.

The waters soon flowed over the tops of the highest mountains and only the sky and water were visible. Here and there men rowed in boats, and tigers and lions vainly sought to save their lives by swimming. The sheep were in no danger from the wolves when the flood swept among them. Every animal perished. Even the birds, which can remain long in the air, at last sank with tired wings into the water.

Only one place was free from water, the heights of Parnassus, which tower among the clouds. There a small boat was caught in which were Deucalion, king of Thessaly, and his spouse. They lifted their voices and implored a nymph dwelling in a grotto near by to save them. Zeus saw them clinging to the wall of the height, and knowing that they were the only god-fearing ones among the thousands who had perished, decided to let them live. So the winds following the rain clouds were checked and the blue sky smiled once more and Apollo ascended in his flaming chariot. Poseidon stilled the sea. He gave a signal with his trident and the vast tide ebbed. Then he called his son Triton, ruler of the depths of the sea, who dwelt there in a golden house with his mother Amphitrité. He was half man and half fish, with a bluish scaly skin. Triton appeared and Poseidon ordered him to call back the floods and streams which had swept over the land. In obedience to his father’s request Triton raised his wreathed shell and from sunrise to sunset sounded a blast which called all the waters back to their depths. The flood receded, mountains and hills appeared above the water, and gradually the plains and forests and devastated fields became visible.

Deucalion and Pyrrha left their boat, and as he looked around him at the widespread desolation he said: “Oh my spouse, bound to me by ties of kindred and marriage, behold, we are the only human beings in the wide world. How wretched would it then have been if death also had overtaken me! If thou hadst been swept away by the flood I should have followed after thee, for without thee I could not have lived, best beloved! Oh! would that I possessed my father’s divine power of creating men and bestowing life upon them.”

Tears choked his voice and Pyrrha wept also. At last they decided to implore Themis [6] to have mercy and relieve them in their sore straits, and repaired to the temple of the goddess. What a spectacle! The aisles were covered with slime and the fires upon the altars were extinguished. They fell upon their knees, kissed the cold stones, and prayed: “Divine, all-gracious, and merciful one, behold! Empty is the world! We alone remain of all its mortals. Oh pity us and let us once more live among people like ourselves.”

At once through the halls of the temple resounded these words: “Leave the temple, cover your heads, loosen your girdles, and throw behind you the bones of your great mother.”

They were mute with astonishment for a time, but at last Pyrrha said with trembling voice: “Be not angry with me, oh goddess, that I cannot throw my mother’s bones behind me. Thereby I should disturb the dear one now wandering among the shades in Tartarus.”

Sadly they descended the temple steps, Deucalion meditating over the mysterious message to them. At last the shadows of grief in his heart were dissipated and he said: “Best beloved, the goddess intends no harm to us. I believe this is the meaning of her message. The earth is the mother, the stones are her bones. So we will throw them.”

They began at once to obey the goddess’s message. They loosened their girdles, covered their heads, and threw stones behind them. Suddenly life began to manifest itself in the stones. They began to enlarge and take shape. Soon they resembled blocks of marble which the sculptor is fashioning in human form. The softer parts were changing to flesh, the harder to bones. At last appeared the forms of living persons. The stones which Deucalion threw behind him became men and those which Pyrrha threw became women. Thus was the earth repopulated with beings made of stone—a race of strong minds and stout bodies.

Chapter III
Hermes (Mercury)

Hermes was the son of Zeus and Maia, daughter of Atlas the Titan, eldest brother of Prometheus. His divine descent was revealed on the very first day by his extraordinary shrewdness and ingenuity, for he arose at noon from his cradle and hurriedly left the dark grotto of his mother. Espying a speckled tortoise feeding in the high grass, and laughing at the sight, he cried out: “Welcome, pretty one! It is well said where thou abidest there is neither anger nor witchcraft, and yet I think I will kill thee to make of thy shell a pleasant plaything.” Thereupon he seized the tortoise with both hands, went back to the grotto, and killed the animal. He perforated the speckled shell, inserted pegs in the openings, covered the whole with ox-hide, added a neck to it, and strung seven well-toned strings. It was all accomplished in the twinkling of an eye. He tested the strings and, behold, they resounded powerfully and harmoniously to his song. As he sang, another emotion filled his soul. He bethought himself of flesh, for he already had an appetite for well-prepared tasteful meat.

As the sun-chariot disappeared beneath the red gleaming waves of Oceanus, he took his well-toned lute and came at twilight to the shadowy mountains of Pireas, where the cattle of the Sun-god feed in luxuriant meadows. The crafty child enticed fifty of the herd to follow him and made them go backwards so that the hoof tracks would be concealed. That his own footsteps should not betray him, he took tamarisk and myrtle twigs and wove magic sandals with them. Thus he wandered, driving the herd before him, by many devious ways over blooming meadows and darkly wooded heights. At last night waned and the soft light which Selene (Luna) sends down when Apollo sinks in Oceanus was dissipated by the rosy shimmer of Eos (Aurora) in the smiling eastern sky.

When Hermes reached the river Alpheus with the cattle, he herded them and kindled a fire. He then seized two of them by their horns, threw them to the ground with great strength, and killed them with a sharp steel. Then he took the best pieces and spread them on wooden spits, but saved the skins for drying. Next he divided the flesh in twelve parts and offered them to the twelve highest Olympian deities. As he saw the smoke of offering rising to the skies, a longing seized him to learn from the flesh whether he belonged to the divine race which is nourished by nectar and ambrosia. But his exalted intelligence restrained him from the experiment. He left the flesh untouched, surrounded it with dry pieces of wood, and burned it together with the heads and hoofs of the animals. As the smoke rose, he threw his sandals into the Alpheus and hastened back to the grotto. Lightly as the breeze he slipped through the oval opening, sprang into his cradle, and like a playful child took his lute in his left hand. But his mother was not deceived and she scolded him for his long absence.

The rosy Aurora spread over the morning sky, and when Apollo rose in his chariot with its heavily-maned white steeds he looked down upon the lonely meadows and missed the cattle. Amazed, he looked for the tracks of their feet, but nowhere found a trace of them, and no sign that man or god had been that way. He came to Onchestus, where he found an old man, keeper of a vineyard, and asked him about it. The old man replied: “It was a wee child who swung a wand with his hand and drove the herd away.”

Apollo thought of Hermes and betook himself to Maia’s grotto. When Hermes saw the Sun-god’s dazzling face he buried himself deeper in the snow-white sheets and pretended to be asleep. But Apollo saw through the cunning of the child. He searched through the cavern and opened all the spacious chambers. In one he saw nectar and ambrosia and plenty of gold, in another chests of cedar filled with the purple and snow-white garments of the nymph. But as he nowhere found what he sought, he stepped to the cradle and said: “Cunning boy, arise and show me the cattle you carried off. If you do not hasten to obey me, I will hurl you without mercy into the blackened depths of Tartarus, from which no one can rescue you.”

As Hermes struggled to rise, Apollo seized him and took him to Zeus, who, after hearing the Sun-god’s complaint, laughed loudly and released his cunning son. After giving some living cattle to the Sun-god, Zeus kept Hermes and he became the deity of barter and business and the swift messenger of the gods. All ways were soon known to him and his winged feet bore him with the swiftness of the wind over land and sea.

Chapter IV
Phaëthon

Clymene bore a son, named Phaëthon, who grew up a handsome and stately youth. His father was Phœbus (Apollo), the Sun-god. Once, when he boasted of his heavenly descent, his companions laughed at him. Shame and anger filled the youth’s heart and he resolved, upon the advice of his mother, to ask the Sun-god himself if he were not his father. After wandering through Ethiopia and India, he at last reached Apollo’s palace. Lofty columns, some made of solid gold, others of fire-colored rubies, dazzled him. Their splendid pediments were made of polished ivory and the folding door of lustrous silver, the work of the artistic divinity, Hephaestus. There too were to be seen upon the billows of the sea the horn-blowing Triton, near him gray Proteus, whose office it is to protect the sea god’s seals, and Doris, with her daughters, the Nereids. [7] Some of these sea maidens were represented as sitting upon the rocks and drying their green hair, others, riding upon dolphins. Above them was the arching firmament.

Phaëthon approached the palace, but for a spell remained in the hall at a distance, for the brilliancy which emanated from the sparkling crown of his progenitor blinded him. Apollo, with a purple robe flowing from his shoulders, sat upon a golden throne gleaming with jewels. To the right and left of him stood the year, the month, the day, and the hours. Golden-tressed Spring was adorned with a wreath, and Summer, with sheaves of corn. Autumn carried a red basket with golden grape clusters on her head, and Winter could be recognized by his icy beard and silver hair.

Apollo, delighted with the sight of his blooming son, said: “What is it, Phaëthon, that has brought you here?”

“Divine father,” replied the son, “they mock at me when I call you father. Give me some proof that I am your son.”

Thereupon Apollo took his sparkling crown from his brow, called his son to him, and embracing him said: “What your mother has told you is true. I am Apollo, your father. That you may know it beyond all question, ask anything of me. Whatever it may be, it shall be granted. I promise you this by the Stygian Lake, the dark waters of the underworld; and such a vow, as you well know, is inviolate for us deities.”

