Gods and Heroes; or, The Kingdom of Jupiter

by R. E. Francillon

PART I.—THE ORACLE.

PERSEUS and Andromeda had two sons, Alcæus, King of Thebes, and Electryon, King of Argos and Mycenæ. Alcæus had a son named Amphitryon, and Electryon had a daughter named Alcmena. These two cousins—Amphitryon and Alcmena—married; and Jupiter resolved that they should have a son who should be the greatest and most famous of men.

But Juno was in one of her jealous moods; and she was especially jealous that such favor should be shown to Alcmena. Having considered how she should spoil his plan, she came to Jupiter in seeming good-humor, and said:—

“I have a question to ask you. Of two first cousins, which shall rule the other, and which shall serve—the elder or the younger?”

“Why, of course, the elder must rule the younger,” answered Jupiter.

“You swear that—by the Styx?” asked Juno.

“By the Styx,” Jupiter answered, wondering what she could mean by what seemed so trifling a question, and then thinking no more of the matter. But Juno knew what she meant very well. Alcmena had a brother, Sthenelus, who had married the Princess Nicippe of Phrygia. And Juno said to herself, “They also may have a son as well as Alcmena. Then the two boys would be first cousins; and Jupiter has sworn that the first-born shall rule the other. So if Nicippe has a son first, Alcmena’s son will have to serve him and obey him: and then, O Jupiter, there will be a greater man than Alcmena’s son; for he who rules must be greater than he who obeys.”

Now it is Juno herself who settles when children shall come into the world. It was easy, therefore, for her to manage so that Nicippe’s son should be born two whole months before Alcmena’s. Jupiter was enraged when, too late, he found what a trick had been played upon him; but he had sworn by the Styx—the oath which could not be broken. Thus it became the will of heaven that the son of Alcmena should be the servant of the son of Nicippe.

The son of Nicippe was named Eurystheus: the son of Alcmena was named Hercules.

About the childhood of Eurystheus there was nothing remarkable. But when Hercules and his twin-brother, Iphicles, were only eight months old, the whole palace of Amphitryon was alarmed by the screams of Iphicles, which brought Alcmena and the whole household running into the room where the two children had been left alone. They saw a strange sight indeed. Poor Iphicles was found half dead with fright in a corner; and no wonder, for Hercules was being attacked by two huge serpents which were trying to crush him to death in their coils. But so far from being frightened, Hercules had got one of his baby hands round the neck of each serpent right and left; and so he quietly throttled them till they lay dead upon the floor. And this at only eight months old!

His strength grew with him till it became a marvel like that of Samson among the children of Israel, and in bulk and stature also he towered over all other men. Like many who are large and strong, he was grave and somewhat silent, using, when he spoke, but few words, not easily moved either to action or to anger, but, when once roused, then roused indeed. One seems to think of him as of some great lion. As for training, he had the best that could be given him. Castor taught him how to use the sword; Pollux, how to use his fists; Eurytus, the finest archer in the world, taught him to shoot; Autolycus, to ride and drive. Nor were accomplishments forgotten; for Linus, the brother and pupil of Orpheus, taught him to play the lyre, and Eumolpus to sing. Finally, he was sent to finish his education under Chiron, the Centaur, who had taught Jason, and indeed nearly all the heroes of that age.

At eighteen he was already famous for his strength, his accomplishments, and his promise of a great career. But he was far from perfect in other ways. One finds nothing of the knightliness of his great-grandfather Perseus, or of Theseus, in this strong young giant full of pride and passion, feeling himself already greater than the best of his fellow-creatures, and looking upon the world as if it were made for him alone. He would allow of no opposition to his least desire; he did not desire glory so much as power. Good-tempered as he mostly was, it was not safe to provoke him, as Linus, his music-master, found, who had his own lyre broken upon his head for presuming to correct his pupil a little too sharply.

Hercules now began to think of adventures worthy of his strength, and presently, as if to give him one, a lion came forth from the forests of Mount Cithæron, and ravaged the lands of Thespius, a neighboring king. To hunt and kill it unaided was child’s-play to Hercules. And other services he did to the country, of small account in his own eyes but great in those of others; so that Creon, who was then King of Thebes, gave him his daughter in marriage, and made him his viceroy.

But Nicippe’s son, Eurystheus, now king of Argos and Mycenæ, remembered that he had a right to his younger cousin’s services by the oath of Jupiter. So Eurystheus sent a message to Hercules, commanding him to come forthwith to Mycenæ, and become the king’s servant there.

Hercules, as may well be supposed, haughtily refused to obey this insolent order. Why should he, the ruler of Thebes, already the most famous man in all Greece, as well as the strongest, make a sort of slave of himself to a kinsman whom he scorned? For Eurystheus was just a commonplace person, with even less than common courage, who only wanted to feed his own vanity by having in his service such a man as Hercules to do whatever he bade. “Hercules may be master of Greece; but I am master of Hercules,” was the sort of boast that ran in his mind.

I have said it was not strange that Hercules flatly refused to go to Mycenæ at his cousin’s bidding. But it was more than strange that, from this moment, he began to fall into so strange a state of mind that any one would think he was being haunted by the Furies, until he, the pride of Thebes and the hope of Greece, became a dangerous madman, whom none dared approach for fear of being slain. And all the time his strength still increased; so that it seemed as if he had come into the world to be a terror and a curse to mankind.

Many dreadful things he did in his madness. And when at length the frenzy passed from him, he was left in a more dreadful condition still. He was in an agony of remorse for all the violence he had done, and believed himself to be accursed and an outcast from his fellow-men. Melancholy and despairing, he fled from Thebes, and wandered out alone among the forests and the mountains. And thus he lived like a savage, hiding himself away from the sight of men.

The time came when he thought he could bear life no longer. He felt as if he were hunted by demons, and with the scourges of Hades. In his last despair he wandered to Delphi, in whose temple Apollo’s oracle, or living voice, was heard; and implored the gods to tell him what he should do.

And the voice of Apollo answered him and said:—

“O Hercules! those things were not sins which you did in your madness. Your madness is not sin, but the punishment for your real sin—the sin of pride, and self-love, and defiance of the will of Heaven. In rebelling against Eurystheus, you have rebelled against the gods, who decreed even before your birth that he should rule and you should serve. Is it not so, always? are not oftentimes the good made subject to the wicked, the wise to the foolish, the strong and valiant to the weak and craven? This is the oracle—the gods give each man his own different place and work: to you they have appointed service—therefore Obey. Seek not to know why this should be, nor question the justice of the gods. Know your duty, and do it with your might; and so you will be great enough; for no man can do more than serve the gods with such strength as they have given him.”

For long Hercules stood before the altar, doing battle with his pride. Then, at last, he took the road to Mycenæ. And as he went, each step became quicker, his heart grew lighter, the shadow left his soul, and his peace of mind returned.

PART II.—HIS FIRST LABOR: THE LION.

HERCULES, being arrived at Mycenæ, submitted himself to Eurystheus, who, to tell the truth, was a little alarmed at the sight of his cousin, and suspicious of what such sudden submission might mean. And he was all the more bewildered when he saw the humility with which his kinsman approached him. Hercules could not do anything by halves; and in Eurystheus he saw, not a mere insignificant, timid, mean-minded man, but only the master whom the gods had appointed to him.

“And now,” asked Hercules, in his impatience to prove his obedience, “what do you order me to do?”

One would think that Eurystheus would have acted generously. So far from that, however, he thought to himself, “I had better send him on the most dangerous adventure I can think of. If he succeeds, it will be the more glory for me to have such a man under my power; and besides, it will prove whether this submission is real or sham. And if he perishes—well, I shall be safe from danger at his hands.” So he said:—

“You have proved yourself a good lion-hunter. Bring me the carcass of the Nemean lion.”

Now the lion of the forest of Nemea was far more terrible than the lion of Mount Cithæron. However, Hercules set out at once for the forest, glad that his first service was one of honor.

Eurystheus was quite relieved when he was gone; and, sending for skilled workmen, bade them make for him a large brazen pot, big enough to hold him comfortably, and with an opening just large enough for him to get in and out by. For he thought to himself, “If Hercules ever gets angry or rebellious, I can creep into my brazen pot, and be safe there.”

Hercules was not long in finding the lion—the largest, strongest, and fiercest ever seen in the world. He let fly an arrow, but it scarcely pricked the beast’s tough hide; then another, and another; but the lion minded them no more than if they had been shot by a child from a toy bow. At last one, however, pricked him sharply enough to enrage him, and he came on with a rush and a roar. All Hercules had time to do was to pull up a young oak-tree by the roots, for a weapon to meet the charge. The next moment the lion sprang. But Hercules stood his ground, and so belabored the lion with his club that he fairly beat it back into its den, into which he followed it. Then was there a fearful wrestle between Hercules and the lion. But Hercules prevailed, by getting his arms round the lion and crushing its breath out of its body.

Throwing the corpse over his shoulders, and holding it by bringing the fore-legs round his neck, he returned to Mycenæ. Thus equipped, he himself looked like some monstrous lion; and so terrified was Eurystheus at the news that he crept into his brass pot, and in this manner received Hercules, to whom he talked through a speaking-tube in the side.

“Go and kill the Hydra!” he called out.

So Hercules set out on his second labor: and Eurystheus crept out of his pot again.

PART III.—HIS SECOND LABOR: THE HYDRA.

NOW the Hydra was more formidable than the lion—nobody in his senses would dream of attacking it with the least hope of succeeding. It was a huge water-snake which lived in Lake Lerna, whence it used to issue to seek for human food. It had a hundred heads, and from each of its hundred mouths darted a forked tongue of flame, dripping with deadly poison.

I said that nobody in his senses would attack the Hydra. But I was not quite right. There was just one sense which would lead a man to attack any evil, even without hope—of course I mean the sense of Duty. And it was in that sense that Hercules set forth for Lake Lerna. But he did not go to work without ample forethought, and taking all the precautions he could think of. He remembered the thickness and toughness of the Nemean lion’s skin; so he had it made into a sort of cloak, which served him for armor better than brass or steel. He also made the young oak-tree into a regular club, which thenceforth became his favorite weapon. And instead of going alone, he took with him his friend and kinsman Iolas, to act as his squire. You may always know Hercules in pictures and statues by his knotted club and his lion-skin.

It was easy enough to find the Hydra—only too easy. It had its nest in a foul stagnant swamp, the air of which its breath turned to poison. Giving Iolas his other arms to hold, Hercules attacked the Hydra with his club alone, trusting to his lion-skin to receive the strokes of the creature’s fangs. With a tremendous blow he crushed one of the Hydra’s hundred heads, leaving ninety-nine more to destroy if he could hold out so long. That was bad enough to think of—but, to his dismay, out of the crushed head sprang two new living heads: and out of each of these, when he beat them to pieces, sprang forth two more. And so it was with every head the Hydra had: so that, in truth, the more Hercules destroyed it, the stronger it grew—its hundred heads were rapidly becoming a thousand; and the thousand would become ten thousand; and so on, forever.

