Phaëthon approached the palace, but for a spell remained in the hall at a distance, for the brilliancy which emanated from the sparkling crown of his progenitor blinded him. Apollo, with a purple robe flowing from his shoulders, sat upon a golden throne gleaming with jewels. To the right and left of him stood the year, the month, the day, and the hours. Golden-tressed Spring was adorned with a wreath, and Summer, with sheaves of corn. Autumn carried a red basket with golden grape clusters on her head, and Winter could be recognized by his icy beard and silver hair. Apollo, delighted with the sight of his blooming son, said: “What is it, Phaëthon, that has brought you here?” “Divine father,” replied the son, “they mock at me when I call you father. Give me some proof that I am your son.” Thereupon Apollo took his sparkling crown from his brow, called his son to him, and embracing him said: “What your mother has told you is true. I am Apollo, your father. That you may know it beyond all question, ask anything of me. Whatever it may be, it shall be granted. I promise you this by the Stygian Lake, the dark waters of the underworld; and such a vow, as you well know, is inviolate for us deities.” Hardly had his father finished speaking before Phaëthon, with sparkling eyes, replied: “I pray you let me drive your sun-chariot and winged steeds for one day.” How Apollo regretted his vow! With mournful visage he shook his head and spoke. “Woe is me that I must keep my promise. Had I not made it, your wish would not have been granted. But now I can do no more than warn you. The fulfilment of your wish will result in dreadful dangers. What you desire is so great a task that your youth and strength are not equal to it. You, a mortal, wish to be immortal. None of the Olympian gods themselves would undertake such a task. It is known to them as to mortals that I alone can drive the sun-chariot. Zeus himself, mightiest of the gods, who holds the thunderbolts in his hand and rules over heaven and earth, would not dare to drive it. Learn now the dangers which threaten you. Only with the greatest exertion can the freshly harnessed steeds climb the upward morning-path. It is a fearful sight to gaze down from the summit of the sun-course. My own heart trembles when I reach that spot. Then the path descends, growing more and more steep. To accomplish it needs a sure hand. Thetis herself, who awaits me in the waves, looks up anxiously, fearing I may not be able to make the downward plunge. And this is not all you must learn. The heavens revolve around you constantly, and the high stars weave in circles. The goal must be firmly kept in sight in spite of the furious oscillation and you must not deviate from the course. Oh son, ask yourself seriously if you can do this. Think of this, too. Far otherwise will the sky appear to you than it does from the earth. You will not journey to cities nor to groves with lofty temples, but you will encounter apparitions of wild