Hardly had his father finished speaking before Phaëthon, with sparkling eyes, replied: “I pray you let me drive your sun-chariot and winged steeds for one day.”

How Apollo regretted his vow! With mournful visage he shook his head and spoke. “Woe is me that I must keep my promise. Had I not made it, your wish would not have been granted. But now I can do no more than warn you. The fulfilment of your wish will result in dreadful dangers. What you desire is so great a task that your youth and strength are not equal to it. You, a mortal, wish to be immortal. None of the Olympian gods themselves would undertake such a task. It is known to them as to mortals that I alone can drive the sun-chariot. Zeus himself, mightiest of the gods, who holds the thunderbolts in his hand and rules over heaven and earth, would not dare to drive it. Learn now the dangers which threaten you. Only with the greatest exertion can the freshly harnessed steeds climb the upward morning-path. It is a fearful sight to gaze down from the summit of the sun-course. My own heart trembles when I reach that spot. Then the path descends, growing more and more steep. To accomplish it needs a sure hand. Thetis herself, who awaits me in the waves, looks up anxiously, fearing I may not be able to make the downward plunge. And this is not all you must learn. The heavens revolve around you constantly, and the high stars weave in circles. The goal must be firmly kept in sight in spite of the furious oscillation and you must not deviate from the course. Oh son, ask yourself seriously if you can do this. Think of this, too. Far otherwise will the sky appear to you than it does from the earth. You will not journey to cities nor to groves with lofty temples, but you will encounter apparitions of wild animals, at sight of which the blood of a mortal will turn to ice. How can you manage these ungovernable fire steeds which I can hardly bridle, so great is their strength? Therefore, oh son, abandon your wish. There are so many things in heaven and earth better worth the asking which I can give you. The granting of your wish means your destruction.”

The deity’s warnings were useless. Phaëthon repeated his request. As Apollo was bound by his vow, he led the youth to the sun-chariot, which was a gift from Hephaestus. The axles were golden, as well as the shafts and the rims of the wheels, but the spokes were of solid silver. The shafts and the harness glittered with chrysolite and other precious stones. While Phaëthon was gazing at the chariot in astonishment, Eos opened the purple door leading to the halls in which the flowers of heaven at all times bloom. The stars disappeared, the morning star, last of the gleaming choir, faded and finally was lost to view. When Selene (Luna) had sunk beneath the sea, Apollo summoned the blessing-giving Hours whose duty it was to harness the steeds to the sun-chariot. With light step the rosy divinities betook themselves to the hall, loosed the white steeds from their marble cribs, filled with ambrosia, led them to the chariot, and placed their trappings on them while Apollo besmeared his son’s face with a sacred ointment so that he should not be blinded. Then he placed the sparkling crown upon his beautiful tresses and said with a sigh: “Since I cannot dissuade you, at least take this advice to heart. Do not urge the horses with the goad, for they go swiftly enough, but hold the reins securely, try to restrain their fiery snorting and govern them safely. Avoid the South as well as the North Pole and keep to the course indicated by the ruts of the wheels. Observe further that it is necessary sky and earth should be equally warm. Go neither too high nor too low, lest you burn either the heavenly mansions or the dwellings on earth. May Fortune help you in all other things, so now take the reins and think of my advice. It would be vastly better for you to desist from your ruinous folly that I to-day, as usual, may furnish light for men and gods.”

During these last words the headstrong youth mounted the chariot and took the reins from the hands of his sorrowful father. The neighing of the steeds filled the atmosphere. They champed their bits and stamped. When Phaëthon pulled the reins they flew with the chariot. They soon outran the swift winds, clove asunder the morning clouds, and the vast, immeasurable universe lay before Phaëthon’s gaze. The chariot swung from side to side as the load was too light. When the steeds noticed this, they took to wild flight and left the usual course. The youth was overcome by fear. How could he find the course again? Not once but many times he sought to free the tangled reins. Upward went the chariot. When Phaëthon looked upon the height of the sky, a panic seized him, his knees trembled, and all grew dark before his eye. Now he repented that he had not heeded his father’s warnings, but it was too late. He was hurled about like a dismasted vessel in raging waters. He knew not what to do. He had already traversed a great part of the sky, but endless was the expanse which still lay before him. In despair he looked ahead and behind. He still held the reins, but he no longer made any effort to direct the steeds. A great terror awaited him as he suddenly beheld frightful apparitions above him. Terrified by them, the steeds ran still farther from the course, dragging the swaying, cracking chariot after them. The elevated plains of earth took fire. Broad fissures appeared in the ground, the forest disappeared in a furious sea of flame, and a luminous dust arose from the meadows and harvest fields. Cities and their people were destroyed. Fiery clouds swept over places teeming with life shortly before. The mountains were masses of seething fire. Phaëthon, gazing about, saw nothing but flames. Higher and higher they rose, and at last the sun-chariot was surrounded by clouds of hot moisture. Phaëthon no longer knew where he was. Then, so says the myth, the terrified nymphs fled, mourning over their fountains and waters destroyed by fire. The earth became such a vast chasm that the glare of the fire was reflected in Tartarus and the gods of the underworld were terrified. The sea itself retreated from its shores, its bed rose, islands appeared where there had been none, fishes and seals lay dead upon the banks. The sea nymphs fled with Doris and Nereus to a cool grotto, where the air was so glowing that Poseidon had to plunge in water the arm with which he raised his trident to try and hurl Phaëthon down.

When Zeus beheld what was happening he pitied the dying world. With a thunderbolt he killed the audacious charioteer. A lock of his hair, taking fire, floated down like a falling star. The terrible bolt frightened the steeds. The chariot broke and axles, spokes, and fragments of the wheels flew in all directions.

Phaëthon fell into the river Eridanus and the naiads of the stream came to bury his body. Apollo, who had seen all that happened to his son, sorrowfully veiled his face. [8]

Chapter V
Orpheus

Orpheus was the hero-singer of the Thracians, who in the ancient times dwelt at the foot of the mountains Olympus, Parnassus, and Helicon. He was the son of Apollo [9] and the muse Calliope [10] and the husband of Eurydice. His name became so celebrated among later poets that his power of song was said to have produced most marvellous effects. When he struck his lute, the fable says, the lions of the forest fawned upon him like dogs, rivers halted in their course, and the trees and rocks listened to him. He accompanied the Argonauts on their expedition and accomplished by his music many marvellous escapes for them. When he returned from the expedition his young wife, Eurydice, and her companions danced upon a beautiful grass plat one day. While engaged in their sports a snake stung her in the foot and she died in the very bloom of her youth. [11] The inconsolable husband poured out his grief in tones that filled all hearts with sorrow. Taking his lute, he ventured to the entrance of the underworld, Tartarus, and entreated Persephone, spouse of Hades, god of the underworld, to give him back Eurydice. The bars of the gate flew back as he sang. With ever tenderer tones he approached the place where departed spirits wander. Cerberus, the three-headed dog who guards the entrance, quietly wagged his tail as he passed, Ixion’s wheel stood still, [12] and Sisyphus stopped his fruitless task to listen to him. [13]

Persephone graciously heard Orpheus’ entreaty and said: “Go back whence you came. Eurydice shall silently follow. But have a care that you do not look at her until you have reached the upper world. If you gaze at her but an instant she will be lost to you forever.”

Orpheus turned back. He had not yet seen her. Would she follow him or not? A goddess surely would not deceive him. But he heard no step behind him. Singing, he went his way for a time, and when in the distance he saw the gleam of the upper world, he cried “Eurydice” in tender, eager tones. No answer was made. Overcome by grief and anxiety, he forgot the warning of the goddess. An irresistible desire to see her caused him to turn his head, and behold his wife was quietly and lightly following him. He stretched out his arms to her and in an instant the goddess’s warning was realized. Eurydice suddenly went back and was never again seen by him.

His soul was rent with anguish. He wandered despairingly with his lute in the Thracian forest, where he found among the rocks a swarm of Mænades, those creatures who foregather at the festivals of Bacchus and, excited with wine and wild debauches, go through the woods inciting everyone to attend the revels which are given in honor of that divinity. They made a loud clamor by clashing their cymbals together and blowing trumpets and horns and swung their wands, wound with vine leaves and ivy, called the thyrsus, crying, “Evoe, Evoe, Bacchus.”

These Mænades who found Orpheus lamenting for Eurydice, snatched his lute away and ordered him to entertain them. With horror he turned from them and rejected their importunities. That was too much for a horde of mad women. They stoned him, tore him to pieces, and threw his bleeding limbs into the forest.

Chapter VI
Atalanta

Schœneus married in Arcadia and entreated the gods to send him a son. When his spouse bore him a daughter, he became so enraged that he took the child from her mother, carried her into the wilderness, and left her there. The child was nourished by a bear until she was found by some hunters, who took her away, brought her up, and named her Atalanta.

Atalanta grew in beauty and strength and became a vigorous huntress, surpassing all men and youths in daring, swiftness, and skill. Like Artemis, she chose to live unmarried and paid no attention to the youths who solicited her hand. When hard pressed she at last made this condition. He only should have her as wife who surpassed her in running; but those who were defeated should die.

Hard as the condition was, the beauty of the maiden attracted a crowd of suitors. Among them was Hippomenes, who came not to take part in the race, but to deride the youths who would risk their lives by such folly. But when the race began and he saw the beautiful huntress, he himself was smitten with love and hoped that none of the youths would win the prize, so that he might take Atalanta home as his wife. The race was finished. The maiden returned with the wreath of victory on her head, but the youths were taken away to suffer death.

Then Hippomenes stepped forward and said: “It was not much glory, O Atalanta, to surpass those. Now I wish to race with you. Should fortune favor me, it will be no shame for you to be beaten by one who is great grandson of Poseidon, god of the waters, and whose courage is not inferior to his skill. But should you win, your name will be honored in future days.”

Atalanta looked upon the bold youth, and as he was pleasing in her sight she was uncertain whether she wished his victory or his defeat. Then she said: “What divinity, O youth, seeks your destruction by giving you the desire to race with me? Those foolish ones, they tried and now must die. At least let me warn you to seek some other maiden. If you reject my advice, I bespeak for you the help of the gods that you may be the winner.”

While the beautiful huntress thus spoke, Hippomenes called to Venus, who suddenly stood by his side, unseen by Atalanta. She gave him three golden apples gathered in the gardens of the Hesperides, and told him how to use them. The trumpet sounded and both started swiftly over the course. What a sight it was to watch the beautiful creature whose feet scarcely touched the ground! “Look,” said one, “she could skim over the waving wheat without bending it, or fly over the sea without wetting the soles of her feet.” The encouraging shouts of his friends greeted the youth.

Hippomenes was overjoyed at the greetings, and Atalanta noticed it with pleasure. It seemed unendurable to her to be beaten, but it was even more painful to beat and thereby sacrifice Hippomenes’ life. For a long time they ran side by side. At last Hippomenes threw an apple to the ground. The maiden saw the rolling gold and stooped to pick it up. The delay threw her back in the race, but she soon caught up with the youth. He threw the second apple. Running out of her course she seized it and Hippomenes gained further advantage. He was nearing the goal when he heard the distant applause of his friends. The maiden put forth all her power and soon flew past Hippomenes with burning cheeks, so that his death seemed inevitable. Then he supplicated the goddess and threw the third apple, which rolled far out of the course. The maiden would have left it, but Aphrodite (Venus) induced her to get it. The goddess made the task so difficult that Hippomenes reached the goal first. The judges crowned him and Atalanta, as she had promised, gave him her hand.

The day of their marriage was the day of ruin for both, for they wholly forgot the goddess and neither made thank-offerings nor remembered her kind assistance. Aphrodite therefore decreed a severe penalty. The angry goddess changed them into a pair of lions and harnessed them to her golden chariot.

Chapter VII
Tantalus

Tantalus, a rich and powerful king, was deemed worthy by Zeus to visit the gold-gleaming mansions of the gods on high Olympus and to partake of nectar and ambrosia at their tables. Zeus and the other immortals even deigned to appear under Tantalus’ roof, to sit at his table, and converse in his own speech. Such an honor was too great for a mortal to bear. Inflated with pride, he made himself hated by gods and men. He not only made sport of the names of the immortals and uttered falsehoods, but he would reveal their decrees to mortals and steal nectar and ambrosia for his friends. He at last grew so audacious that he was warned and threatened by the gods. Finally his penalty overtook him. Upon one occasion when the gods were visiting him and partaking of a banquet, he decided to test just how far they were omniscient. He killed his son Pelops, prepared his flesh as a test, and set the disgusting food before them. All recognized the unnatural deed of the father except Ceres, whose heart was full of sorrow over the loss of her daughter. [14] So it happened that she partook of the food, and ate of the shoulder of Pelops. Zeus collected the parts of the body, substituted an ivory shoulder, recalled Pelops’ soul from Tartarus, restored him to life, and then plunged Tantalus into Hades to suffer endless torment.

When Tantalus regained consciousness, he found himself standing up to his chin in water. Overcome with burning thirst, he bent his head to drink. But the more he bent his head the lower the water receded, and at last sunk into the ground, leaving nothing at his feet but dry, black dust. As he raised his head the water raised, only to disappear whenever he tried to drink. Over his head hung branches loaded with fruit. Between the green leaves were pomegranates, balsamic pears, olives, figs, and spicy apples, but whenever the victim raised his hands to pluck them, a wind drove the branches away from him. His torment was endless. A restless longing never to be satisfied was the punishment inflicted upon him by the revengeful divinity.

Chapter VIII
Salmoneus, Sisyphus, Ixion, and Phlegyas

Salmoneus was a brother of Tantalus, whom Zeus punished so severely for his audacity. A similar fate overtook him also, for he had a spite against the gods and strove to be equal to them. He snatched the offerings intended for Zeus from his altars and commanded that they should be offered to himself. He imitated Zeus’ thunderbolts with lighted torches, which he threw down upon the people, and represented thunder by the clashing of iron vessels. In fact he imitated the ruler of the universe in every way.

When he had reached the summit of his insolence his ruin overtook him. Zeus struck him with one of his bolts and hurled him down to Tartarus.

Sisyphus was in the same dreadful place. In the upper world he had been guilty of thefts both among men and the gods. In the very hour of his death he perpetrated an evil deed. He seized and bound Thanatos, the god of death, with brazen bands, and for a long time no one died on earth. The gods of the underworld sent to Zeus this message: “Behold Thanatos, who went to the upper world to bring Sisyphus here, has not returned. For several days no shade has entered our dark kingdom.” Thereupon Zeus sent for the powerful war god, Ares, [15] and ordered him to find the god of death. He soon found and released him from his fetters, and Sisyphus was taken to the underworld by Thanatos. Even then he continued his deceitful deeds. He said to his wife: “Do not bury my body and make the customary death offering to the gods of the underworld.” Then he appeared before Hades and Persephone and said: “My wife has not buried my body and has neglected to make the death offering. Let me go to her and remind the faithless one of her duty. Then I surely will return.”

His wish was granted and he returned to the upper world. As he did not come back, word was again sent to Zeus, who despatched the swift-flying Hermes to take the deceiver back. When Sisyphus saw the divine messenger, his courage gave way, for he knew that no mortal could outdo him in cunning. Hermes took him back to the dark kingdom, where a fearful penalty awaited him. He had to roll a huge block of marble up a high mountain which no sooner reached the top than it went thundering down. He had to begin his task over again with sweat of toil and anguish dropping from his brow to the earth.

Ixion, who had offered violence to the goddess Hera, [16] suffered another penalty. He was tied to a wheel which never ceased revolving. Phlegyas, [17] who burned the temple of Apollo, was also there. He was continually threatened by a rock hanging over his head, which exposed him to constant apprehension and unspeakable torture.

Chapter IX
Niobe

Amphion, who married a godlike maiden named Niobe, ruled over Thebes. She became the mother of seven stately sons and seven blooming daughters.

She would have been esteemed the most blessed of mothers if she could have borne her happiness with moderation. Her husband Amphion was well-nigh equal to the divine singer Orpheus in song and lute playing, while in possessions and power she surpassed most princesses of her time. But more than all else she prided herself upon her children.

The prophetess Manto went through the streets and ordered the Theban women to the altars of Latona. “Arise, you women,” she cried; “twine your tresses with fresh laurel and bring fragrant incense for the mother of Apollo and Diane.”

The women immediately assembled at the altar of the goddess and supplicatingly scattered incense in the sacred flames. Hardly had they begun the offering song when Niobe appeared, proudly advancing. She wore a gold-embroidered cloak and on her brow gleamed a diadem. Standing before the altar, she raised her head proudly and said: “Foolish ones, would you honor Latona and refuse incense at my altar? Was not my father, Tantalus, a guest at the tables of the gods? Atlas, who carries the world’s axle on his shoulders, is my ancestor. Zeus is another. My power extends even in far-off Phrygia. The stones with which Cadmus built this city and its castle dance to the music of my husband’s lute. Wherever you look in my palace you find inexhaustible treasures. But it is my richest fortune to be the mother of seven stately sons and as many blooming daughters. And yet you offer to Latona, who has borne but two, Apollo and Artemis (Diane)! Do you not know, foolish ones, how she was persecuted by Juno when the hour of her delivery approached? She could find refuge neither in heaven nor on earth, so contemptuously was she regarded! At last the island of Delos pitied the fugitive and said to her: ‘Thou wanderest about restless, like myself, and so I have compassion for thee and offer thee refuge.’ She remained at Delos and bore the Twins who are so highly esteemed by mortals—Apollo and Diane. But am not I with my fourteen children more blest than she with two? She is almost childless, but I am rich in children. So take the laurels from your brows and leave the altar of the goddess who is far less fortunate than I.”

The Theban women reluctantly acceded to her request. Holding their wreaths in their hands, they stole away, but did not forget to supplicate their goddess in light murmurs.

Latona was angry at the insult which Niobe offered her. She called her children, Apollo and Artemis, and said to them: “Behold, my children, how that woman has dishonored me and how the Theban women have forsaken my altar!”

While the goddess was requesting them to avenge her shameful treatment, Apollo interposed and said: “Say no more, divine mother, your wrongs shall be speedily righted.” Artemis said the same. Thereupon they betook themselves to the castle built by Cadmus. Nearby they found the fields covered with the tracks of horses which Niobe’s sons were driving about. Suddenly Ismenos, the eldest, cried out in agony. Behold, his heart was pierced with a silver arrow shot by Apollo from a cloud with his unerring bow. The youth paled at the sight and his gold-mounted bridle dropped from his hands. He raised his head again and fell, dying, from his horse.

When Sipylus saw this, terror seized him and he sought to escape. But his fate overtook him. The arrow was shot at him with such skill that it pierced his throat. Plunging forward, his blood ran down his steed’s white neck and a moment after he fell lifeless to the earth.

Two sons skilled in the ring stood breast to breast and the same fatal arrow pierced both. Alphenor, seeing them fall, threw himself upon them with loud lamentation. His death came quickly, for his body was also pierced by an arrow. His moans had hardly ceased when Damasichthos fell wounded in the knee. While trying to stanch the wound, a second arrow pierced him and he sank dead to the earth. The youngest of the sons, Ilioneus, alone remained. The beautiful boy fell upon his knees and thus implored: “All ye gods, spare me!” Apollo was touched, but it was too late, for the fatal arrow was already on its way and reached its mark—the heart of the supplicating one.

A cry of anguish ran through the city. When the king learned what had happened, despair seized him and he ran his sword through his body. Niobe also heard of the horror, but could not believe it. She hurried to the field and found the bleeding bodies. How everything had changed for her who but a short time before had been so boastful! Her face was pitiful to look upon. Even her enemies felt compassion.

She threw herself down, now upon this body, now upon that, and covered them with kisses and tears. Her hair hung down and the blood of her sons stained it and her garments. She raised her arms and wildly cried: “Revengeful Latona, now satisfy your delight in my sufferings. My sons’ death is my death. Triumph, dreadful one, for thou hast overcome me. But no, for I am still richer than thou.”

Hardly had these words escaped her lips before the dismal twang of the bow was heard anew. Horror seized upon the people and the seven daughters who were rushing to the spot. Niobe did not quail. Misfortune had stupefied her. One of the daughters, while seeking to draw the arrow from the heart of Ilioneus, was pierced and fell upon his body. Another, while consoling her mother, fell dead. Thus one after the other was killed until only the youngest was left. She fled to the lap of her mother, who covered her with her cloak. “Only this one is left to me, Implacable One, only this one,” exclaimed Niobe in despair. The death cry was heard, and she held in her arms a bleeding body.

The mother sat amidst her murdered children, rigid with sorrow. Her face was like white marble. Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. The blood stood still in her veins. Her whole body turned to stone. A storm swept past with a frightful roar. Lo, tears of stone fell from her eyes. Suddenly the hurricane carried her upon its wings and left her among the rocky crags of Sipylus. [18]

Chapter X
Bellerophon

Bellerophon, grandson of Sisyphus, received from the gods both beauty and manliness, but the heavenly gifts wrought his ruin. Hardly had Queen Antia looked upon him before she forgot her duty to the king and tried to win him for a husband. When Bellerophon learned her purpose, he turned from her with abhorrence. Thereupon she determined to destroy him, and said to her husband: “Kill that profligate who has tried to make me faithless to thee.”

The king’s heart was filled with anger when he learned this, and yet he was reluctant to kill the youth himself. So he wrote a letter and sent Bellerophon with it to his father-in-law, the prince of the rich country of Lycia, who extended hospitalities to him and gave a feast in his honor, which lasted several days. Bellerophon then took the letter, whose contents he did not understand, and gave it to the prince. He was amazed when he read that Bellerophon must die, and disliked to deprive so handsome a youth of his life.

Finally he ordered him to fight with the dreadful Chimæra, a monster having the fore part that of a lion, the middle that of a goat, and the hind part that of a dragon, which continually emitted fire from its jaws. The gods, compassionating the innocent one, sent Pegasus, the winged horse, to him, so that he could raise himself in the air. But he could not catch the horse. Wearied with his exertions, he slept by the edge of a spring. Athene appeared to him there, gave him a golden bridle, and said: “Make an offering to Poseidon, the sea god, and he will aid thee.” When the youth awoke he was holding the bridle in his hand. He at once made the offering and erected an altar to Athene. Then he started to catch the horse, which came to him of its own accord. He placed the golden bridle on it and in his brazen armor vaulted upon the back of the divine steed. It extended its wings at once and took him to the lair of the Chimæra.

Now the battle began. His steed sinking towards the earth, Bellerophon hurled a lance at the animal which penetrated deep into its back. Roaring with rage and pain, the monster reared its dragon body and emitted flames. But its exertions were useless, for Pegasus flew still farther upwards with the youth. It writhed upon the ground and sought to pull out the bronze spear with its jaws. Then it crawled over the fields, streaking them with blood. Bellerophon followed it, when suddenly it coiled itself up as if dead. But it did not deceive him. From on high he shot down a deadly arrow which pierced through its mane into its neck. It sprang up again, but could not reach the youth. Hardly had it sunk down to the ground before another arrow was driven through its eyes. Fearful was its roar. Men and beasts fled far away in terror, but Bellerophon was not afraid. Unerringly he shot the third arrow, which struck the monster between the vertebræ and pierced the marrow. Spouting fire and blood, it died.

When Bellerophon returned from his battle, still harder tasks awaited him. He had first to encounter the famous Solymi and then the bold Amazons. With the aid of the gods he was victorious, but on his homeward way new danger awaited him. The king sent out a troop of his most valiant men against him and they approached the unsuspecting Bellerophon from an ambush. But it was of no avail, for after a short battle he overcame them. When he appeared before the prince, the latter said: “Surely thou art innocent and a favorite of the gods, else thou couldst not have escaped all these dangers.” He loved him from that moment and gave him his daughter to wife.

Rich in possessions and honors, Bellerophon lived in Lycia. But his good fortune did not last long. He attempted to fly to heaven with Pegasus to participate in the assemblies of the gods. His efforts were useless and he lost their favor. Pegasus was frightened and threw his rider to the earth, who fell into a field called Aleius because he wandered in it blind the rest of his life. Joyless were his days and at last he died, his heart broken by sorrow. But Pegasus was placed among the stars.

Chapter XI
Perseus

Acrisius was king in Argos. It was once foretold that he would be killed by the son of his daughter, Danaë. Thereupon he shut up his daughter and her son, Perseus by name, in a chest and threw it into a raging flood. The gods pitied the innocent ones and directed it to the island of Seriphus.

The kings of the island, Dictys and Polydectes, were one day drawing a net from the sea. Great was their astonishment when they found a chest in the net and heard sorrowful moanings in its interior. They opened it and the noble Danaë stepped out with her beautiful son. Dictys took them home with him and cared for them as if they had been his own brother and sister.

When Perseus reached his young manhood, he surpassed everyone in skill and dexterity in martial sports. Polydectes conceived evil designs against the innocent Danaë, and as he feared Perseus he decided to send him out of the country. He soon found the opportunity. He gave a banquet to the leading men of the island, at which he announced that he was going to take a wife. He also required each one of them to procure a beautiful horse for a wedding gift. In his youthful presumptuousness Perseus said: “Whatever you wish I promise to do. Even should you request the head of the Gorgon, I would procure it for you.”

The king replied: “Bring me the Gorgon’s head, but know this: If you do not keep your word, your mother Danaë shall make compensation.”

Troubled in mind, Perseus went to the seashore and confided his fears to the waves. Hermes, the divine messenger, at once appeared and promised his assistance. He conducted him to the house of Night in the extreme limits of the earth, where there is neither the golden light of the sun nor the mild lustre of the moon. The daughters of Phorcus, the monster, who were gray at birth, dwelt in that fearful darkness. They had but one eye and one tooth, common to them all. The fearless Perseus snatched from them both eye and tooth. They raised a frightful clamor and implored the youth to restore them. “It shall be done,” said Perseus, “if you will show me the way to the nymphs.” They did so, and he returned them.

From the nymphs he received the cloak of Pluto, the winged shoes of Mercury, and the shield of Minerva. He donned the cloak which rendered him invisible, and fastened the winged shoes to his feet. Hermes gave him a sword. Then he rose in the air with his winged feet and in a trice reached Oceanus. There dwelt the sisters, the terrible Gorgons, whose heads were covered with snakes. The chill of death struck those who looked upon them, their breath left them, and they turned to stone. The monsters slept with their faces turned downwards.

As Perseus courageously approached with his drawn sword, Hermes and Athene suddenly stood at his side, instructing him how to begin so as to keep his word. “Advance so you do not see the faces,” said they, “lest they turn you to stone. Draw your sword only against the middle one of the Gorgons, the Medusa, for she alone is mortal. When you have recognized her, raise this gleaming shield in which her face will be mirrored.”

After these words, the immortals left the youth. Approaching nearer, he saw the figure of the Gorgon on his shield. He raised his sword and struck off her head. He then seized it by the snaky hair, fastened it to his shield, and hurried away. The two living Gorgons awoke and swept the air with their wings, but could not catch the youth, as the cloak of Pluto hid him from their sight.

On his way back, Perseus came to Ethiopia. The people there were in great trouble, for a dreadful calamity had happened to them. The water of the sea was in flood and had brought with it a monster which devoured men and animals. The oracle was consulted and gave this answer: “Only when Andromeda, the king’s daughter, is given to the sea monster for food will the flood abate.” Although the noble maiden was greatly beloved, there was a universal demand to offer her up and save the country. Andromeda was thereupon taken to a rock and securely bound to it.

Flying through the air, Perseus saw the maiden. He immediately descended and ascertained her fate. Then he hastened to the king and asked him if he would give his daughter to him for wife if he freed the country from the monster. The king promised that he would.

Perseus betook himself to the shore and awaited the appearance of the monster. It soon emerged from the water and made for the rocks to devour the maiden. Perseus attacked and killed it after a hard fight. The waves of the sea at once receded and the country was freed from the pest. The king gave the victor his daughter for wife and a great festival was held in his honor.

After some time had elapsed, Perseus bethought himself of the promise he had made King Polydectes to bring him the Gorgon’s head, and therefore made his way with his wife to the island of Seriphus, where Polydectes ruled in common with his brother.

How astonished Polydectes was when he saw the hero returning whose death he had wished! Perseus held the head of Medusa before the king. The sight of it turned him to stone instantly. When Polydectes had thus been punished, Perseus gave the Medusa’s head to Athene, who fastened it in the middle of her breastplate. The shield, cloak, and shoes he gave to Hermes, who returned them to the nymphs.

Perseus now went back to Argos, his homeland. When Acrisius heard he was approaching the castle, he fled to the Pelasgians. Perseus followed him and found him there. He implored him to return with him to Argos and promised that he would do him no harm. This reassured Acrisius and he agreed to follow him.

On the day fixed for their departure a contest was arranged by the Pelasgians in which Perseus took part. He engaged in disk throwing and Perseus struck his grandfather upon the foot with the disk, which led to his illness and death. Thus the prophecy was fulfilled.

Perseus lived long and happily with his wife Andromeda, who bore him six sons and two daughters.

Chapter XII
Cadmus

Agenor, hearing of the extraordinary abduction of Europa, [19] called his son Cadmus to him and ordered him to bring back the maiden or never again enter his house. Cadmus wandered over the earth for a long time, but could nowhere find his sister. As he did not dare to venture home without her, he consulted the oracle and asked where she might dwell.

The oracle replied: “In a lonely field you will find a young steer which has never worn a yoke. Follow it, and where it lies down in the soft grass to rest, there build a city. It shall be called Thebes, and the country round about, Bœotia.”

Cadmus left the cave in which he had heard the voice of the deity and soon found the steer which had never worn a yoke. He followed it with his companions, humbly supplicating Apollo. The steer led him afar, but at last stopped, turned its head towards him and his companions, and loudly lowed. Then it laid down in the soft grass.

Cadmus knelt down, kissed the soil, and greeted the surrounding fields, mountains, and forests. Then turning to his companions he said: “Arise, and bring water that we may make an offering to Zeus, the all-powerful.”

There was a forest nearby which had never been touched by the axe. In the centre of this forest they found a cavern, grown round about with bushes, from which an abundance of water gushed. This cavern was the lair of a dragon. The body of the monster was swollen with poison. Fire darted from its eyes, its crest gleamed golden, its tongue was thrice cloven, and there were triple rows of teeth in its jaws.

As the men, suspecting no danger, made their way through the forest, they heard the plashing of water. Joyously they hastened towards it and came to the cavern. But hardly had they dipped their buckets into the water before the dragon awoke from its sleep. It raised itself and beheld the victims who had approached it so unsuspectingly. Suddenly the men heard a frightful hissing, and as they looked around they saw the dragon’s bluish head emerging from the cavern. They dropped their buckets. Their faces grew deadly pale and their limbs trembled. In the meantime the dragon coiled its scaly body and arched itself over the men so that they could not fly. Not one of them escaped. The monster tore some with its teeth, killed some by strangling them in its coils, and the rest were killed by the poisonous breath from its throat.

It was already midday, and as the men had not returned, Cadmus decided to search for them. He threw around him the shaggy lion’s skin which served for a cloak and donned his glittering helmet. He took two spears with him. He had not gone far before he saw the dragon and under it his dead companions, whose wounds the horrible monster was licking.

“I will have revenge or die like you,” he cried. He seized a huge rock and hurled it at the dragon with such force that it might have shattered a tower, but it did not harm the monster. The rock glanced from its scaly hide and fell heavily to the ground. Deep into its back he hurled a spear, the point of which penetrated its entrails. The monster reared, bent its neck, and seized the spear with its teeth. It jerked it one side and the other powerfully and at last tore it out. But it had only taken out the handle. The iron remained sticking in the entrails. In its fury its eyes flashed fire terribly, its veins and throat swelled, and white foam flew from its poisonous jaws. Next it coiled itself, with a terrible rattling of its scales, and hurled itself at Cadmus with the swiftness of lightning. Cadmus sprang to one side and plunged his second spear into the dragon’s neck. The spear glanced, the dragon turned its neck, seized it, and broke it to pieces. Cadmus thereupon drew his sword and drove it into its neck with such force that it not only ran it through, but also penetrated an oak, thus holding the dragon fastened to the tree. It coiled itself around the trunk and lashed it with its tail until it shook. Cadmus sprang back, for the air was poisonous near the monster. Blood and foam streamed from its neck and at last it died.

As Cadmus advanced to look at the monster, Athene suddenly appeared at his side and said: “Cadmus, make a circle in the ground with your sword and furrow it and sow in the furrows the teeth of the dead dragon.”

Athene disappeared and Cadmus set about the work. He furrowed the soil with his strong arms, took the dragon’s teeth, scattered them in the furrows, and covered them with earth. Lo, instantly the clods stirred, spear points pierced upwards, followed by glittering helmets, bearded heads, and at last the bodies of armed men. The human crop increased until at last a troop of warriors stood before him. Cadmus sprang to his weapons, but one of the warriors said: “Do not arm yourself, Cadmus, but avoid the contest.”

Thereupon the warriors began to attack each other and a mighty struggle ensued. Only five of them survived. Their weapons were thrown to the ground and they made peace with each other. The five followed the brave Cadmus and helped him to build the city upon the spot designated by the oracle. He named it Thebes, as Apollo had ordered. [20]

Chapter XIII
Dionysus (Bacchus)

Dionysus (Bacchus) was the son of Zeus and Semele, daughter of Cadmus of Thebes. By the orders of Zeus the child was intrusted to Hermes, to be taken to Nysa, a majestic island with clear flowing streams and ever green meadows. The fruit-bearing trees are covered with vine clusters and the ocean breezes temper the sun’s heat. In the midst of this island is a beautiful valley. The tops of the trees are so closely interwoven that neither a sun ray nor a drop of rain can penetrate them. There is a cavern there, whose rocky arches gleam with variegated colors. Upon either side are lofty trees, some in continual blossom, others loaded with spicy fruit. Brilliantly plumaged birds nest in the trees and their songs are wonderfully melodious. Flowers grow beneath the trees, filling the air with perennial perfume. There are also resting places for the nymphs there; not made by men, but fashioned by nature. One never sees a withered flower there, nor a dry leaf, nor a trace of decay.

Hermes took the child there to be brought up by the nymphs. The boy, named Dionysus (Bacchus), grew rapidly and travelled over various countries to teach men vine growing. He went to Egypt and Syria and received from Rhea, mother of Zeus, his India coat, variegated deerskin, and thyrsus. He next passed through the golden vales of Lydia, the sunny plains of Phrygia and Persia, and the rough country of Media. He visited Arabia the blest and nearly all Asia paid him reverence. He rode in a gold-gleaming chariot, drawn by leopards. A multitude of cupids, nymphs, fauns, and satyrs followed him. The old and continually drunken Silenus also belonged to his retinue, which accompanied its pæans with the clash of cymbals and the music of Phrygian flutes.

Once it happened that Silenus fell asleep in a wood and was left behind. Some Lydian peasants found the old man and carried him upon a litter of branches to their king, Midas, at whose palace Bacchus later arrived. Finding that Silenus had been hospitably entertained, Bacchus assured Midas that any wish of his should be granted. Midas requested that whatever he touched might turn to gold. The request was granted, but Midas soon found that his wish would prove fatal, for not only water and wine, but fruit and all kinds of food, turned to gold when he touched them. Repenting his folly, he implored Bacchus to recall the gift. Taking pity upon him, Bacchus ordered him to bathe in the river Pactolus, having done which, he was soon relieved. From that time the sands of that river became gold.

Dionysus next came to the country of Edoni, free passage through which had been promised him by Lycurgus, its prince. When he encamped in the woods with his train he was suddenly attacked by the treacherous prince. He placed himself under the protection of the sea goddess, Thetis, but he and his retinue were taken prisoners and fettered. The punishment of this misdeed came quickly. Lycurgus was seized by an incurable madness, and thinking his own son was a vine he cut off his hands and feet with an axe. But when he saw the bleeding body lying upon the earth he realized what he had done and released Bacchus. But retribution was not yet complete. The earth bore nothing for his people a whole year long. The Edonians in despair consulted the oracle, which announced that full compensation could be rendered only by the death of the king. He was seized and taken to the mountain of Pangaeus where he was torn to pieces by wild horses.

Bacchus next went to Thebes, the city of his birth. The palace was in ashes and his mother had perished in it, struck down by Zeus’ thunderbolts. The gray Cadmus was still living, but no longer ruled the city. Pentheus was its prince and to him came the blind seer Tiresias announcing the approach of Bacchus. He was enraged at the words of the seer and rebuked the Thebans when he saw them arraying themselves to meet him. “Is it possible,” he exclaimed, “that you have forgotten your origin? Your fathers were heroes and you would bow before a boy who smears his tresses with balsams, wears a wreath of vine leaves in place of a helmet, and a purple cloak in place of armor?”

Thereupon he despatched his servants with orders to seize Bacchus and bind him. His friends were alarmed when they heard this order. Their entreaties were useless; he only adhered more firmly to his purpose. It was not long before the servants returned, bringing Bacchus in fetters. Pentheus said to his people jubilantly: “Now, you know what fools you were,” and ordered Bacchus to be imprisoned. Then he sent his servants to arrest the whole train, when something wonderful occurred. The earth shook, flames played about the columns of the palace, and Bacchus rose in majesty from his prison. The king was terrified and tried to escape. But he could not avoid his punishment. He was suddenly seized with a longing to witness the revels of Bacchus’ followers. Bacchus ordered that he should appear to them as a wild animal. With fearful cries the Bacchantes rushed upon him and killed him.

From Thebes Bacchus went to Argos, and from thence he decided to cross over to Naxos, and made his arrangements with some sea robbers. Not knowing him, they decided to sell him as a slave and pass by Naxos. Suddenly they beheld a stream of wine flowing over the deck and filling the whole vessel with its perfume. Red clusters of grapes hung from the sails. Wreaths of flowers and fruits extended up the mast to the pennant. The crew were overcome with astonishment. “A divinity directs the ship,” cried the most sensible of them; “let us sail to Naxos.” But it was too late. Bacchus suddenly stood on the deck in the form of a lion, seized the leader of the pirates, and tore him to pieces. When the others saw his fate, they sprang into the sea and were changed to dolphins. Thus Bacchus punished their misdeeds. After founding many temples he took his mother Semele to Olympus.

Chapter XIV
Actæon

Actæon was the son of the hunt-loving deity, Aristæus, and Autonoë, daughter of Cadmus. When he had passed the childhood age he was taken to the woody mountain of Pelion by the wise centaur, Chiron, and trained as a robust hunter. It was his greatest pleasure to hunt in the valleys and mountains. One day he hunted with some jovial companions in the forests of Mount Cithæron until midday, when it grew so hot that he rested in the cool shade of the trees. While reposing, he called his companions to him and said: “We have game enough. Our steel and traps are drenched with blood. Let us end hunting for to-day. When the sun rises in the morning we will resume the joyous sport.” Thus he spoke and dismissed his willing companions. Then he went with his hounds deeper into the forest to find a cool, shadowy spot where he could sleep through the heat of the noon and rest his wearied limbs.

He reached a valley full of fir trees and lofty cypresses, called Gargaphia, which was sacred to Artemis. Deep in a corner of the valley he found a leafy grotto. The rocky arch seemed to be the product of human skill, but was the work of nature. A stream murmured gently along, whose clear water, bordered by green turf, broadened out into a wide pool. This was the spot where the goddess, tired with the chase, bathed her sacred limbs. She was in the grotto, attended by her nymphs, one of whom took her hunting spear and bow. Another relieved the goddess of her cloak, and two of them unloosed her sandals. The beautiful Crocale, cleverest of them all, fastened her tresses together in a knot. Then her attendants filled urns with water and poured it over the goddess.

While the goddess was thus enjoying her bath, Actæon approached through the bushes by an untrodden way. Evil destiny led him to the sacred haunt of Artemis’ grotto. Unsuspecting any harm, he entered, delighted to have found such a cool resting place. When the nymphs beheld a man, they cried aloud and crowded about their mistress to conceal her with their bodies; but being a head taller, the goddess towered above them all. Her glowing face wore a wrathful look, and her eyes were sternly fixed upon the intruder, who stood motionless, surprised, and dazzled by the wondrous sight.

It would have been better for the unfortunate Actæon had he fled at once, for the goddess suddenly bent her head, dipped up water with her hand, sprinkled it over the face and hair of the youth, and said in a threatening tone: “What thou hast seen, now tell to men, if thou canst.” Hardly had the last word been uttered when unspeakable distress seized him. Swiftly he dashed off, and in his running was amazed by his speed. The unfortunate one did not notice that antlers sprang from his head, that his neck was longer, that his ears were pointed, his arms changed to legs, and his hands to hoofs. His limbs were covered with a dappled skin. He was no longer a man, but had been changed by the wrathful goddess to a stag. As he fled, he saw his image mirrored in the water. “Woe is me,” he would have cried, but his voice was mute and no word escaped from his groaning breast. He could only utter a sigh of despair. Tears poured from his eyes, but not upon human cheeks. Only his heart, his old recollection, remained.

What should he do now? Return to his grandfather’s palace? Conceal himself in the depths of the forest? While thus torn by the conflicting emotions of fear and shame, his hounds saw him. The whole pack, fifty in number, rushed upon the imaginary stag. Eager for their prey, they chased him over mountain and valley, jagged rocks and yawning abysses. Thus the despairing one, himself the hunted, fled over well-known regions where he had often hunted wild animals. Twice he would have turned and cried, “Spare me! I am Actæon.” But he was speechless. Baying furiously, the leader of the pack overtook him and seized him by the neck, while all the others rushed upon him and tore him with their sharp teeth. The victim groaned heavily; no stag ever groaned that way, and yet it was not a human groan. Like one praying he fell upon his knees, and in mute anguish turned his face towards his assailants. At this instant his companions, hearing the baying of the hounds, came up. With their usual call they incited the hounds and then shouted for their master, whom they believed was not far away. “Actæon,” rang through the forest, “where art thou? Come and behold this wonderful capture.” Thus they cried as the unfortunate victim was killed by the spears of his own friends.

After Actæon had thus wretchedly perished, his hounds began to miss their loved master. Baying and whining, they sought the lost one everywhere, until at last they came to Chiron’s cavern. Chiron made a bronze image of Actæon so much like him that it deceived them. When the hounds saw it they sprang upon it, licked the hands and feet, and acted as joyfully as if they had found their real master again.

Chapter XV
Dædalus and Icarus

Dædalus of Athens was a son of Metion, grandson of Erectheus. He was the most skilful man of his time—an architect, sculptor, and stone worker. His works were admired in various parts of the world, and his statues were said to live, move, and see; for while the statues of earlier artists had their eyes closed and the hands not separated from the body, he was the first one who gave open eyes to his statues, extended the hands, and represented the feet as walking. But skilful, zealous, and active as he was in his work, he had vices which brought him into trouble. He had a nephew, named Talos, who was his pupil, and who displayed even more skill than his uncle and master. He discovered the potter’s wheel. He also took the jaw of a snake and copied it in iron, cutting into it a row of continuous teeth, thus inventing the saw. He also invented the lathe and many useful instruments without assistance from his teacher, which made him famous.

Dædalus, fearing that the name of his scholar might become more renowned than his own, grew so jealous that he killed the boy by hurling him down from the castle at Athens. While engaged in burying him, he was surprised by the authorities and pretended he was burying a snake. At last he was brought before the Areopagus, charged with murder, and was found guilty. He managed to escape, however, and at first wandered about in Attica, but finally fled to the island of Crete. There he met King Minos, became his friend, and was highly esteemed as a renowned artist. He was chosen to make a house for the Minotaur, a monster resembling a bull from its head to its shoulders, the remainder of its body being like a man, and to construct it so that the monster would be entirely removed from human sight. The inventive genius of Dædalus produced the Labyrinth, a structure full of complicated windings, confusing both to the eyes and feet of those who entered it. When it was finished and Dædalus began to look it over, the builder himself found his way back to the opening only with the greatest difficulty. The Minotaur was kept in the very centre of this Labyrinth, its food being seven youths and seven maidens sent to it periodically from Athens.

In the meantime Dædalus began to weary of his long banishment from home. It vexed him that he must spend his life upon an island exposed to the caprices of a tyrannical and cruel king. After long consideration, he at last joyfully exclaimed: “I have found the way to escape. Minos may be master of land and water, but the sky is free to me. He has no power over that. Through the air I will escape.” No sooner said than done. He began by arranging bird feathers of different sizes in regular order. These feathers he fastened in the middle with waxed linen cords. He then bent the joined feathers in such perfect curves that they clearly resembled wings. Dædalus had a boy, named Icarus, who stood by him and eagerly meddled, childlike, with his father’s work. All of a sudden he took some of the feathers and deftly kneaded the wax, which his father had been using, with his thumb and forefinger. The father smiled at the unassisted exertions of the child. After his work was finished Dædalus fastened the wings to his body, balanced them equally, and sailed through the air as lightly as a bird. Then, descending to earth, he constructed a smaller pair for his son and instructed him how to use them. “Always fly, my dear son, in the middle course,” he said. “If you fly too low your wings may become so dampened by the sea air that they will grow heavy and you may fall into the waves, and if you mount too high and go too near the sunbeams your feathers may suddenly take fire. Fly between sea and sky and always follow in my course.” After these warnings Dædalus fastened his wings on Icarus’ shoulders, though the old man’s hands trembled as he did so, and anxious tears dropped upon them. He then embraced his son and kissed him for the last time.

