Phaeton was the son of Apollo and the nymph Clymene.  One day a schoolfellow laughed at the idea of his being the son of the god, and Phaeton went in rage and shame and reported it to his mother.  “If,” said he, “I am indeed of heavenly birth, give me, mother, some proof of it, and establish my claim to the honor.”  Clymene stretched forth her hands towards the skies, and said, “I call to witness the Sun which looks down upon us, that I have told you the truth.  If I speak falsely, let this be the last time I behold his light.  But it needs not much labor to go and inquire for yourself; the land whence the Sun rises lies next to ours.  Go and demand of him whether he will own you as a son.”  Phaeton heard with delight.  He travelled to India, which lies directly in the regions of sunrise; and, full of hope and pride, approached the goal whence his parent begins his course.

The palace of the Sun stood reared aloft on columns, glittering with gold and precious stones, while polished ivory formed the ceilings, and silver the doors.  The workmanship surpassed the material; [Footnote:  See Proverbial Expressions.] for upon the walls Vulcan had represented earth, sea, and skies, with their inhabitants.  In the sea were the nymphs, some sporting in the waves, some riding on the backs of fishes, while others sat upon the rocks and dried their sea-green hair.  Their faces were not all alike, nor yet unlike,—­but such as sisters’ ought to be. [Footnote:  See Proverbial Expressions.] The earth had its towns and forests and rivers and rustic divinities.  Over all was carved the likeness of the glorious heaven; and on the silver doors the twelve signs of the zodiac, six on each side.

Clymene’s son advanced up the steep ascent, and entered the halls of his disputed father.  He approached the paternal presence, but stopped at a distance, for the light was more than he could bear.  Phoebus, arrayed in a purple vesture, sat on a throne, which glittered as with diamonds.  On his right hand and his left stood the Day, the Month, and the Year, and, at regular intervals, the Hours.  Spring stood with her head crowned with flowers, and Summer, with garment cast aside, and a garland formed of spears of ripened grain, and Autumn, with his feet stained with grape-juice, and icy Winter, with his hair stiffened with hoar frost.  Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun, with the eye that sees everything, beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty and splendor of the scene, and inquired the purpose of his errand.  The youth replied, “O light of the boundless world, Phoebus, my father,—­if you permit me to use that name,—­give me some proof, I beseech you, by which I may be known as yours.”  He ceased; and his father, laying aside the beams that shone all around his head, bade him approach, and embracing him, said, “My son, you deserve not to be disowned, and I confirm what your mother has told you.  To put an end to your doubts, ask what you will, the gift shall be yours.  I call