Just as Hercules realized the hopelessness of the labor, and was finding it work enough to ward off the innumerable fangs, a wretched crab crawled out of the ooze and seized him by the foot, so that he almost fainted with the sudden pain. It was too cruel, in the midst of such a battle as that, to feel himself at the mercy of the miserable vermin of the slime.

However, he crushed the crab under his heel, and, ceasing to multiply his enemies by killing them, contented himself with defense, while he thought what could possibly be done.

“No doubt those first hundred heads must all have come from some one head,” thought he. “They could not grow like that without a root; so that if I could only destroy the root they would cease to grow. This is my mistake: I am fighting only with what I see, instead of going to the root of things, and attacking the evil there.”

So he called out to Iolas to heat a piece of iron red-hot; and when this was ready, to stand by, and to scorch with it the place of every head which the club shattered. The plan answered wonderfully. Hercules crushed head after head; Iolas applied the red-hot iron; and so root after root was burned up and perished. And at last they came to the root of all the heads; and when this was reached and burned, the monster sputtered and died, just when Hercules felt that he, strong as he was, could scarce have struck another blow.

Hercules cut open the Hydra, and dipped his arrows in its gall, so that they should give deadly wounds. Wearily he returned to Mycenæ, hoping for a little rest. But Eurystheus had hidden himself in his brazen pot again, whence he cried out:—

“Be off at once; and catch the stag of Œnoe alive!”

PART IV.—HIS THIRD LABOR: THE STAG.

THE stag of Œnoe was sacred to Diana; and no wonder, for besides being so swift that no horse or hound could follow it, it had brazen feet and horns of pure gold. Of course this labor was not so dangerous as the others, but apparently more utterly impossible.

Impossible as it was, however, Hercules had to try. Had he been ordered to bring the stag to Mycenæ dead, he might perhaps hope to catch it with an arrow; but his orders were to bring it alive. So, having started it from its lair, he followed it with his utmost speed and skill. At first he tried to run it down; but the stag was not only the swifter, but had as much endurance as he. Then he tried to drive it to bay, but it always managed to escape out of the seemingly most hopeless corners. He tried to catch it asleep; but his slightest and most distant movement startled it, and off it raced again. All the arts of the deer-stalker he put in practice, but all in vain. And thus he hunted the stag of Œnoe, scarce resting day and night for a whole year. It looked as if he were to spend the rest of his life in pursuing what was not to be caught by mortal man; and the worst of it was that, while there was real use in destroying wild beasts and monsters, like the lion and the Hydra, his present labor, even if it succeeded, would be of no use at all.

Still it had to be attempted; and I suppose you have guessed that he succeeded, and that it was in some wonderful way. Well—he did succeed at last, but it was not in a wonderful way at all. It was just by not giving in. One of the two had to give in, and it was not Hercules. One day he managed to drive the stag into a trap and to seize it by the horns.

As he was returning to Mycenæ, dragging the stag, he met a tall and beautiful woman, dressed for the chase, and carrying a bow and quiver. As soon as her eyes fell upon the struggling stag she frowned terribly.

“What mortal are you,” she asked, “who have dared to lay hands on my own stag, the stag sacred to me, who am Diana? Loose it, and let it go.”

Hercules sighed. “I would do so gladly, great goddess,” he answered; “but it is not in my power.”

“Not in your power to open your hand?” she asked, in angry surprise. “We will soon see that,” and she seized her stag by the other horn to pull it away.

“It goes against me,” said Hercules, “to oppose a goddess; but I have got to bring this stag to Mycenæ, and neither gods nor men shall prevent me, so long as I am alive.”

“I am Diana,” she said again, “and I command you to let the stag go.”

“And I,” said he, “am only Hercules, the servant of Eurystheus, and therefore I cannot let it go.”

“Then I wish,” said Diana, “that any of the gods had so faithful a servant as Eurystheus has! So you are Hercules?” she said, her frown changing to a smile. “Then I give you the stag, for the sake of the oracle of my brother Apollo. I am only a goddess; you are a man who has conquered himself, and whom therefore even the gods must obey.”

So saying, she vanished. And the stag no longer struggled for freedom, but followed Hercules to Mycenæ as gently and lovingly as a tame fawn.

PART V.—HIS FOURTH LABOR: THE BOAR.

THE chase of the stag with the golden horns had taken so long that Eurystheus was beginning to give Hercules up for lost: and he was not sorry, for he was becoming more and more afraid of the man who only lived to do his bidding. He could not but think that his cousin must be playing some deep and underhand game. So when Hercules came back, with the stag following tamely at heel, he hid himself again, and by way of welcome bade Hercules capture and bring him, alive, a very different sort of wild beast—not a harmless stag, but the great and fierce wild boar which had its den in the mountains of Erymanthus, and ravaged the country round.

Hercules was getting weary of these labors, to which he saw no end. Not for a moment did he think of disobeying, but he set out with a heavy heart, and with some rising bitterness against his taskmaster. His way to the mountains of Erymanthus lay through the country of the Centaurs, and of his old teacher, Chiron.

Here he halted at the dwelling of one of the Centaurs, Pholus, who received him kindly. But Hercules was feeling fairly worn out in spirit, and Pholus failed to cheer him.

“What is the use of it all?” he complained. “No doubt the gods are just, and ought to be obeyed; but they are not kind. Why did they send me into the world, and give me strength, only to go about after wild beasts at the bidding of a coward? Why did they give me passions, only to have the trouble of keeping them down? If I had been like other men—as weak and as cold-blooded as they are—I should have been happy, and perhaps done some real good, and at any rate lived my own life in my own way. It isn’t as if I cared for glory, but I do want a little peace and pleasure. Come, Pholus, let me have some wine: I want it, and let it be in plenty!”

“I am very sorry,” said Pholus. “I have no wine.”

“Why, what is that, then?” asked Hercules, pointing to a big barrel in the corner.

“That is wine,” said Pholus; “but I can’t give you any of it, because it is not my own. It belongs to all the Centaurs; and, as it is public property, nobody may take any of it without the leave of the whole tribe.”

“Nonsense!” said Hercules. “Wine I want, and wine I’ll have.”

So saying, he stove in the head of the cask with a single blow of his fist, and, dipping and filling a goblet, began to drink eagerly.

The wine soon began to warm his blood and raise his heart. After the first cup or two, the cloud which had been falling over him rolled away, and life again seemed worth living for its own sake, and not only for duty’s. But he did not stop at two cups, nor at three; nor even when it began to mount into his brain, and to bring back those wild instincts which he thought he had left behind him in the Temple of Apollo.

Meanwhile the news had spread among the Centaurs that Hercules was among them, and making free with the public wine. The odor of the broken cask brought a crowd of them at full gallop, and disturbed Hercules in the midst of his carouse.

“Do you call this hospitality, you savages?” he shouted, stumbling out of the house, and laying about him with his club freely among the crowd, while Pholus vainly tried to prevent mischief. Down went Centaur after Centaur, till those who were uninjured galloped away panic-stricken, Pholus himself being among the slain.

“To Chiron!” cried the Centaurs; “he will know how to deal with this madman.”

They rode as hard as they could to Chiron’s dwelling, Hercules, furious with wine and anger, still pursuing. As they were outstripping him, he let fly his arrows among them; and, as evil luck would have it, at that very moment Chiron rode out from his gate to see what was happening, and to quiet the disorder, and one of the arrows struck him in the knee, and he fell.

Hercules became sober enough when he came up and found his old friend and teacher writhing in terrible agony; for the arrow was one which he had dipped in the deadly poison of the Hydra. He could only look on with remorse. Chiron knew him, and, when the agony passed away into death, gave him a look of forgiveness. What the wise Centaur’s last word to his favorite pupil was, I know not; but I think it must have been something like: “Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.”

I will not try to think of what Hercules felt when he watched the burial of the friends whom he had slain in a fit of drunken passion, for no cause. However, his duty lay still before him, and it had become more clear. Never again would he complain of his fate, or question the justice of the gods, or think of the life which had been lent to him as if it were his own.

In due time, after a long and dangerous journey among the mountains, he came upon the den of the great wild boar which he was to capture alive. There was nothing to be done but to follow it as he had followed the stag, watching for a chance of trapping it unawares: and in the pursuit another whole year passed away. Then, in the middle of winter, there fell such a snow that the boar was unable to leave its den. Hercules forced his way through the snowed-up entrance, and tried to seize the brute as he had seized the Nemean lion. The boar, however, rushed past him, and would have escaped again had not the snow hindered his running, and at last exhausted him. Hercules, though nearly exhausted himself, chose the right moment for closing with him, and, after a long struggle, bound him with a halter in such a manner that, in spite of its efforts, he could drag it by main strength down the mountain.

Once more Eurystheus had given Hercules up for lost: and the snow prevented him from hearing any news beforehand. So when, while he was standing at the city gate, there suddenly appeared before him, not only Hercules—all grim and rough from his year’s hunting—but the largest and most savage wild boar in the world, looking ready to devour him, he was so terrified that he whisked like a frightened mouse into his pot, and did not dare come out again for seven days.

As for Chiron the Centaur, he became a constellation in heaven, where he is still to be seen. He was the teacher of nearly all the heroes and demi-gods: and after his death there seems to have been an end of them. There have been plenty of brave men since; but not like Castor and Pollux, Perseus, Theseus, and Hercules. Nor, since that fatal day, does one hear of the Centaurs any more. Thus did one passing fit of causeless anger, instantly repented of, destroy these wisest and most valiant creatures, and deprive the whole world of more than it has ever regained during thousands of years.

Hercules solemnly sacrificed the boar, and then took a little rest, meditating on all that had befallen. But his rest was not to be for long. For there was Eurystheus in his pot, trying to think of something that should keep him occupied forever.

And—“I have it!” he exclaimed at last, summoning Hercules by a stroke on his pot’s brazen side.

PART VI.—HIS FIFTH LABOR: THE AUGEAN STABLE.

THE next labor which Eurystheus laid upon Hercules was to clean out a stable.

That does not sound very much after the others. But then the stable was that of Augeas, King of Elis, which was at once the largest and the dirtiest in the whole world.

Augeas had a prodigious number of oxen and goats, and the stable in which they were all kept had never been cleaned. The result was a mountain of filth and litter, which not even Hercules could clear away in a lifetime—not, of course, from want of strength, but from want of time. Hercules beheld with disgust and dismay the loathsome and degrading toil in which he was to spend the rest of his days. The other labors had at least been honorable, and befitting a prince: this would have appalled a scavenger.

“It is very good of such a hero as you,” said Augeas, “to undertake to clean my stable. It really does want cleaning, as you see: and it was very kind of Eurystheus to think of it. You shall not find me ungrateful. I will give you one ox and one goat in every ten—when the job is done.”

He could very safely promise this, because he knew that the job could never be done.

“I am not serving for hire,” said Hercules. “Nevertheless it is only right that you should not let your stable get into such a state as this, and then get it put right for nothing. You want a lesson: and you shall have it, too.”

Seeing that mere strength would be wasted in such toil, Hercules went to work with his brain as well. Through the land of Elis ran the river Alpheus, that same Alpheus which had told Ceres what had become of Proserpine. Hercules carefully studied the country; and having laid his plans, dug a channel from near the source of the river to one of the entrances of the stable. Then, damming up the old channel, he let the stream run into the new. The new course was purposely made narrow, so that the current might be exceedingly strong. When all was ready, he opened the sluice at one entrance of the stable, so that the water poured in a flood through the whole building, and out at a gate on the other side. And it had all been so managed that when the river had poured through, and was shut off again, all the filth and litter had been carried away by the Alpheus underground, and the stable had been washed clean, without a scrap of refuse to be found anywhere. For the Alpheus, you must know, did not run into the sea, like other rivers. It disappeared down a deep chasm, then ran through a natural tunnel under the sea, and rose again, far away, in the island of Sicily, where it had brought to Ceres the news from underground. Thus everything thrown into it in Elis came up again in Sicily—and the Sicilians must have been considerably astonished at that extraordinary eruption of stable litter. Perhaps it is that which, acting as manure, has helped to make Sicily so fertile.

Hercules made a point of claiming his price. But Augeas said:—

“Nonsense! A bargain is a bargain. You undertook to clean my stable: and you have done nothing of the kind. No work, no pay.”

“What can you mean?” asked Hercules. “Surely I have cleaned your stable—you will not find in it a broken straw.”

“No,” said Augeas. “It was the Alpheus did that: not you.”

“But it was I who used the Alpheus—”

“Yes; no doubt. But the impudence of expecting me to pay a tenth of all my flocks and herds for an idea so simple that I should have thought of it myself, if you hadn’t, just by chance, happened to think of it before me! You have not earned your wages. You cleaned the stable by an unfair trick: and it was the river cleaned it—not you.”

“Very well,” said Hercules, grimly. “If you had paid me honestly, I would have given you your goats and your oxen back again; for, as I told you, I do not serve for reward. But now I perceive that I have not quite cleaned your stable. There is still one piece of dirt left in it—and that is a cheating knave, Augeas by name. So, as I cannot go back to Mycenæ till my work is done—”

He was about to throw Augeas into the river, to follow the rest of the litter: and about what afterwards happened, different people tell different things. I very strongly agree, however, with those who tell that Hercules spared the life of Augeas after having given him a lesson: for certainly he was not worth the killing. And I am the more sure of this because, after his death, Augeas was honored as hero—which surely would not have happened if he had not learned to keep both his stables and his promises clean before he died.

PART VII.—MORE LABORS: AND THE CATTLE OF GERYON.

EURYSTHEUS was getting to his wits’ end for work which should keep his cousin employed. He sent him to kill the man-eating birds of Lake Stymphalus; to catch, and bring to Mycenæ alive, a wild bull which was devastating Crete; to obtain for Eurystheus the famous mares which fed on human flesh, and belonged to the Thracian King Diomedes, who used to throw men and women alive into their manger. In three years’ time Hercules destroyed all the birds, and brought to Mycenæ both the bull and the mares, to whom he had given the body of their master.

These were the sixth, seventh, and eighth labors, which had taken eight years. The ninth was of a different kind. There lived in the country of Cappadocia, which is in Asia, a nation of women, without any men among them. They were called the Amazons, and were famous for their skill in hunting, and for their fierceness and courage in war, conquering the neighboring nations far and wide. Their queen at this time was Hippolyta; and Eurystheus bade Hercules bring him Queen Hippolyta’s girdle. Perhaps he thought that a strong man would be ashamed to put out his strength against a woman. If so, however, he reckoned wrongly. Hercules had to do his work, whether man or woman stood in the way; and he won the queen’s girdle in fair fight, without harming the queen.

“I must send Hercules to the very end of the earth,” thought poor Eurystheus, who grew more and more frightened by every new success of his cousin. So he inquired diligently of every traveler who came to Mycenæ, and in time had the good luck to hear of a suitable monster named Geryon, who lived in a cave at Gades, now called Cadiz, on the coast of Spain, very near indeed to what the Greeks then thought to be the end of the world. Geryon, so the travelers reported, had three bodies and three heads, and kept large and valuable flocks and herds. “That will be just the thing for Hercules!” thought Eurystheus. So he called from his brazen pot—

“Go to Gades, and get me the cattle and the sheep of Geryon.”

So Hercules set off for Spain by way of Egypt and that great Libyan desert through which Perseus had passed on his adventure against the Gorgons. It was an unfortunate way to take, for there reigned over Egypt at that time King Busiris, who had made a law that every foreigner entering the country should be sacrificed to Jupiter. Hercules, knowing nothing of this law, was taken by surprise as soon as he landed, overpowered by numbers, bound in iron chains, and laid upon the altar to be slain. But scarcely had the sacrificing priest raised his knife when Hercules burst the chains, and, being no longer taken at disadvantage, made a sacrifice of Busiris and his ministers, thus freeing the land of Egypt from a foolish and cruel law.

Thence he passed into the great desert, and traveled on until one day he reached a pile of human skulls, nearly as big as a mountain. While wondering at the sight, a shadow fell over him, and a big voice said—

“Yes, you may well look at that! I have nearly enough now.”

It was a giant, nearly as high as the heap of skulls. “And who are you?” asked Hercules; “and what are these?”

“I am Antæus,” answered the giant; “and the Sea is my father and the Earth is my mother. I am collecting skulls in order to build a temple with them upon my mother the Earth to my father the Sea.”

“And how,” asked Hercules, “have you managed to get so many?”

“By killing everybody I see, and adding his skull to the heap—as I am going to add yours.”

So saying, he seized Hercules to make an end of him. And amazed enough the giant was when he himself was dashed to the ground with force enough to break any ordinary bones.

Antæus, however, though astonished, was not in the least hurt; so that it was the turn of Hercules to be surprised. Again they closed, and again Hercules threw him, with still greater strength; and they closed again.

And again and again Hercules threw him, but every time with greater difficulty. The more he was thrown, the stronger the giant became; he rose from every fall fresher than before. Plainly, if this went on, Antæus would be beaten until he became stronger than Hercules, and would end by winning.

It seemed very strange that the more a man was dashed to the ground the fresher and stronger he should grow. But—

“I see!” thought Hercules to himself. “This giant is the son of the Earth; so whenever he falls, it is upon the bosom of his own mother, who strengthens and refreshes her son. So I must take another way.”

So thinking, he put out all his strength, and again lifted Antæus in his arms. But this time he did not dash him to the Earth; he held him in the air, and crushed him to death between his hands.

After this he traveled on, without further adventure, until he reached the far western end of the Mediterranean Sea, which was thought to be the end of the world. If you happen to look at a map you will easily find the exact place—it is where the south of Spain very nearly touches Africa. When Hercules arrived there, Spain quite touched Africa, so that one might walk from one into the other. It is said that Hercules himself opened out the narrow passage which lets the Mediterranean Sea out into the great ocean, so that ships could afterwards sail to Britain and all over the world. That passage is now called the Strait of Gibraltar. But the rock of Gibraltar in Spain, and the opposite rock in Africa, between which the Strait flows, are still often called the “Pillars of Hercules.”

To get from there to Gades was no great distance; and to kill the monstrous ogre Geryon and to seize his flocks and herds for Eurystheus was no great feat after what he had already done. But to drive such a number of sheep and cattle all the way from Gades in Spain to Mycenæ in Greece was not an easy matter. There was only one way of doing so without being stopped somewhere by the sea, and this, as a map will show at once, is by crossing those two great mountain-ranges, the Pyrenees and the Alps—and for one man to drive thousands of sheep and thousands of horned cattle over such mountains as those was the most tiresome and troublesome labor that Hercules had ever undergone.

He got as far as Italy without the loss of a single sheep or cow, and was thinking that he saw the end of his trouble. One morning, however, having counted the cattle as usual, and having gone some miles upon his day’s journey, he became aware that there was something wrong. The sheep began to bleat and the cattle to bellow in an odd and excited way. And frequently, from behind him, he heard an answering sound which at first he took for an echo. But no, it could not be that, for an echo would have repeated the bleating as well as the bellowing, and what he heard behind him was the sound of bellowing only—precisely like that of Geryon’s cows. He counted the herd over again, and, though he was convinced that it was all right at starting, he found a full dozen missing.

Now a dozen was not much to lose out of thousands. But he had been ordered to bring back the whole herd, and he would have felt that he would not have done his duty if he, by any neglect or laziness of his own, lost even one lamb by the way. So, following the distant sound, he, with infinite labor, drove his cattle back across the hills, league after league, till he reached a huge black cavern, the mouth of which was strewn and heaped with human bones. His cattle became more excited and more restive, for the sound he was following evidently came from within the cave.

He was about to enter and search when a three-headed ogre issued, whose three mouths, when he opened them to speak, breathed smoke and flames.

“This is my cave,” said he, with all three mouths at once; “and no man shall enter it but I.”

“I only want my cattle,” said Hercules. “Bring them out to me.”

“Cattle?” asked the ogre. “There are no cattle here. I swear it by the head of my mother.”

“And who was she,” asked Hercules, “that her head is an oath to swear by?”

“I am Cacus, the son of the Gorgon Medusa,” answered the ogre, “and I swear——”

But before he could finish his oath, there came such a bellowing from within the cave that the very cattle seemed as if they could not endure such falsehood, and were proclaiming that Cacus lied.

“I am sorry,” said Hercules. “I am weary of traveling, and of monsters, and of giants, and of ogres, and of liars, and of thieves. I really do not want to kill any more. You are not one of my labors, and I have had enough trouble. Still, if you had as many heads as the Hydra and as many arms as Briareus, I should have to fight you rather than lose one of the cattle I was bidden to bring.”

Cacus laughed. “Do you see those bones?” he asked. “They are all that is left of people who have looked for what they have lost in my cave.”

“Then,” said Hercules, “either you shall add mine to the heap, or I will add yours.”

And presently the bones of Cacus the Robber were added to the heap, and Hercules, having got his cattle back, at last reached Mycenæ.

Eurystheus almost forgot to be frightened in his joy at becoming the owner of such flocks and herds. He listened with interest to the story of his cousin’s travels, and, having heard it to an end, said—

“So you crossed the great Libyan desert until you reached the ocean which surrounds the world? Why, then, you must have found the way to the gardens of the Hesperides—the gardens of golden fruit which the great sleepless dragon guards, and which our forefather Perseus saw when he turned Atlas into stone. Did you also see those gardens?”

“No,” said Hercules.

“Then,” said Eurystheus, “go and see them at once. Go and bring me some of the Golden Apples—as many as you can.”

PART VIII.—HIS ELEVENTH LABOR: THE GARDEN OF THE HESPERIDES.

SO Hercules, without being allowed any time for rest, had to go back the whole way he had come, without any certain knowledge of where the golden-fruited gardens of the Hesperides were to be found, except that it was somewhere in Africa. Somebody must know, however, or else the gardens would never have been heard of, for travelers never told anything but the truth in those days. He therefore diligently asked everybody he met where the gardens were to be found, and, among others, some nymphs whom he met on the banks of the river Po, while he was passing through Italy.

“We cannot tell you,” said they; “but we know who can—old Nereus, the sea-god, if you can only get him to tell.”

“And why should he not tell?” asked Hercules.

“Because he never will tell anybody anything, unless he is obliged.”

“And how is he to be obliged?” asked Hercules again.

“He is bound to answer anybody who is stronger than he.”

“Well, I am pretty strong,” said Hercules, modestly. “Anyhow, I can but try.”

“Yes, you do look strong,” said the nymphs; “but——” Here they broke into a laugh, as if some sort of a joke were in their minds. “Well, if you go to the Ægean Sea, where King Ægeus was drowned, you’ll be sure to find Nereus sleeping in the sun somewhere along the shore.”

“And how shall I know him when I see him?” asked Hercules.

“You will see a very, very old man, older than anybody you ever saw, with bright blue hair, and a very long white beard. He has fifty daughters, so he often gets tired, and likes to sleep as much as he can.”

Hercules thanked the nymphs, whom he still heard laughing after he left them, and thought to himself that it would not be much trouble to prove himself stronger than a very old man who was always tired. So, having journeyed back again to the Ægean Sea, he walked along the shore till, sure enough, he saw, sound asleep in a sunny cove, a man who looked a thousand years old, with a white beard reaching below his waist, and with hair as blue as the sea.

“Will you kindly tell me the way to the gardens of the Hesperides?” asked Hercules, waking Nereus by a gentle shake—though I suspect one of Hercules’ shakes was not what most people would consider gentle.

Instead of answering, Nereus tried to roll himself into the sea, at the bottom of which was his home. Hercules caught him by the leg and arm: when, to his amazement, Nereus suddenly turned into a vigorous young man, who wrestled with him stoutly to get away.

Hercules got him down at last. “Now tell me the way to the gardens of the Hesperides!” he panted—for he was out of breath with the struggle. But he found himself holding down, no longer a man, but a huge and slippery seal, which all but succeeded in plunging into the sea.

But he held on until the seal also was exhausted. And then Hercules found out what had made the nymphs laugh so. For when the seal was wearied out it changed into a gigantic crab, the crab into a crocodile, the crocodile into a mermaid, the mermaid into a sea-serpent, the sea-serpent into an albatross, the albatross into an octopus, the octopus into a mass of sea-weed, which was the hardest to hold of all. But the sea-weed turned back into the old man again, who said:—

“There—you have conquered me in all my shapes; I haven’t got any more. You may let me go now, and I will answer you. You must go on through Italy and Spain, and thence across into Africa. You will then be in the land of Mauritania. You must still go south, following the sea-shore, till you come to the giant Atlas, who supports the sky upon his head, and so keeps it from falling. He”—the old sea-god’s voice was growing fainter and fainter—“he will tell you all about the gardens of the Hesperides. They’re close by—the gardens of the Hesp——”

And so, having finished his answer, Nereus turned over and went comfortably to sleep again.

Once more Hercules set out upon the journey which had seemed as if it would never even begin. Once more he traveled through Italy and Spain, and crossed into Africa over the strait which he himself had made. And on and on he went, always southward by the sea, till, full six hundred miles from the Pillars of Hercules, he saw what he knew must be the giant Atlas on whose head rested the sky. There Atlas, King of Mauritania, had stood ever since he had looked upon the head of Medusa. And if you wonder how the sky was held up before that time, you must ask Nereus, if you can catch him—not me.

As you may suppose, the poor giant was terribly weary of having to hold up, night and day, year after year, the whole weight of the sun, moon, and stars. Even his strength is not able to keep stars from falling now and then—sometimes on a clear night you may see them tumbling down by scores, so it is terrible to think of what would happen if he took even a moment’s rest. The whole sky would come crashing down, and the universe would be in ruins. He was longing for the rest he dared not take, and so, when Hercules, said to him, “I am seeking fruit from the gardens of the Hesperides,” a crafty idea came into the giant’s mind.

“Ah!” said he, with a nod which shook down a whole shower of stars. “There is no difficulty. All you have to do is walk through the sea towards the setting sun, till you get there. And there’s nothing to prevent you from getting the golden fruit but the dragon who guards the tree on which it grows. The sea doesn’t come up higher than my waist, even in the deepest part; and, if you can get past the dragon, my three daughters, the Hesperides, will no doubt receive you with the greatest surprise.”

For the first time, Hercules felt dismayed. He had no boat, nor the means of building one; he could not swim further than his eyes could see. As for wading through an ocean that would come up to the waist of a giant as high as the skies, that was absurd. And as to the dragon, he remembered that Perseus had only passed it by means of a helmet which made its wearer invisible.

Atlas saw his perplexity.

“Ah, I forgot you were such a little fellow,” said the giant. “I’ll go and get you some of the fruit myself. It isn’t many of my steps from here to the garden, and the dragon knows me—and if he didn’t, I could step over him. And he couldn’t hurt me, seeing that I’ve been turned to stone. But wait, though—what on earth’s to become of the sky while I’m gone?”

“I’m pretty strong,” said Hercules. “If I climb up to the peak of the next mountain to you, I daresay I could hold the sky up while you’re away.”

Atlas smiled to himself, for this was just what he had intended.

“Come up, then,” said he. So Hercules clambered to the highest peak he could find, and Atlas, slowly bending, gradually and carefully let down the sky upon the head and shoulders of the hero. Then, heaving a deep roar of relief, he strode into the sea.

It was surely the strangest plight in which a mortal ever found himself—standing on a mountain-peak, and, by the strength of his own shoulders, keeping the skies from falling. He was answerable for the safety of the whole world: the burden of the entire universe was laid upon the shoulders of one man. They were strong enough to bear it; but it seemed like an eternity before Atlas returned. A hundred times a minute Hercules felt as if he must let all go, whatever happened; indeed he was actually tempted to yield, for he was weary of these endless labors; and it was only for mankind’s sake, and not for his own, that he held on through the agony of the crushing weight of the whole universe.

But Atlas came at last, with three golden apples in his hand.

“Here they are!” he roared. “And now, good-bye!”

“What!” exclaimed Hercules. “Are you not coming back to your duty?”

“Am I a fool?” asked the giant. “Not I. Keep the honor of holding up the skies yourself, since you are so strong and willing. Never again for me!”

“At least, then,” said Hercules, “let me place my lion’s skin between my shoulders and the sky, so that the weight may be less painful to bear.”

Atlas could take no objection to that, so he put his own shoulders under the dome of heaven to let Hercules make himself as comfortable as the situation allowed. Hercules seized the chance, and let the whole weight of the sky fall upon the shoulders of Atlas once more. And there it still rests; and thus Atlas failed in trying to shift his own proper burden to another’s shoulders.

“Only three apples!” exclaimed Eurystheus, when Hercules returned. “You can’t have taken much trouble, to get so little. Go to Hades, and bring me Cerberus, the three-headed dog of Pluto!... He will never do that?” he thought to himself. “To reach Hades, one must die!”

PART IX.—HIS TWELFTH LABOR: THE DESCENT INTO HADES.

I DARESAY you have forgotten—for it is a long way back—the name of Admetus, that King of Pheræ in Thessaly, whom Apollo, when banished from heaven, served as a shepherd for nine years. Admetus did not know that it was a god whom he had to keep his sheep; but he was so good and kind a master that Apollo, revealing himself at the end of his exile, bade him name any boon he desired, and it should be granted.

There is no such difficult question in the world to answer as that. Admetus answered, “Grant that I may never die.”

But that is the one thing which not even the gods can grant to mortal men. The very cause of Apollo’s having been banished to earth was his killing the Cyclops for forging the thunderbolt with which Jupiter had killed Æsculapius for making dead men live again. Not even the Fates could change that law even for the sake of Apollo. But they said, “Admetus shall live so long as he can find somebody else to die instead of him whenever his death-time comes,” which was all they could allow.

After the return of Apollo to heaven, Admetus lived on in great happiness and welfare. He was one of the Argonauts; and he took part in the hunting of the Calydonian boar. He had fallen in love with Alcestis, the beautiful daughter of that King Pelias of whom you read in the story of the Golden Fleece, whose hand had been promised to the man who should come for her in a chariot drawn by a wild boar and a lion. This Admetus did; and in this chariot he drove her back to his own kingdom of Pheræ, where he made her his queen. And there they lived in great love and happiness for many years.

But the day came at last which had been appointed to Admetus for his death-time. Then Admetus, remembering the promise of the Fates, and not able to bear losing the happiness of living, thus besought his old father, Pheres—

“Father, you are already old and near to death; you have lived your life; it matters nothing to you whether your old age lasts a year less or a year more. What you now call life is only weariness and pain. But I am still young and strong, with the best part of my life still unlived, and my children ungrown, and my kingdom to govern: I beseech you to die for me, so that I also may live to be as old and as wise as you.”

But his father answered: “No, my son; life is precious, even when one is old. The nearer we approach the cold dark grave, the dearer grow the sunshine and the living air. I will do anything else for you, but not die.”

Then Admetus besought Clymene, his mother—

“Mother, you are old and weak, and a woman; I am young and strong, and a man. What is such life as yours compared with mine? I beseech you to die for me: let not a mother doom to death her own child.”

But his mother answered: “No, my son; he who loves his life as you love it, and fears death as you fear it, is not one for whom even his mother ought to die.”

Then Admetus besought all his friends and kinsmen; but all were deaf to him. For well the Fates had known that their promise would be in vain. But at last his dear and beautiful wife Alcestis came to him, and said—

“I will die for you, and gladly!” Ah, those Fates do not know everything after all!

Admetus, with all his selfishness, had never thought sacrificing his wife; and he was overcome with horror. He prayed that Apollo’s gift might be taken back; but the Fates are not to be played fast and loose with in that way, and they were angry perhaps at finding themselves baffled by a mere loving woman. Alcestis had to die instead of Admetus; and so she died, as she had said, proudly and gladly.

Now that it was too late, her husband was broken-hearted at having caused his wife’s death for the sake of what had been but a selfish whim. All he could do for her in return was honor her love and devotion by a splendid funeral, to which people came from far and near to cover her grave with flowers.

Alcestis was buried, and the farewell hymn was being sung, when there thrust his way, rather roughly, through the crowded temple a stranger of mighty build, carrying a club, and clad with a lion’s skin, seemingly the worse for wine. Admetus was too absorbed in his grief to notice this rude intrusion; but some of the bystanders cried shame on the stranger, and one of the priests came in his way, and said sternly—

“Who are you that dare to trouble grief like ours?”

“Who am I? Why, the servant of Eurystheus, King of Argos and Mycenæ. Is this how you receive strangers in your land? I had heard that Admetus of Pheræ is the most generous of kings, and Alcestis the most gracious of queens; and here I find you all like ghosts at a funeral. Where is the king?”

“There stands the king,” said the priest, solemnly. And then he told the stranger the story which many a poet has told since—the story of how strong true love is, and how foolish it is to measure life by the number of its years.

Hercules—for he the stranger was—was sobered in a moment. “It is a shame!” he exclaimed, bringing down his club on the floor. “Fates or no fates, it shall not be! I am bound to Hades on an errand for my own king, and I will not come back unless I do a better one for yours.”

So, leaving them all offended at what they took for a drunken boast, he dropped into the open grave: the people only thinking that he had passed from the temple somewhat suddenly. Hence he followed the passage taken by the queen’s soul till he reached the Styx; and hard work must poor old Charon have had to row across such a weight as Hercules instead of the ghosts to which he was accustomed. On he went, finding his way as best he could without a guide, until, chancing upon the black gate of Tartarus, there growled in the middle of his path the three-headed dog Cerberus, with flashing eyes and flaming jaws.

Orpheus, you remember, had quieted Cerberus with the music of his lute: Hercules, going to work in other fashion, brought down his club upon one of the dog’s skulls in a way that bewildered the other two. Then, seizing the monster by the throat, and in spite of its furious struggles, he fairly dragged it along with him by sheer strength, even into the very presence of Pluto and Proserpine.

“And,” he cried, “god and goddess though you are, I will brain this dog of yours upon the steps of your throne unless you surrender to me the soul of Alcestis, that I may deliver her from death, and lead her back into life again.”

It was an unheard-of thing that a man should thus take Hades by storm, and dictate terms to its king and queen. But for that moment I verily believe that Hercules became more than man—nay, more than Alcestis, because, while she had betaken herself to Elysium for the love of one who was dear to her, he had dared the torments of Tartarus out of pity for strangers and hate of wrong. Nay, I think it was truly this which had made his grip so fast on the dog’s throat, and his club so heavy on the dog’s three skulls; and this that made a mortal stand as their master before even Pluto and Proserpine.

“In the name of all the gods,” said Pluto, “take the woman, and begone.”

Then Alcestis appeared—a mere gray shade, the touch of whose hand was but like a film of gossamer. But as he dragged the less and less struggling Cerberus with one hand, and led her with the other, her shade took color and formed, and her fingers tightened upon his, until the living Alcestis, more beautiful than before, stepped with him out of her still open grave, and threw herself into her husband’s arms.

Hercules did not wait for thanks; indeed, with Cerberus still on his hands, his only thought was to hurry back to Mycenæ. It is the strangest picture one can think of—a man dragging along the three-headed dog of Hades in the open light of day. It was one long strain on his whole strength, all day and all night long, for many nights and days. But he reached Mycenæ at last—and into his brazen pot leaped Eurystheus in the twinkling of an eye.

“I have brought him,” said Hercules. “Cerberus is yours.”

“Then,” cried Eurystheus, as well as his terror would let him, “be off with you, Cerberus and all. Never more be servant of mine; never let me see your face or hear of you again!”

Thus Hercules, by obedient service, won his freedom, and his great penance was fulfilled. And the first use he made of freedom was to give it to Cerberus, who straightway, with a terrible howl, plunged into the earth, and disappeared.

PART X.—THE CHOICE OF HERCULES.

YES; at last Hercules was free, after twelve long years of slavery, during which he had scarce known a day’s pleasure or ease. It seemed too good to be true.

His only trouble now was what to do with his liberty. He was his own master; the whole world was before him, and he was strong enough to do whatever he pleased. And while thus thinking what he should do with his life and strength, there came to him in the middle of the night a vision as of two women, real and yet unreal, bringing with them a strange light of their own.

The first to speak was young and beautiful, crowned with flowers, and with a voice as sweet as her smile.

“What folly is thinking!” said she. “You have toiled enough; you have won the right to do whatever you like best for the rest of your days. No more labor to serve another’s will or whim; no more hateful tasks, one ending only for another to begin; no more cold, hunger, thirst, strife with monsters, and self-denial; and all for what? Why, for nothing. My name is Pleasure. Choose me for your soul, and you shall have Power, Glory, Riches, Comfort, Delight—all your whole heart’s desire.”

The other shape wore no flowers: her lips did not smile, and the light of her clear bright eyes was cold; and her voice belonged to her eyes.

“Yet think,” said she, “before you choose, because you must choose to-night once for all. Was it Pleasure who helped you to rid the people of the ravage of the Nemæan lion? No, indeed: she would have bidden you stay at home. Was it Pleasure who stood by you as you struck off the heads of the Hydra, one by one? No, indeed. Did Pleasure join with you in chasing the Erymanthine boar and the stag with the golden horns? Did she clean away the Augean stable? Did she send you forth to free the world of the man-eating birds of Lake Stymphalus, and the dreadful Cretan bull, and the mares of King Diomedes, and the Giant Antæus, and the Ogre Geryon, and Cacus the Robber? Did Pleasure save Alcestis from death, and break through the very gates of hell? No; it was Obedience. And if obedience to a mere earthly master has worked such wonders for the good of all mankind, how much more good will come of willing obedience to Me?”

“And how, then, are you called?” asked Hercules, looking from one to the other—from the warm glowing smile of Pleasure to the grave eyes of the form which had last spoken.

“Among men I am called Duty,” said she.

Hercules could not help sighing—for the more he looked at Pleasure the more beautiful she grew; while the face of Duty seemed every moment to become more stern and cold.

“It does seem hard,” said he, “to use my freedom in only making a change of service. But after all, what is the good of having more strength than other men, except to help them? It’s true, though I never thought of it before. And if Pleasure won’t help me to rid the world of the rest of its monsters, and Duty will, why, there’s only one thing for a man to do, and that’s to choose Duty, and obey her, however hard she may be.”

Then he went to sleep with his mind made up, and when he woke in the morning his choice woke with him.

So Hercules, instead of being the servant of Eurystheus, became, of his own free will, the servant of all mankind. He made it his work to seek out wrong, and never to rest until he had set it right: he traveled about the world, carrying everywhere with him the love of law and justice, and the worship of the gods, even into savage lands where such things had never been known. Ogres and monsters disappeared: it seemed as if his strength were bringing back the Golden Age.

One day his wanderings brought him into the heart of the great mountain-range called Caucasus, a vast and dreadful region of snow-covered peaks which no human foot had ever climbed. Never had even he known a harder labor than to make his way among these icy precipices, where every step meant danger. Not a sign of life was to be seen or heard, when suddenly he heard a terrible cry like that of a giant in pain.

He looked round; but saw nothing but the silent mountains. Then the cry came again, as if from far above him; and, lifting his eyes to the highest peak of all, he was sure that something moved there like the flapping of great wings.

What could it be? What could be happening upon the highest mountain peak in the world? He set himself to climb its sides, often so steep and icy that he was over and over again on the point of giving up in despair; and the higher he climbed the louder and more full of agony became the cry. At last, after many days of toil, he reached the topmost peak whence the cry came, and there he forgot hunger, cold, and weariness in wonder at what he saw.

Bound to the rocks by huge chains, so that he could not move a limb, lay what seemed a man, bigger than Hercules himself, with every muscle drawn and writhing in agony. And with good reason, for a gigantic and horrible vulture had his limbs in its talons and its beak in his heart, which it was fiercely tearing.

The vulture was too busy at his cruel feast to see Hercules. But its tortured victim cried—

“Depart, whoever you are: I am Prometheus the Titan, who tried to conquer the strength of the gods by cunning, and am thus punished for my sin forever.”

And then he sent forth another dreadful cry as the vulture plunged its beak into his heart again.

Prometheus! Yes; it was nothing less than Prometheus the Titan, who, when his race was beaten in the great battle with the gods of Olympus, had stolen fire from heaven, and made Man, and who was thus punished for having made what gave the gods such trouble. But Hercules, though he knew all this, and the story of Pandora besides, exclaimed—

“Then, gods or no gods, sin or no sin, this shall not be!”

And at the word he grasped the vulture by the throat, and then followed a struggle beside which even his battle with the hell-hound Cerberus had been as nothing. For it was no common vulture of the mountains: it was the demon of Remorse, whose beak had not left the heart of Prometheus one moment for thousands and thousands of years. But it was over at last, and the vulture lay strangled at the feet of Hercules.

To free Prometheus from his chains was the work of a moment, and the Titan rose and stretched his free limbs with a heart at ease.

What passed between the Titan and the Mortal is beyond my guessing, and I have never heard. I only know that a mere Man had, by his strength and his courage, saved one who was greater and wiser than he from Remorse and Despair. I have thought of this story till it means too much for me to say anything more. Only, if you have forgotten the story of Prometheus and Pandora, I should be glad if you will read it again.

PART XI.—THE TUNIC OF NESSUS.

HERCULES, passing through the land of Thessaly, fell deeply in love with the Princess Iole, daughter of King Eurytus, whom her father, a famous archer, had promised in marriage to the man who should fly an arrow further than he.

This Hercules did with such ease that the king, angry at being surpassed, refused to perform his promise, so that Hercules went mad with rage and sorrow. In a sudden fury he slew Iphitus, a brother of Iole, and his own friend and comrade, and then, still more maddened by what he had done, wandered away again to Delphi to ask Apollo’s oracle once more what he should do.

But this time the voice of Apollo was silent. It seemed as if, in spite of all he had done for men, the gods had turned away their faces from him, and had become deaf to his prayers, even to his repentance—for he would have given his own life if that would bring Iphitus to life again. Were they angry because he had saved Prometheus from their vengeance? Or were the labors of a life to be lost for one moment of passion? Then were the gods unjust, and Hercules, who abhorred injustice, broke forth against the gods themselves.

“I will no longer serve such wretches!” he cried. “Beings which bring man into the world only to torment him, and to be a sport and a jest for them! I will tear down their temples and destroy their altars; I will side with the fallen Titans; I will sooner bear the punishment of Prometheus forever, with none to save me, than serve monsters of injustice, who allow man to sin and to suffer without help, and then cast him away.”

But Apollo was as deaf to his curses as to his prayers. So Hercules put forth his whole strength against the temple, and no doubt would have left it a ruin, when, from the clear sky there burst such flames and thunders that the Titans themselves would have been dismayed. And then spoke the oracle at last—

“Is this the free service you vowed when you chose between Pleasure and Duty? It is the justice of the gods that you go back into slavery again until you have learned how to be free.”

The thunder and the lightning ceased, and Hercules saw beside him a young man who looked like a traveling merchant—at least for such he took him, until the stranger for one moment stood revealed as the god Mercury, with winged heels and cap, and bearing the rod round which two live serpents twined. It was only for a moment; the next, the god became the traveling merchant again.

“As we are to be fellow-travelers,” said Mercury, “I will tell you at once that I am under orders from the Court of Olympus to take you to market and sell you for a slave. Do you submit? Or do you wish to learn from me the strength of heaven?”

“I wish I could learn its justice,” said Hercules. “But I suppose I am too stupid to understand. Everything is so dark and so strange. But what does it all matter, after all? I would as soon be a slave as anything else, now that I have lost Iole and killed my friend.”

“That is not the right mood,” said Mercury. “It is better to rebel, as you did a minute ago, than to think that nothing matters, as you do now. However, let us go.”

Mercury was always the most delightful and amusing of companions; and he was very good-natured also, and did his best to make the journey cheerful. But, though he was the god of Eloquence, and of Business besides, he could not persuade anybody to become the purchaser of Hercules either by auction or by private bargain. Nobody wanted a slave who looked so certain to become his master’s master. Besides, people had forgotten all his good deeds, and only remembered that he had been a dangerous madman. But in time they came to a country in Asia called Lydia, which was then ruled by a queen whose name was Omphale. And she, having seen Hercules, was brave enough to buy him.

Of course Hercules expected that she would make him outdo what he had done for Eurystheus; and nothing would have pleased him better than to be sent on the most impossible errands, so that, in toil and danger, he might forget his murder of Iphitus and his love for Iole. Instead, however, of treating him like the most glorious hero of his time, and employing him on services of honor, she amused herself by giving him a spindle and distaff, and setting him to spin among her women, while she robed herself in his lion-skin and tried to swing his club in her delicate hands. And whenever he was clumsy with the distaff, which was very often, she would laugh at him, and strike him across the face with her slipper.

For three long years Hercules sat and span among Omphale’s handmaids; and then she, being tired of her amusement and of his submission, set him free, and gave him back his club and lion-skin. They had been three wasted, unwholesome years, and his strength had wasted with them; moreover, his fame was being forgotten, and nothing seemed left for him to do. How long it seemed since he had fought the Hydra and borne upon his shoulders the weight of the sky—it was as if he had become another and a feebler man.

While waiting to see what should happen, he abode at the Court of King Tyndarus of Sparta, the step-father of the great twin brethren, Castor and Pollux, and of their sister Helen—the most beautiful woman in the whole world; of whom you will hear more some day. And it was while here that he heard of the fame of another beautiful woman, the Princess Deianira, daughter of King Œneus of Ætolia, whose hand was to be the prize of a great wrestling-match to be held at Calydon. Hercules, longing for some adventure to try his strength again, betook himself thither; and, weakened though he was, overthrew every one of his rivals with ease. Then, after his marriage with Deianira, he set out with her for the Court of King Ceyx of Trachinia, where he intended to remain a while.

But when they reached the river Evenus, which they had to cross on their way from Calydon to Trachinia, the water was so swollen with heavy rains that Hercules did not know how to bring his wife over. As they stood wondering what they should do without boat or bridge, there cantered up a Centaur, who saw the plight they were in, and said—

“I am Nessus. If this fair lady will deign to seat herself upon my back, I will swim over with her quickly; and then I will come back for you also.”

He spoke frankly and courteously; so Hercules, thinking no harm, lifted Deianira upon the back of the Centaur, who plunged into the river, and soon reached the other side. But on landing, instead of performing his promise, he set off at a gallop; and it was soon clear enough that he meant to run away with Deianira, while Hercules stood helpless beyond the river.

He was almost out of sight when Hercules let fly an arrow, which had been dipped in the poison of the Hydra, with such force and so true an aim that it pierced the Centaur without touching Deianira. Nessus fell to the earth, and, feeling himself dying, said to her—

“I die for love of you; but I forgive you freely. Take my tunic; for it is of magic power. If your husband’s heart ever strays from you, bid him wear it, and his love will return to you and never wander again.”

So saying, he groaned and died; and Deianira, having taken from him his blood-stained tunic, waited there till Hercules, having found a ford higher up the river, was able to rejoin her. And so at last they reached the Court of King Ceyx, who received them with all kindness and honor.

Here they dwelt in great content; nor was there any cause why they should not have spent all their life to come in rest and peace, had not, by ill luck, a great war broken out between King Ceyx and King Eurytus of Thessaly. Hercules gained the victory for his host; King Eurytus was slain; and then—among the prisoners of war was the slain king’s daughter, Iole; she on whose account Hercules had killed Iphitus, and cursed the gods, and been a slave.

Yet, seeing her again, all thought of Deianira passed away from him, and his love for Iole was stronger even than at first; while he found that her love had remained true to him and unchanged. He could not part from her, and so he took her with him to Mount Œta, where he was about to sacrifice to Jupiter in honor of his victory.

The altar was prepared, and the sacrifice was ready, when there arrived from Trachinia, the city of King Ceyx, his servant Lichas, who knelt before him, and said—

“The Princess Deianira, your loving wife, has heard of this great sacrifice, and sends you by me this tunic, which she prays you to wear for her sake, that she may have some part in your thanksgiving.”

But in truth it was of her husband’s love for Iole that Deianira had heard; and therefore she had sent him the tunic of Nessus, which was to bring his heart back to her again.

Little she guessed the cunning revenge of the Centaur, who knew that the arrow of Hercules, in piercing the tunic, had left upon it a drop of the poison of the Hydra. Hercules put on the gift of Deianira, and, accompanied only by Prince Philoctetes of Melibœa, ascended Mount Œta to celebrate the sacrifice. But no sooner had he reached the altar than the poison began to work, eating through his skin into his flesh, even to his bones, so that his agony was too great to bear.

He tried to tear off the fatal tunic; but the more he tore at it the more it clung. At last the agony began to gnaw his heart, and he despaired.

“Would,” he cried, “that I had never been born! My strength has been my curse. I have labored to clear the world of evil; and pain and sin are still as strong as if the serpents had strangled me in my cradle. The Hydra is dead, but its poison goes on working; and open savage force is only changed into fraud and guile. Happier is Eurystheus, whom weakness and cowardice have kept from doing harm; wiser are they who choose peace and pleasure; who sit with folded hands, and let monsters and ogres devour whomsoever else they will. As for me, I have been a curse to those whom I have loved the best, and leave more evil in the world than I found. There is no use in strength, since it can be conquered by pain; nor in subduing others, when one cannot master one’s own self; nor in duty without knowledge; nor in life, which is only blunder and misery and toil and sin. The best thing is never to have been born; and the next best thing is to die.”

So he gave his bow and arrows to Philoctetes, whom he swore to bury his ashes in the earth, and never to reveal where they were laid. “For,” said he, “I wish to sleep and forget and be forgotten. I will not that men shall pay me even so much honor as a tomb.” Then he spread his lion skin over the altar, and laid himself upon it with his club for a pillow, and bade Philoctetes set fire to it, so that he might die, not of poison and treachery, but like a man, and of his own free will, making himself the sacrifice he had vowed.

Philoctetes mournfully obeyed. And thus miserably perished Hercules, the greatest and last of the heroes; for after him there came no more. Thus died the strongest of men, in the belief that all effort is useless, and that he had lived in vain.

But the gods knew better; for not once had they been unjust, in spite of seeming. They knew both his strength and his weakness; they saw the whole man—often foolish and sinful and weak; often failing and falling, but willing what was right, and loving it even when he fell into wrong. They judged him by his whole life, not by its wretched end, when he was maddened by passion and tortured by pain. The gods remembered how he had chosen between Pleasure and Duty; how he had striven with Tartarus for the life of Alcestis; how he had scaled Caucasus because he had heard a cry of pain; how, even when he cursed the gods at Delphi, it was because he thought them unjust, and because he loved justice and hated injustice with his whole soul and being. He might hold his own service cheap; but not they, for, with the gods, effort cannot fail: to fight is the same thing as to conquer. If Hercules had cut off ninety-nine of the Hydra’s heads, and been slain by the hundredth, men would still have held him a hero. And so was it with the gods. They had watched his long battle with the Hydra of Life and Evil, and did not condemn him because he was slain before the end.

And so, in the fire of the altar on Mount Œta, his pains, his sins, his weaknesses, were purged away. And even as he was the only mortal who ever conquered Tartarus, so was he the only one who ever received such reward. Instead of being sent among the happy shades of the Elysian fields, he was received into the glory of Olympus, among the gods themselves, there, with strength made pure and perfect, to serve and help mankind forever.

THE APPLE OF DISCORD.

NEVER was such a wedding-feast known as that of Peleus and Thetis. And no wonder; for Peleus was King of Thessaly, and Thetis was a goddess—the goddess who keeps the gates of the West, and throws them open for the chariot of the Sun to pass through when its day’s journey is done.

Not only all the neighboring kings and queens came to the feast, but the gods and goddesses besides, bringing splendid presents to the bride and bridegroom. Only one goddess was not there, because she had not been invited; and she had not been invited for the best of all reasons. Her name was Ate, which means Mischief; and wherever she went she caused quarreling and confusion. Jupiter had turned her out of heaven for setting even the gods by the ears; and ever since then she had been wandering about the earth, making mischief, for they would not have her even in Hades.

“So they won’t have Me at their feast!” she said to herself, when she heard the sound of the merriment to which she had not been bidden. “Very well; they shall be sorry. I see a way to make a bigger piece of mischief than ever was known.”

So she took a golden apple, wrote some words upon it, and, keeping herself out of sight, threw it into the very middle of the feasters, just when they were most merry.

Nobody saw where the apple came from; but of course they supposed it had been thrown among them for frolic; and one of the guests, taking it up, read aloud the words written on it. The words were:—

“For the Most Beautiful!”

—nothing more.

“What a handsome present somebody has sent me!” said Juno, holding out her hand for the apple.

“Sent you?” asked Diana. “What an odd mistake, to be sure! Don’t you see it is for the most beautiful? I will thank you to hand me what is so clearly intended for Me.”

“You seem to forget I am present!” said Vesta, making a snatch at the apple.

“Not at all!” said Ceres; “only I happen to be here, too. And who doubts that where I am there is the most beautiful?”

“Except where I am,” said Proserpine.

“What folly is all this!” said Minerva, the wise. “Wisdom is the only true beauty; and everybody knows that I am the wisest of you all.”

“But it’s for the most beautiful!” said Venus. “The idea of its being for anybody but Me!”

Then every nymph and goddess present, and even every woman, put in her claim, until from claiming and disputing it grew to arguing and wrangling and downright quarreling: insults flew about, until the merriment grew into an angry din, the like of which had never been heard. But as it became clear that it was impossible for everybody to be the most beautiful, the claimants gradually settled down into three parties—some taking the side of Venus, others of Juno, others of Minerva.

“We shall never settle it among ourselves,” said one, when all were fairly out of breath with quarreling. “Let the gods decide.”

For the gods had been silent all the while; and now they looked at one another in dismay at such an appeal. Jupiter, in his heart, thought Venus the most beautiful; but how could he dare decide against either his wife Juno or his daughter Minerva? Neptune hated Minerva on account of their old quarrel; but it was awkward to choose between his daughter Venus and his sister Juno, of whose temper he, as well as Jupiter, stood in awe. Mars was ready enough to vote for Venus; but then he was afraid of a scandal. And so with all the gods—not one was bold enough to decide on such a terrible question as the beauty of three rival goddesses who were ready to tear out each other’s eyes. For Juno was looking like a thunder-cloud, and Minerva like lightning, and Venus like a smiling but treacherous sea.

“I have it,” said Jupiter at last. “Men are better judges of beauty than the gods are, who never see anything but its perfection. King Priam of Troy has a son named Paris, whose judgment as a critic I would take even before my own. I propose that you, Juno, and you, Minerva, and you, Venus, shall go together before Paris and submit yourselves to his decision, whatever it may be.”

And so it was settled, for each of the three goddesses was equally sure that, whoever the judge might be, the golden apple was safe to be hers. The quarrel came to an end, and the feast ended pleasantly; but Ate, who had been watching and listening, laughed in her sleeve.

Troy, where King Priam reigned, was a great and ancient city on the shore of Asia: it was a sacred city, whose walls had been built by Neptune, and it possessed the Palladium, the image of Minerva, which kept it from all harm. Priam—who had been the friend of Hercules—and his wife Hecuba had many sons and daughters, all brave and noble princes and beautiful princesses; and of his sons, while the bravest and noblest was his first-born, Hector, the handsomest and most amiable was Paris, whom Jupiter had appointed to be the judge of beauty.

Paris, unlike his brothers, cared nothing for affairs of State, but lived as a shepherd upon Mount Ida with his wife Œnone, a nymph of that mountain, in perfect happiness and peace, loved and honored by the whole country round, which had given him the name of “Alexander,” which means “The Helper.” One would think that if anybody was safe from the mischief of Ate, it was he.

But one day, while he was watching his flocks and thinking of Œnone, there came to him what he took for three beautiful women—the most beautiful he had ever seen. Yet something told him they were more than mere women, or even than Oreads, before the tallest said—

“There is debate in Olympus which is the most beautiful of us three, and Jupiter has appointed you to be the judge between us. I am Juno, the queen of gods and men, and if you decide for me, I will make you king of the whole world.”

“And I,” said the second, “am Minerva, and you shall know everything in the whole universe if you decide for me.”

“But I,” said the third, “am Venus, who can give neither wisdom nor power; but if you decide for me, I will give you the love of the most beautiful woman that ever was or ever will be born.”

Paris looked from one to the other, wondering to which he should award the golden apple, the prize of beauty. He did not care for power: he would be quite content to rule his sheep, and even that was not always easy. Nor did he care for wisdom or knowledge: he had enough for all his needs. Nor ought he to have desired any love but Œnone’s. But then Venus was really the most beautiful of all the goddesses—the very goddess of beauty; no mortal could refuse anything she asked him, so great was her charm. So he took the apple and placed it in the hands of Venus without a word, while Juno and Minerva departed in a state of wrath with Paris, Venus, and each other, which made Ate laugh to herself more than ever.

Now the most beautiful woman in the whole world was Helen, step-daughter of King Tyndarus of Sparta, and sister of Castor and Pollux: neither before her nor after her has there been any to compare with her for beauty. Thirty-one of the noblest princes in Greece came to her father’s Court at the same time to seek her in marriage, so that Tyndarus knew not what to do, seeing that, whomsoever he chose for his son-in-law, he would make thirty powerful enemies. The most famous among them were Ulysses, King of the Island of Ithaca; Diomed, King of Ætolia; Ajax, King of Salamis, the bravest and strongest man in Greece; his brother Teucer; Philoctetes, the friend of Hercules; and Menelaus, King of Sparta. At last, as there was no other way of deciding among them, an entirely new idea occurred to Ulysses—namely, that Helen should be allowed to choose her own husband herself, and that, before she chose, all the rival suitors should make a great and solemn oath to approve her choice, and to defend her and her husband against all enemies thenceforth and forever. This oath they all took loyally and with one accord, and Helen chose Menelaus, King of Sparta, who married her with great rejoicing, and took her away to his kingdom.

And all would have gone well but for that wretched apple. For Venus was faithful to her promise that the most beautiful of all women should be the wife of Paris: and so Menelaus, returning from a journey, found that a Trojan prince had visited his Court during his absence, and had gone away, taking Helen with him to Troy. This Trojan prince was Paris, who, seeing Helen, had forgotten Œnone, and could think of nothing but her whom Venus had given him.

Then, through all Greece and all the islands, went forth the summons of King Menelaus, reminding the thirty princes of their great oath: and each and all of them, and many more, came to the gathering-place with all their ships and all their men, to help Menelaus and to bring back Helen. Such a host as gathered together at Aulis had never been seen since the world began; there were nearly twelve hundred ships and more than a hundred thousand men: it was the first time that all the Greeks joined together in one cause. There, besides those who had come for their oath’s sake, were Nestor, the old King of Pylos—so old that he remembered Jason and the Golden Fleece, but, at ninety years old, as ready for battle as the youngest there; and Achilles, the son of Peleus and Thetis, scarcely more than a boy, but fated to outdo the deeds of the bravest of them all. The kings and princes elected Agamemnon, King of Mycenæ and Argos, and brother of Menelaus, to be their general-in-chief; and he forthwith sent a herald to Troy to demand the surrender of Helen.

But King Priam was indignant that these chiefs of petty kingdoms should dare to threaten the sacred city of Troy: and he replied to the demand by a scornful challenge, and by sending out his summons also to his friends and allies. And it was as well answered as that of Menelaus had been. There came to his standard Rhesus, with a great army from Thrace; and Sarpedon, the greatest king in all Asia; and Memnon, king of Æthiopia, with twenty thousand men—the hundred thousand Greeks were not so many as the army of Priam. Then Agamemnon gave the order to sail for Troy: and Ate laughed aloud, for her apple had brought upon mankind the First Great War.

And now I seem to be waking from a dream which is fading away. The gods are becoming shadows, vanishing farther and farther away from man. I could tell you, if I would, the story of how Troy was taken and burned after ten years of fighting, and how Priam and his sons were slain; of the wonderful adventures of Ulysses by sea and land before he returned home; of the deeds of Achilles and Hector; of how the few Trojans who escaped the slaughter followed Prince Æneas into Italy, where he made a kingdom, and was the forefather of Romulus, who built the city of Rome; which brings us from Mythology—the stories of gods and heroes—into History—the stories of men. All these things came from Ate’s apple: yes, even the history of Rome, and of England, and of all the world.

You will read in the great poems of Homer the story of the siege of Troy and the wanderings of Ulysses; and in the “Æneid” of Virgil—to my mind the very greatest of all poems—the whole story of Æneas. But my stories end where the great poets begin theirs. I seem, as I have said, to have been dreaming a long dream: and before I quite wake I see the gods growing fainter and fainter, year by year and century by century, while men and women believed in them less and less, until—when they were well-nigh forgotten, or thought of only as poets’ fables—there came a great loud cry which made the whole world sigh and tremble:—

“Pan is Dead!”

men heard all Nature cry; and they knew it to mean that the last of the gods was no more; that a new time had come for the world. And that same night a star rose into sight at Bethlehem, and stood over the manger where a young Child lay.

And yet, gone and lost though the gods be, you will be very blind indeed if you never catch a glimpse of a Dryad in the woods or of an Oread on the hill; if you never think of Hercules when things seem against you and hard to understand; if you do not see in Perseus the true knight that a true man should strive to be. What more shall I say before I lay down my pen? Only that these stories are not nonsense—no, not one of them; that the more one thinks of them the wiser he is; and that I love them so much, and think so much of what made me begin them, that I cannot believe that I have come to the end.

PRONOUNCING VOCABULARY OF PROPER NAMES.

KEY TO DIACRITICAL MARKS

ā as in fāte

à as in senàte

ă as in făt

ä as in ärm

a̤ as in a̤ll

ȧ as in ȧsk

ē as in mēte

è as in èvent

ĕ as in mĕt

ẽ as in hẽr

ī as in īce

ì as in ìdea

ĭ as in ĭt

ĩ as in sĩr

ō as in ōld

ò as in òbey

ŏ as in nŏt

ô as in nôr

ū as in ūse

ù as in ùnite

ŭ as in ŭp

ụ as in pụll

y = i

c as in call

ç as in çity

ꞓ as in sꞓhool

g as in go

ġ as in caġe

ṉ as in iṉk

ph as in phantom

æ and œ = e

eu = ū

s̝ as in his̝

All other unmarked consonants have their usual English sounds. Silent letters are italicized.

Vowels when obscured and turned toward the neutral sound are marked thus, a̯, e̯, etc.

In the terminations as, on, and some others, words familiar in English have the vowels marked obscure; less familiar words have the vowels marked short: Ænea̯s, Amyclăs; Jaso̯n, Typhŏn, etc.

The termination eus from Greek nouns of the third declension in ευς is treated as one syllable, though its resolution into two syllables is admissible on good authority: Brī´a̯rēūs or Brìā´rè ŭs, Or´phēūs or Or´phè ŭs, etc.

Ăb sỹr´tŭs

Ă ꞓh´è rŏn

Ȧ ꞓhĭl´lēs̝

Ȧ crĭs´ĭ ŭs

Ăc tǣ´ŏn

Ăd mē´tŭs

Ȧ dō´nĭs

Ǣ´a̯

Ǣ´a̯ cŭs

Æ̀ ē´tēs̝

Æ̀ ġē´a̯n

Æ̀ ġē´ŭs

Æ̀ nē´a̯s

Æ̀ nē´ĭd

Æ̆s cù lā´pĭ ŭs

Ǣ´so̯n

Ǣ thĭ ō´pĭ a̯

Ǣ´thra̯

Æ̆t´na̯

Æ̀ tō´lĭ a̯

Ăf´rĭ ca̯

Ăg a̯ mĕm´no̯n

Ā´jăx

Ăl çǣ´ŭs

Ăl çĕs´tĭs

Ălc mē´na̯

Ăl çȳ´ò nè

Ăl phē´ŭs

Ăl thǣ´a̯

Ȧ mā´sĭs

Ăm´mo̯n

Ăm phī´o̯n

Ăm phĭ trī´tè

Ăm phĭt´ry̆ ŏn

Ăm´y̆ clăs

Ăn drŏm´è da̯

Ȧ nĕm´ò nè

Ăn tǣ´ŭs

Ăph rò dī´tè

Ȧ pŏl´lò

Ȧ răꞓh´nè

Är cā´dĭ a̯

Är´gò

Är´gò lĭs

Är´gò na̤uts

Är´gŏs

À rĭ ăd´nè

Ăs cū´la̯ phŭs

Ā´sĭ a̯
(sh)

Ăs tĕr´ò pè

Ăt a̯ lăn´ta̯

Ā´tè

Ăth´a̯ măs

Ȧ thē´næ̀

Ȧ thē´nè

Ăt´la̯s

Ăt´tĭ ca̯

A̤u´ġè ăs

A̤u´lĭs

A̤u rō´ra̯

A̤u tŏl´y̆ cŭs

Băc ꞓhŭs

Ba̤u´bò

Brī´a̯ reus

Bù sī´rĭs

Cā´cŭs

Căd´mŭs

cȧ dū cè ŭs
(sh)

Căl lī´ò pè

Căl´y̆ dŏn

Căp pa̯ dō´cĭ a̯
(sh)

Căs tā´lĭ a̯

Căs´to̯r

Ca̤u cā´sia̯n
(sh)

