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 na̤_u_ts
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
A̤_u_´ġè ăs
A̤_u_´lĭs
A̤_u_ rō´ra̯
A̤_u_ tŏl´y̆ cŭs
Băc ꞓhŭs
Ba̤_u_´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
Ca̤_u_ cā´sia̯n
(sh)
Ca̤_u_´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´t_i_è _or_ Cly̆t´ĭ è
Cò cȳ´tŭs
Çœ̄´lŭm
Çœ̄´lŭs
Çŏl´ꞓhĭs
Cŏr´ĭnth
Crē´ŏn
Crēt_e_
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 nĕl_le_s̝
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´ro̯p_e_
Eu ry̆d´ĭ çè
Eu ry̆s´theus
Eu´ry̆ tŭs
Eux´ĭn_e_
È vē´nŭs
Gā´dēs̝
Găn´y̆ mēd_e_
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 crēn_e_
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
Ma̤_u_ 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 ta̤_u_r
Mò rŏc´cò
Mỳ çē´næ̀
När çĭs´sŭs
Năx´ŏs
Nē´mè a̯
Nĕm´è sĭs
Nĕph´è lè
Nĕp´tūn_e_
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 pĭn_e_
Prō´teus
_P_sȳ´ꞓhè
Pȳ´lŏs
Py̆r´è nēēs
Py̆r´r_h_a̯
Pȳ´thŏn
R_h_ăd a̯ măn´thŭs
R_h_ē´a̯
R_h_ē´sŭs
Rŏm´ù lŭs
Sā´bra̯
Sa̯ hä´ra̯
Săl´a̯ mĭs
Sā´mŏs
Sär pē´do̯n
Săt´ŭrn
S_c_ī´rŏn
S_c_y̆l´la̯
S_c_ȳ´rŏs
Sè rī´phŭs
Sì lē´nŭs
Sī´rĕn
Sĭs´y̆ phŭs
Spā_i_n
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
Thēb_e_s̝
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.