This edited article about Theseus originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 700 published on 14 June 1975.

Theseus slays the Minotaur by Lancelot Speed

Theseus, the son of Aegeus, the King of Athens, was one of the greatest of the many heroes in the legends of ancient Greece.

Theseus was born and grew up in a place called Troezene, and it was not until he had grown up that he set out on the long journey to his father’s palace in Athens.

When he arrived there, he found to his horror that his father had married an evil temptress named Medea. She tried to have Theseus poisoned as soon as he arrived, but fortunately Aegeus arrived on the scene in time to stop the murder.

It is as the conqueror of the Minotaur, however, that Theseus is famous in legend. The Minotaur, a terrible monster, half-man, half-bull, was the child of Pasiphae, wife of Minos, King of Crete. In order to hide the monster from his eyes, Minos shut it up in a maze called the Labyrinth. Every year he forced Aegeus, father of Theseus, to send him seven boys and seven girls to shut up in the Labyrinth with the monster. Every year their fate was the same: they were either killed and eaten by the Minotaur or they starved to death.

On hearing of this terrible ordeal, and resolving to kill the monster, Theseus set sail for Crete with the next 14 victims. The ship on which he sailed had black sails and Theseus promised his father that if he were successful he would hoist the white ones instead when they returned.

When the ship arrived at Crete, Minos’s daughter, Ariadne, saw Theseus and immediately fell in love with him. She gave him a long thread to unroll as he went to and fro in the Labyrinth in search of the monster. He was thus able to guide himself back out of the maze again after he had killed the monster.

On the way home to Athens Theseus forgot to change the sails on his ship. Aegeus, thinking his son dead, threw himself into the sea. That sea has been called the Aegean ever since.

After his father’s death, Theseus became King of Athens and married Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons.

For trying to capture the wife of Pluto, god of the underworld, Theseus was imprisoned. Though he was later rescued by Hercules, the Athenians refused to have him as their king again after being away for so long, and Theseus went to Scyros, where he later died.

This edited article about Randolph Hearst originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 700 published on 14 June 1975.

THE CLEANSING OF NEW YORK. The long arm of the law holds Joseph Pulitzer and Randolph Hearst by their collars above the skyline of New York, by Louis Dalrymple

The Hollywood guests assembled in the great hall. Gaudy Spanish banners hung 22 feet above them from a ceiling that once graced a palace in Brescia. Suits of armour stood in grim parade around the oak walls. A long table edged with medieval chairs beckoned with sparkling, cut glass and glinting candelabra.

The amiable chatter ceased. In the expectant hush on the stroke of 7.30 p.m., their host appeared, stepping through a panel set in a 16th century choir stall. A big, dominating man with hard features exuding the power that only millions can provide: William Randolph Hearst, newspaper tycoon, master of the sensational smear campaign, the Press king who revolutionised journalism with blaring banner headlines in black, red and even emerald green ink, the “Lord of San Simeon” – the fortified Spanish-style castle that he had carved out of solid rock, 200 miles from Los Angeles.

It was there that Hearst loved to entertain Hollywood stars, directors and producers on a scale that a Roman Emperor would have envied. They could hunt buffalo on its 240,000 acres, in area bigger than Bedfordshire, fish, send falcons after their prey or swim in the castle pool inlaid with gold. They arrived either by air, touching down on San Simeon’s airstrip, or by train over Hearst’s private railway.

He imposed only two rules on his visitors: they had to gather in the 100-foot long great hall for his staged entry every night and the word “death” must never be uttered in his presence.

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This edited article about Nottinghamshire originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 699 published on 7 June 1975.

Robin Hood by James E McConnell

From Sherwood Forest in Nottinghamshire has come one of the most stirring and romantic legends in English history – the tale of bold Robin Hood who, with his band of Merry Men, roamed the greenwood in the Middle Ages.

But did Robin ever exist? The answer, unhappily, is probably not. The jolly outlaw who made the county, its castle and vast forests famous, may be just a legend.

Ballads and poems have celebrated his daring exploits down the ages. But there are no historical records to prove he lived.

He may have been the Earl of Huntingdon, unjustly banished by bad King John, and Maid Marian may have been Count Fitzwalter’s daughter who followed him to the greenwood.

He could have been another form of the superstition of Robin Goodfellow, a kindly, woodland spirit who was supposed to haunt the forests of England.

Or he may have been just a common outlaw. There were plenty of yeomen in forests like Sherwood, forced to live as robbers after banishment. Heavy punishments were often imposed upon ordinary men for very petty crimes.

Fact or legend, Robin has always represented the yeoman’s love of freedom and hatred of tyranny. And he has made Sherwood Forest immortal.

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This edited article about King Midas originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 698 published on 31 May 1975.

King Midas

It has been said that money is the root of all evil. The wealthy would probably challenge this claim, arguing that, properly used, riches create employment for millions of people, thus enabling worthwhile charities and foundations to function.

Men of money, however, would agree that it does not always bring happiness and contentment, but that it can arouse greed, ruthless behaviour and not a little cunning. Gathering and keeping a fortune also involves hard work; millionaires are seldom idle people. Many of them appreciate the pitfalls of prosperity.

One who did was King Midas, legendary king of Phrygia, founder of Ankara and pleasure-loving son of the Great Goddess of Ida. He learnt the facts of finance the hard way.

He is said to have been the discoverer of both black and white lead. But he is best known for his association with another metal . . . gold.

According to the Grecian myths, it all began about 1,000 BC when Bacchus, the god of wine, or Dionysus as the Greeks also knew him, was leading an expedition to the East. As usual, it was a rumbustious, merry-making adventure with a good deal of carousing and roistering along the way.

