We drive--or, at least, till lately we drove--in
Phaetons. Not only schoolboys swear by Jove or by Jupiter. The silvery
substance in our thermometers and barometers is named Mercury.
Blacksmiths are accustomed to being referred to as "sons of Vulcan,"
and beautiful youths to being called "young Adonises." We accept the
names of newspapers and debating societies as being the "Argus,"
without perhaps quite realising who was Argus, the many-eyed. We talk
of "a panic," and forget that the great god Pan is father of the word.
Even in our religious services we go back to heathenism. Not only are
the crockets on our cathedral spires and church pews remnants of
fire-worship, but one of our own most beautiful Christian blessings is
probably of Assyrian origin. "The Lord bless thee and keep thee....
The Lord make His face to shine upon thee.... The Lord lift up the
light of His countenance upon thee...." So did the priests of the
sun-gods invoke blessings upon those who worshipped.

We make many discoveries as we study the myths of the North and of the
South. In the story of Baldur we find that the goddess Hel ultimately
gave her name to the place of punishment precious to the Calvinistic
mind. And because the Norseman very much disliked the bitter, cruel
cold of the long winter, his heaven was a warm, well-fired abode, and
his place of punishment one of terrible frigidity. Somewhere on the
other side of the Tweed and Cheviots was the spot selected by the Celt
of southern Britain. On the other hand, the eastern mind, which knew
the terrors of a sun-smitten land and of a heat that was torture, had
for a hell a fiery place of constantly burning flames.

In the space permitted, it has not been possible to deal with more
than a small number of myths, and the well-known stories of Herakles,
of Theseus, and of the Argonauts have been purposely omitted. These
have been so perfectly told by great writers that to retell them would
seem absurd. The same applies to the Odyssey and the Iliad, the
translations of which probably take rank amongst the finest
translations in any language.

The writer will feel that her object has been gained should any
readers of these stories feel that for a little while they have left
the toilful utilitarianism of the present day behind them, and, with
it, its hampering restrictions of sordid actualities that are so
murderous to imagination and to all romance.

"Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan s