Now you must know that the Styx was a river in Hades by which the gods swore; and that an oath “by Styx” was as binding upon a god as a plain promise is upon a gentleman.
“I swear it—by Styx!” said Apollo, rather rashly, as you will see. But he was now in a very great hurry indeed.
“Then,” said Phaëthon, “let me drive the horses of the Sun for one whole day!”
This put Apollo in terrible alarm, for he knew very well that no hand, not even a god’s, can drive the horses of the Sun but his own. But he had sworn by Styx—the oath that cannot be broken. All he could do was to keep the world waiting for sunrise while he showed Phaëthon how to hold the reins and the whip, and pointed out what course to take, and warned him of the dangers of the road. “But it’s all of no use. You’ll never do it,” said he. “Give it up, while there is yet time! You know not what you do.”
“Oh, but I do, though,” said Phaëthon. “I know I can. There—I understand it all now, without another word.” So saying, he sprang into the chariot, seized the reins, and gave the four fiery horses four lashes that sent them flying like comets through the air.
“Hold them in—hold them hard!” cried Apollo. But Phaëthon was off, and too far off to hear.
Off indeed! and where? The world must have been amazed that day to see the sun rise like a rocket and go dashing about the sky, north, south, east, west—anywhere, nowhere, everywhere! Well the horses knew that it was not Apollo, their master, who plied the whip and held the reins. They took their bits between their teeth, and—bolted. They kicked a planet to bits (astronomers know where the pieces are still): they broke holes in the chariot, which we can see, and call “sun-spots,” to this day: it was as if chaos were come again. At last, Phaëthon, whose own head was reeling, saw to his horror that the horses, in their mad rush, were getting nearer and nearer to the earth itself—and what would happen then? If the wheels touched the globe we live on, it would be scorched to a cinder. Nearer, nearer, nearer it came—till a last wild kick broke the traces, overturned the sun itself, and Phaëthon fell, and fell, and fell, till he fell into the sea, and was drowned. And then the horses trotted quietly home.
The story of Phaëthon is always taken as a warning against being conceited and self-willed. But there are some curious things about it still to be told. The Greeks fancied that the great desert of Sahara, in Africa, is the place where the earth was scorched by the sun’s chariot-wheel, and that the African negroes were burned black in the same way, and have never got white again. And the poplars are Phaëthon’s sisters, who wept themselves for his death into trees.
DIANA; AND THE STORY OF ORION.
YOU know that the fixed stars are divided into groups, called constellations. A name has been given to every constellation; and each is supposed to be like the shape of some creature or thing—such as the Great Bear, the Swan, the Cup, the Eagle, the Dragon, and so on. Most of their names were given by the Greeks, who fancied they could see in them the shapes after which they were named. We have kept the old names, and still paint the supposed figure of each constellation on the celestial globe, which is the image or map of the sky.