The two rose in air. The father led the way, flying as natural as a bird. He moved his wings easily and skilfully and from time to time looked back to see how his son was succeeding. They soon passed the island of Samos at the left and flew by the islands of Delos and Paros. Several other localities were left behind them when suddenly Icarus, who had grown over-confident, forsook his paternal guide to reach a higher altitude. He soon encountered the danger his father predicted. The proximity of the sun weakened the wax which held his wings together and they became detached from his shoulders. The unfortunate youth tried to keep in air with his bare arms, but it was in vain and he suddenly plunged downwards with the name of his father on his lips; but before he could call for help he sank in the sea’s blue depths. It all happened so quickly that Dædalus, when he looked back for his son, could see nothing of him. “Icarus, Icarus,” he shouted in the vacant sky, “where and in what region of air shall I seek thee?” At last he cast an anxious glance downward and saw the feathers floating on the water. He descended and wandered from shore to shore seeking the body of his unfortunate child, and at last found it. The murder of Talos was avenged. The despairing father attended to the burial of his son, upon an island which in lasting memory of the tragic event is called Icaria.

After Dædalus had buried his son he went to the large island of Sicily, where King Cocalus ruled. He met with the same hospitable reception which Minos once extended to him, and his skill created universal astonishment. He constructed an artificial lake from which issued a broad river emptying into the neighboring sea. Upon a barren and almost insurmountable cliff, which had hardly room for a couple of trees, he built a strong fortress approached by a winding way which could be defended by three or four men. King Cocalus used this impregnable castle as a storehouse for his treasures. The third work of Dædalus was a deep cavern on the island of Sicily. Here he overcame the reek of internal fires so skilfully that a visit to the cavern, which was usually so damp, became as agreeable as if it were a mildly warmed room and the body experienced a gentle perspiration without being overheated. He also enlarged the temple of Aphrodite (Venus) upon Mount Eryx [21] and dedicated to the goddess a golden honeycomb so skilfully made that it was difficult to tell it from a real one.

When King Minos, whose island Dædalus forsook, learned that he had fled to Sicily he resolved to follow him with a strong force. He organized a fleet and set out from Crete to Agrigentum. There he disembarked his troops and sent messengers to King Cocalus, demanding the surrender of the fugitive. But Cocalus was enraged at this invasion by a foreign tyrant and determined to find some way of destroying him. He pretended to consent, promised to comply with his wishes in every way, and invited him to an interview. Minos came and was received by Cocalus with the greatest hospitality. A warm bath was prepared to relieve him of fatigue, but when he sat in the tub it was so soon overheated that Minos was suffocated. The king sent his body to the Cretans who came with him, informing them that Minos had slipped and fallen into the hot water in the tub. Minos was taken with great pomp by his warriors to Agrigentum and above his grave a temple of Venus was built. Dædalus remained in the continuous favor of Cocalus, educated many famous artists, and was the founder of art in Sicily. But he was never happy after the death of his son, and while he enriched the country which had given him refuge, with beautiful art works, his old age was sorrowful and full of troubles. He died upon the island and was buried there.

Chapter XVI
Philemon and Baucis

Upon a hill in the land of Phrygia stands a thousand year old oak, and close by it a linden of the same age, both surrounded by a low wall. Many a wreath has been hung upon the boughs of the neighborly pair. Not far from them extends a swampy lake into which empties a shallow stream. Where in former times people dwelt, now only herons and ducks rove about. Once Father Zeus came to this spot with his son Hermes carrying only his wand, but not his winged cap. They were seeking hospitality in human form. They knocked at a thousand doors praying shelter for the night. But the people were so disobliging that the heavenly visitants could not anywhere find lodging. At the end of the village was a hut, humble and small, covered with straw and rushes. In this poor house lived a happy couple, honest Philemon and Baucis, his wife, of the same age. They had spent their joyous youth together there, and there they had grown white-haired. They made no complaint of their poverty, but quietly bore their hard lot, united in love, and although childless, they were content in the mean little house which they alone occupied together.

As the high deities approached this humble roof and entered the low passageway with bowed heads, the honest couple met them with a hearty greeting. The old man placed seats for them, and Baucis, clad in a coarse dress, begged them to rest themselves. The little mother busied herself about the hearth, stirred up the ashes, piled up dry leaves and brushwood, and kindled a fire. Then she brought split wood and placed it under the little kettle hanging over the fire. In the meantime Philemon brought cabbage from his well-watered garden, deftly unleaved it, took down a side of smoked pork with his two-tined fork from the ceiling, and cut a huge piece from the shoulder to put into the boiling water. That the time might not seem too long to the strangers, they exerted themselves to entertain them with light conversation. They also poured water into the wooden tub so that they could enjoy a foot bath. Smiling in a friendly way, the gods accepted these proffers, and while they were stretching their feet comfortably in the water their gracious host prepared the couch-bed, which stood in the middle of the room. The cushions were stuffed with rushes and the feet and frame were made of woven willow. Philemon brought carpetings which were only kept for feast days,—how old and poor they were!—and the divine guests prepared to enjoy the meal which was now ready. The little mother, in her neat apron, placed with trembling hands the three-legged table before the couch, and as it would not stand very securely, she raised it slightly by placing something under it. Then she rubbed the plates with fresh mint and food was set before them. There were olives, cornelian cherries, preserved in clear thick sirup, also radishes, endives, fine cheese, and eggs cooked in the ashes. Baucis brought all these in earthen dishes, besides a showily colored pitcher and neat cups of beechwood, glazed on the inside with yellow wax, filled with milk, for they had no wine. Nuts, figs, and dates were brought for desert, and two dishes filled with plums and spicy apples. In the middle of the table was a whitish honeycomb. But the finest seasoning of the meal was the good friendly faces of the honest old couple, testifying to their honesty and generosity.

As all were enjoying the food and drink, Philemon observed that the pitcher contained wine instead of milk and that in spite of emptying of the cups they were continually refilled. Then he recognized with surprise and fear whom he was entertaining. In distress he flew to his old companion with upraised arms and downcast eyes and implored her to know what they should offer to their heavenly guests. Suddenly it occurred to them that they might offer their only goose. Both ran out, but the goose was faster than they. Hissing and flapping its wings, it ran here and there, outdistancing the old people. Finally it ran into the house and crouched behind the guests, as if seeking divine protection. And it did not seek in vain.

The guests restrained the ardor of the old people and said with a laugh: “We are gods who have come to earth to test the generosity of men. We found your neighbors wicked and they shall be punished. But you shall leave this house and follow us to the summit of the mountain, so that you shall not suffer with the guilty ones.” Both obeyed, and leaning upon their staffs they wearisomely climbed the mountain. They were not an arrow’s flight from the highest peak when they anxiously looked down and saw the whole place changed into a raging waste of waters, and of all the houses only their own little one remained. While they stood astonished and bewailed the fate of the others, behold the poor old hut towered above the waters as a temple. A golden roof was supported on its columns and its floors were of marble. Zeus turned to the trembling old people and said: “Tell me, honest old man and worthy wife of the honest old man, what do you most wish?” Philemon exchanged a few words with his wife and then said: “We would be your priests. Permit us to serve in that temple. And as we have so long lived together, let us die at the same hour. Then I shall never see the grave of my dear wife nor will she have to bury me.”

Their wish was granted. As long as they lived they served in the temple. And once, when weary with the weight of age and years, they were standing on the sacred steps, thinking of their wonderful fate, Baucis saw her Philemon and Philemon his Baucis disappearing and floating away to the distant height. “Farewell, dear one. Farewell, beloved one,” said each as long as they could speak. Thus ended the worthy pair. He was turned into an oak and she into a linden, and thus they remained as close together in death as they had been in life. Goodness is prized by the gods. They bestow honors upon those who prove themselves worthy.

Chapter XVII
Arachne

In Hypaipa, a little city of Lydia, dwelt a maiden of lowly birth named Arachne. Idmon, her father, was a dyer at Colophon and her mother, who died early, was born of poor parents. The name of Arachne was famous in Lydia, for she surpassed all human women in skill and industry in weaving. The nymphs of the vine-clad mountain of Tmolus and of the river Pactolus came to her poor cottage to watch her work. Never were skill and grace more closely united. Whether she was first preparing the coarse wool, or drawing the threads finer and finer, or revolving the spindle with nimble thumbs, or stitching with the needle, it always seemed as if Pallas Athene herself must have instructed her. Arachne knew nothing about it, but she often declared in an offended tone: “I did not get my skill from the goddess. Let her come and try her skill with me. If she defeats me I will bear any penalty.”

Athene was very angry when she heard this boast, assumed the form of a little old woman, covered her brow with gray hair, and leaning for support upon a staff, came to Arachne’s cottage and thus began: “The years bring experience to gray old age. Therefore despise not my advice. Seek for the glory of surpassing all mortals with your skill, but meekly submit to the gods. Implore pardon for your haughty words and all will be forgiven you.” Arachne’s countenance darkened, and she angrily replied: “Thou art foolish, old one. The burden of the years has weakened thy senses. It is not good to live long. Preach such silliness to thy daughter. I need none of thy advice and spurn thy admonitions. Why does not Pallas herself come? Why does she avoid the trial with me?” The goddess could not longer restrain herself. “She is here now,” she cried, as she threw off her disguise and stood before her in her own image.