Ca̤u´ca̯ sŭs

Cà y̆s´tẽr

Çè lǣ´nò

Çē´pheus

Çẽr´bè rŭs

Çẽr´çy̆ ŏn

Çē´rēs̝

çĕs´tŭs

Çē´y̆x

Ꞓhā´rŏn

Ꞓhȧ ry̆b´dĭs

Ꞓhè lō´nè

Ꞓhī´a̯n

Ꞓhī´ŏs

Ꞓhī´rŏn

Ꞓhrỳ sā´ôr

Çì thǣ´rŏn

Cly̆m´è nè

Clȳ´tiè or Cly̆t´ĭ è

Cò cȳ´tŭs

Çœ̄´lŭm

Çœ̄´lŭs

Çŏl´ꞓhĭs

Cŏr´ĭnth

Crē´ŏn

Crēte

Crē´theus

Crè ū´sa̯

Cū´pĭd

Çȳ´a̯ nè

Çȳ clō´pēs̝

Çȳ´clŏps

Çy̆n´thĭ a̯

Çy̆n´thĭ ŭs

Çy̆n´thŭs

Çy̆p a̯ rĭs´sŭs

Çȳ´prŭs

Dæ̆d´a̯ lŭs

Dăn´a̯ è

Dȧ nā´ĭ dēs̝

Dăn´a̯ ŭs

Dăph´nè

Där da̯ nĕlles̝

Dē ia̯ nī´ra̯
(y)

Dē´lŏs

Dĕl´phī

Dè mē´tẽr

Deu cā´lĭ o̯n

Dì ā´na̯ or Dì ăn´a̯

Dĭc´ty̆s

Dī´ò mĕd

Dī ò mē´dēs̝

Ĕꞓh´ò

Ē´gy̆pt

È lĕc´tra̯

È lĕc´try̆ ŏn

Ē´lĭs

È ly̆s̝´ĭ a̯n

È ly̆s̝´ĭ ŭm

Ĕn dy̆m´ĭ o̯n

Ĕn´na̯

Ĕp´a̯ phŭs

Ĕp ĭ mē´theus

Ẽr ġī´nŭs

È rĭn´y̆ ēs̝

Ĕr y̆ măn´thŭs

Eu mĕn´ĭ dēs̝

Eu mŏl´pŭs

Eu´ro̯pe

Eu ry̆d´ĭ çè

Eu ry̆s´theus

Eu´ry̆ tŭs

Eux´ĭne

È vē´nŭs

Gā´dēs̝

Găn´y̆ mēde

Gĕr´y̆ ŏn

Gĭ bra̤l´ta̯r

Gôr´go̯n

Grā´ia̯
(y)

Grā´iæ̀
(y)

Hā´dēs̝

Här´py̆

Hē´bè

Hĕc´à tè or Hĕc´àte

Hĕc´to̯r

Hĕc´ù ba̯

Hĕl´ĕn

Hĕl´ĭ co̯n

Hĕl´lè

Hĕl´lĕs pŏnt

Hẽr´cù lēs̝

Hĕs pĕr´ĭ dēs̝

Hĭp´pò crēne

Hĭp pŏl´y̆ta̯

Hō´mẽr

Hȳ a̯ çĭn´thŭs

Hȳ´dra̯

Hy̆r´ĭ eus

Ĭc´a̯ rŭs

Ī´da̯

Ī´nò

Ī´ò la̯s

Ìŏl´cŏs

Ī´ò lè

Ĭph´ĭ clēs̝

Ī´rĭs

Ĭt´a̯ ly̆

Ĭth´a̯ ca̯

Ĭx ī´o̯n

Jā´so̯n

Jū´nò

Jū´pĭ tẽr

Lăb´y̆ rĭnth

Lăç è dǣ´mo̯n

Lȧ rĭs´sa̯

Lăt´mŏs

Lȧ tō´na̯

Lĕm nŏs

Lĕm´ù rēs̝

Lẽr´na̯

Lē´thè

Leu cŏth´ò è

Lĭb´y̆ a̯

Lī´ꞓhăs

Lī´nŭs

Lū´na̯

Ly̆d´ĭ a̯

Mā´ia̯
(y)

Măr´a̯ tho̯n

Mär´mò ra̯

Märs̝

Mär´sy̆ ăs

Ma̤u rĭ tā´nĭ a̯

Mè dē´a̯

Mĕd ĭ tĕr rā´nè a̯n

Mē´dŭs

Mè dū´sa̯

Mĕl ē´a̯ ġẽr

Mĕl ĭ bœ̄´a̯

Mĕm´nŏn

Mĕn è lā´ŭs

Mẽr´cù ry̆

Mĕr´ò pè

Mī´dăs

Mĭn ẽr´va̯

Mī´nŏs

Mĭn´ò ta̤ur

Mò rŏc´cò

Mỳ çē´næ̀

När çĭs´sŭs

Năx´ŏs

Nē´mè a̯

Nĕm´è sĭs

Nĕph´è lè

Nĕp´tūne

Nē´rè ĭd

Nē´reus

Nĕs´sŭs

Nì çĭp´pè

Ni´ò bè

Ò çè ăn´ĭ dēs̝

Ò çē´a̯ nŭs

Œ̅´neus

Œ̆n´ò è

Œ̀ nō´nè

Œ̀ nō´pĭ ŏn

Œ̅´ta̯

Ò ly̆m´pŭs

Ŏm´pha̯ lè

Ôr´ꞓha̯ mŭs

Ò rī´o̯n

Ôr´pheus

Ŏv´ĭd

Păc tō´lŭs

Păl lā´dĭ ŭm

Păn

Păn dō´ra̯

Păr´ĭs

Pär năs´sŭs

Pē´leus

Pē´lĭ ăs

Pẽr´gŭs

Pẽr´seus

pĕt´ a̯ sŭs

Phā´è tho̯n

Phē´ræ̀

Phē´rēs̝

Phĭl ŏc tē´tēs̝

Phī´neus

Phlĕġ´è thŏn

Phœ̄´bè

Phœ̄´bŭs

Phō´lŭs

Phry̆ġ´ĭa̯

Phry̆x´ŭs

Plà tǣ´a̯

Plē´ia̯ dēs̝
(y)

Plū´tò

Pō

Pŏl´lŭx

Pò ly̆c´rȧ tēs̝

Pŏl y̆ dĕc´tēs̝

Prī´a̯m

Prò crŭs´tēs̝

Prò mē´theus

Prŏs´er pĭne

Prō´teus

Psȳ´ꞓhè

Pȳ´lŏs

Py̆r´è nēēs

Py̆r´rha̯

Pȳ´thŏn

Rhăd a̯ măn´thŭs

Rhē´a̯

Rhē´sŭs

Rŏm´ù lŭs

Sā´bra̯

Sa̯ hä´ra̯

Săl´a̯ mĭs

Sā´mŏs

Sär pē´do̯n

Săt´ŭrn

Scī´rŏn

Scy̆l´la̯

Scȳ´rŏs

Sè rī´phŭs

Sì lē´nŭs

Sī´rĕn

Sĭs´y̆ phŭs

Spāin

Spär´ta̯

Sthĕn´è lŭs

Sty̆m phā´lŭs

Sty̆x

Sȳ´rĭnx

Tæ̆n´a̯ rŭs

tȧ lā´rĭ a̯

Tăn´ta̯ lŭs

Tär´ta̯ rŭs

Tày̆ġ´è ta̯

Tĕr´ra̯

Tē´thy̆s

Teu´çẽr

Thēbes̝

Thē´mĭs

Thĕs´pĭ ŭs

Thĕs´sa̯ ly̆

Thē´tĭs

Tī´phy̆s

Tī´ta̯n

Tĭ thō´nŭs

Tĭt´y̆ ŭs

Tra̯ ꞓhĭn´ĭ a̯

Trœ̀ zē´nè

Ty̆n´da̯ rŭs

Tȳ´phŏn

Ù ly̆s´sēs̝

Vē´nŭs

Vĕs´ta̯

Vir´gĭl

Vŭl´ca̯n

Zĕph´y̆ rŭs

Zō´dĭ ăc

ANNOUNCEMENTS

CLASSICS FOR CHILDREN

THIS series of books consists so far as possible of complete works from the great masters, specially edited to meet the wants of young people in the school and in the home.

Æsop’s Fables

Andersen’s Fairy Tales, Part 1

Andersen’s Fairy Tales, Part 2

Arabian Nights

Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress

Burt’s Stories from Plato

Cervantes’s Don Quixote

Chamisso’s Peter Schlemihl

Chesterfield’s Letters

Church’s Stories of the Old World

Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe

Dickens’s Tale of Two Cities

Epictetus

Fiske-Irving’s Washington

Fouqué’s Undine

Francillon’s Gods and Heroes

Franklin: His Life by Himself

Goldsmith’s Vicar of Wakefield

Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Part I

Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Part II

Grote and Ségur’s Two Great Retreats

Hughes’s Tom Brown at Rugby

Hugo’s Jean Valjean

Irving’s Alhambra

Irving’s Sketch-Book (Six Selections)

Jefferies’s Sir Bevis

Johnson’s Rasselas

Kingsley’s Greek Heroes

Kingsley’s Water-Babies

Lamb’s Adventures of Ulysses

Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare

Litchfield’s Nine Worlds

Marcus Aurelius

Martineau’s Peasant and the Prince

Montgomery’s Heroic Ballads

Plutarch’s Lives

Ramée’s Bimbi

Ruskin, Selections from

Ruskin’s King of the Golden River

Saintine’s Picciola

Scott’s Guy Mannering

Ivanhoe

Lady of the Lake

Lay of the Last Minstrel

Marmion

Old Mortality

Quentin Durward

Rob Roy

Tales of a Grandfather

Talisman

Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice

Southey’s Life of Nelson

Spyri’s Heidi

Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels

White’s Selborne

Williams and Foster’s Selections for Memorizing

Wyss’s Swiss Family Robinson

GINN & COMPANY Publishers

STORIES OF THE
ANCIENT GREEKS

By CHARLES D. SHAW

Illustrated by George A. Harker. 12mo. Cloth. 264 pages.
List price, 60 cents; mailing price, 70 cents

THIS collection of stories of the ancient Greeks is intended for supplementary reading, and may be used profitably as early as the third year. It includes many of the charming tales of the Greek mythology retold in a manner suitable for young people. The second part of the volume deals more particularly with Greek history. The familiar stories are given in chronological order. Sufficient attention is everywhere paid to the matter of guarding the reader against too implicit belief in tales which have been partially discredited by modern research. Yet it has been thought wise to keep in currency narratives which have so long added to the pleasure of the world, though they cannot be defended as actual history.

The style is simple, picturesque, and vivacious. The twenty-five full-page illustrations, from original decorative pen drawings by George A. Harker, are unusually attractive and help to explain the text. The special cream-tinted paper, the attractive binding, and artistic arrangement of type and illustrations give a pleasing and appropriate setting to the text.

GINN & COMPANY Publishers

Transcriber’s Note

Variations in spelling are preserved as printed.

Minor punctuation errors have been fixed.

Hyphenation has been made consistent.

The author sometimes employed a writing style where a word is dropped from a phrase—for example, “Who gave it you?” rather than “Who gave it to you?”, or “though ignorant who she was” rather than “though ignorant of who she was.” All such instances are preserved as printed.