The nymphs and the Lydian women who were present fell humbly at her feet, but Arachne did not tremble. A fleeting blush reddened her face and she resolutely adhered to her purpose. Urged on by her foolish vanity, she exposed herself to the penalty of which she had been warned. The daughter of Zeus lost no time in further attempts to dissuade her, but undertook the trial. Seating themselves, the weaving began. Purple and a thousand other colors, distracting to eyes not used to them, were skilfully woven together. Threads of gold ran through the webs, and wonderful pictures astonished the eyes of the spectators. Athene fashioned the cliffs of the Athenian mount and their contest with the sea god for possession of the land. Twelve gods with Zeus in the centre sat there, serious and dignified. Here stood Poseidon as he struck the rocks with his trident. There appeared the goddess herself, the divine artist, armed with shield and lance, her helmet on her head, the terrible ægis on her breast, teaching men for the first time the culture of the olive tree, and causing it to spring from the unfruitful earth with the point of her spear. Thus Athene wove her own victory in the web. In the four corners she worked four examples of human pride which have tragic results from the vengeance of the gods. In the first corner were the Thracian king, Harnus, and his wife Rhodope, who called themselves Zeus and Hera and were changed into mountain peaks. In another corner was the unhappy mother of the Pygmæi, who, overcome by Hera, was changed to a crane, and fought her own children. In the third corner was Antigone, the charming daughter of Laomedon, who was so proud of her beauty and her tresses that she likened herself to Hera. The goddess changed her tresses to snakes which bit and tormented her until Zeus, pitying her, turned her into a stork. In the last Pallas pictured Einyras, weeping over the fate of his daughter, who because of her pride was changed by Hera to a stone step before one of her temples. All these pictures Athene wove and surrounded them with a wreath of olive leaves.

Arachne wove in her web many pictures illustrating the disreputable actions of Zeus and surrounded them with a wreath of ivy and blossoms. When she had finished her work Athene could not find fault with the skill of the maiden, but she was enraged with the sacrilege of the weaver. She suddenly tore the web to pieces and struck the maiden three times on the forehead with the spindle which she held in her hand. The unfortunate one could not endure this. Madness seized her and she hanged herself with a rope. As she was suspended in the air, the goddess had compassion upon her and said: “Live, but hang there, thou audacious one. And so shall thy whole race to the latest generation be punished.” With these words she sprinkled Arachne with a few magic drops and went away. The hair, nose, and ears of the maiden disappeared and she shrank into a small and noxious insect. And the spider to-day still weaves its web—the old art.

Chapter XVIII
Hyacinthus

The youngest of the sons of the Laconian king, Amyclas, was Hyacinthus. Phœbus Apollo beheld the beautiful boy, who soon became his favorite. He sought at first to elevate him to Olympus that he might be ever near him; but a sad fate prevented this and cut him down in the very flower of his youth.

Apollo often forsook sacred Delphi in order to enjoy the company of his favorite at the river of Eurotas in the neighborhood of the unwalled city of Sparta. He left his lyre and bow and joined Hyacinthus in hunting among the hills of Taygetus. Once at noontime, when the sun was sending down its hottest rays, both threw aside their garments, anointed their bodies with oil, and began throwing the discus.

Apollo was the first to take the heavy weight and hurled it so powerfully that it pierced the clouds. He waited long for the discus to fall to earth again. Eager to imitate his teacher, the boy sprang forward to make his throw, but suddenly was felled to the earth by Apollo’s discus. Apollo rushed to him and sought to animate his stiffened limbs. He wiped the blood from the dreadful wounds, applied healing balms, and sought to stay the fleeing spirit of his favorite. But it was in vain. Like a broken flower in the garden, the poor boy’s head drooped, exhausted, upon Apollo’s breast. Apollo called him tender names and bedewed his face with bitter tears. Oh, that he were not a god so that he might die for him!

At last he cried out: “No, sweet child, thou shalt not wholly die. As a flower thou shalt tell of my sorrow.” As Apollo said this, lo, from the streaming blood which reddened the grass sprang a flower of dark lustre like Tyrian purple, lily formed upon a stalk rich in blossoms, and showing upon its little leaves in clear form the sigh of the god: “A I, A I”; that is, “Alas! Alas!”

Thus originated the Spring flower which bears the name of the favorite of the god and speedily dies as did he—a type of the transitoriness of all beautiful things on earth. In Laconia when the Summer came they always had a great festival in honor of Hyacinthus and his divine friends, the hyacinths, whereby they kept the boy in memory—sorrowfully, as one who perished early, but joyously, as one beloved of the gods and deified.

Footnotes

[1] The Titans in Greek mythology were descended from Uranus and Gaea (Heaven and Earth). In the latest legends, Titan, father of the Titans, gave up supreme power to Cronus, his younger brother, but finally regained it. He in turn was overcome by Zeus.

[2] Cronus, father of Zeus, was a Titan, and was dethroned by Zeus after he had usurped the government of the world. The Romans identified him with Saturn.

[3] Vulcan, in mythology, was the son of Jupiter and Juno.

[4] The legend also states that hope remained in the box.

[5] Oceanus in Greek mythology is typical of the ocean and stream earlier than Poseidon.

[6] Themis in mythology was the goddess of justice and peace.

[7] Doris in mythology was the wife of Nereus, a seer dwelling in the Ægean Sea, and had fifty daughters, called Nereids.

[8] The myth also states that Phaëthon had three sisters—Phaëthusa, Lampetié, and Phœbé—and that while they were lamenting Phaëthon’s death, Zeus turned them into poplar trees, weeping amber instead of tears.

[9] He is also said in another myth to have been the son of Œagrus, a Thracian river god.

[10] The muse of epic poetry.

[11] Another version of the myth relates that Aristæus, son of Apollo and Cyrene, loved Eurydice and when she repulsed him he pushed her into a wood where the serpent stung her, and that the nymphs revenged her death by the destruction of his bees.

[12] Ixion is said to have been punished by Jupiter for insulting Juno. He was struck by a thunderbolt and sent to Tartarus, where he was tied to a wheel which never ceased revolving.

[13] Sisyphus was a famous robber killed by Theseus. His punishment was to roll a great rock to the top of a hill which no sooner reached the top than it rolled down again.

[14] Ceres’ daughter was Persephone, who was stolen by Pluto.

[15] In the Roman mythology, Mars.

[16] Hera is Juno in the Roman mythology.

[17] Phlegyas was the father of Ixion, and a Thessalian king.

[18] Mount Sipylus is near Smyrna.

[19] Europa, daughter of Agenor and sister of Cadmus, was abducted by Zeus, who took her to Crete. She was the mother of Minos and Rhadamanthus, judges in the lower world.

[20] Cadmus is also reputed to have been the introducer of the letters of the Greek alphabet.

[21] Eryx, a city and mountain in western Sicily, now known as Monte San Giuliano, near Palermo.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Gods and Heroes

GODS AND HEROES

Translator’s Preface

Contents

Gods and Heroes

Chapter I
Prometheus

Chapter II
Deucalion and Pyrrha

Chapter III
Hermes (Mercury)

Chapter IV
Phaëthon

Chapter V
Orpheus

Chapter VI
Atalanta

Chapter VII
Tantalus

Chapter VIII
Salmoneus, Sisyphus, Ixion, and Phlegyas

Chapter IX
Niobe

Chapter X
Bellerophon

Chapter XI
Perseus

Chapter XII
Cadmus

Chapter XIII
Dionysus (Bacchus)

Chapter XIV
Actæon

Chapter XV
Dædalus and Icarus

Chapter XVI
Philemon and Baucis

Chapter XVII
Arachne

Chapter XVIII
Hyacinthus

Footnotes

Transcriber’s Notes

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Gods and Heroes

GODS AND HEROES

Translator’s Preface

Contents

Gods and Heroes

Chapter I Prometheus

Chapter II Deucalion and Pyrrha

Chapter III Hermes (Mercury)

Chapter IV Phaëthon

Chapter V Orpheus

Chapter VI Atalanta

Chapter VII Tantalus

Chapter VIII Salmoneus, Sisyphus, Ixion, and Phlegyas

Chapter IX Niobe

Chapter X Bellerophon

Chapter XI Perseus

Chapter XII Cadmus

Chapter XIII Dionysus (Bacchus)

Chapter XIV Actæon

Chapter XV Dædalus and Icarus

Chapter XVI Philemon and Baucis

Chapter XVII Arachne

Chapter XVIII Hyacinthus

Footnotes

Transcriber’s Notes

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

Chapter I
Prometheus

Chapter II
Deucalion and Pyrrha

Chapter III
Hermes (Mercury)

Chapter IV
Phaëthon

Chapter V
Orpheus

Chapter VI
Atalanta

Chapter VII
Tantalus

Chapter VIII
Salmoneus, Sisyphus, Ixion, and Phlegyas

Chapter IX
Niobe

Chapter X
Bellerophon

Chapter XI
Perseus

Chapter XII
Cadmus

Chapter XIII
Dionysus (Bacchus)

Chapter XIV
Actæon

Chapter XV
Dædalus and Icarus

Chapter XVI
Philemon and Baucis

Chapter XVII
Arachne

Chapter XVIII
Hyacinthus