One of Bacchus’s pupils, a satyr named Silenus, wandered off from the main body and, it is said, collapsed in a drunken state in the rose garden of King Midas.

Peasants found Silenus sprawled unconscious amid the blooms. Before he was fully awake, they seized and bound him. Then they marched him off to the king’s court for judgement. Midas was extremely annoyed but before long the charming tongue of the satyr made him forget his anger.

For Silenus captivated the king with tales of adventure and voyages and Midas was so pleased with the stories told by his unexpected guest that he entertained him for several days in lavish style.

Finally, Midas provided a guide to lead Silenus back to Bacchus, who by now was becoming increasingly anxious about his missing student. But Bacchus was so grateful to see him again that he told Midas he could have anything he wished for.

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This edited article about Cornwall originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 695 published on 10 May 1975.

Cornish smugglers

In a county in which smugglers once crept ashore with their contraband goods stands a symbol of the space age – a satellite communications station which is Britain’s electronic link with the world beyond the oceans.

Her decks awash, her holds filled with casks of Spanish wine, a storm-battered sailing ship groped her way through a swirling sea mist along the English Channel.

High above her decks, a lookout searched anxiously for a glimpse of lights that would mean a harbour and safety.

Suddenly through the mist, a light appeared and the ship quickly altered course towards it. A few moments later, with a crash of rending timbers, the ship broke her back on a rocky Cornish headland.

How was it that, guided by the light that should have led to safety, she had gone aground on that frightening night?

The answer is that the ship had been a victim of the dreaded Cornish wreckers – gangs who for centuries used lights to lure countless fine sailors and their ships to their doom so that they could steal the cargoes from the wrecks.

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This edited article about Joan of Arc originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 692 published on 19 April 1975.

Joan of Arc by Pat Nicolle

The trouble with searching out the truth of what really happened in some of the world’s great mysteries is made many times worse when we have to deal with someone whose position in the world’s story has been deliberately altered to suit the crafty convenience of the people who have come afterwards.

For instance, Joan of Arc.

It would, indeed, have been hard enough for us to get at the truth of Joan’s story if we had lived in her own time – so carefully, it seems, was the truth veiled even then. But in the five hundred years since her time it is doubtful whether any single story in the whole of history has been more twisted, stretched, pummelled, distorted, taken apart and rebuilt than Joan’s story.

Somewhere you have probably read that she was a shepherd girl from Lorraine, devout but illiterate.

Well, two highly skilled researchers and writers, of whom more in a moment, have recently made out an excellent case for her being the daughter of the Duke of New Orleans – and therefore the aunt of King Henry VI of England – and the tool of the scheming, divided noble houses of the French states that existed in her lifetime.

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This edited article about Earl Howe originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 691 published on 12 April 1975.

The Glorious First of June, when Britain was urged on to victory by a cockerel, by Eric Parker

When war broke out between Britain and France, both countries had suffered bad harvests. This was a misfortune for Britain, but an even worse one for France, who was now eager to show her might and induce other European countries to join her in her revolutionary mood.

To solve the problem, the French Revolutionary Government bought grain from America and commissioned over a hundred ships to carry it across the Atlantic. The precious convoy, with a small escort of four French battleships, left American shores on April 11, 1794, with the intention of joining the main French battle fleet four hundred miles from the French coast, and so insuring against attack on the last lap of the journey.

The task of intercepting the convoy fell to Admiral Earl Howe. When he left with his battle fleet in the late spring of 1794, the French fleet was still hiding in an inner harbour at Brest. Not wishing to prevent the French from sailing, because he was eager to engage them in battle, Earl Howe turned away and began his search for the grain convoy. Meeting with no success, he returned to Brest, only to find that the French Fleet had sneaked away in his absence and was on its way to rendezvous with the convoy.

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This edited article about Perthshire originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 688 published on 22 March 1975.

Rob Roy and his cattle-raiding exploits against Montrose

Often in the quiet nights the cottagers of Perthshire would hear strange sounds on the road outside – the sound of cattle being herded along, the soft murmur of men’s voices, the clink of a bridle as a mysterious midnight procession moved on its way.

It was wiser not to interfere. The cottagers put their heads under the blankets, and left well alone, for Rob Roy MacGregor was stealing cattle again.

On the face of it, Rob Roy was a farmer. He lived in Perthshire, at the turn of the seventeenth century. His interest in cattle, however, was not limited to grazing them. He called on farmers and offered to protect their herds against thieves for a sum of money.

“Aye, that’s well enough,” said the farmers, after Rob Roy had departed, “but who’s the biggest cattle thief in Perthshire? Rob Roy!”

When too many Perthshire cattle farmers had got to know his game, Rob Roy became a cattle-dealer. Men gave him money to buy cattle at market for them, but Rob Roy soon got tired of working for a small fee.

One day in 1711 he collected the money as usual – and made off with it to the Western Isles.

When Rob returned to Perthshire, he found that his family had been turned out of their home by the Duke of Montrose, because Rob Roy owed the Duke money. Seething with anger, Rob Roy vowed vengeance against Montrose.

“He shall pay dear for this!” he snarled, “his grand estates will provide me with food and my living. Not a single one of his cattle shall be safe from me!”

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This edited article about King Arthur originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 685 published on 1 March 1975.

King Arthur by Roger Payne

Everyone has heard of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. No one can prove they ever really existed.

Yet although the time in which Arthur is supposed to have lived – in the fifth and sixth centuries – was a dark age in Britain, the story of his deeds and valour blazed right through Europe.

Not only did various parts of Britain, from Scotland to Wales and Cornwall, claim him as their own. Europe insisted he was a Breton King, and stories and songs about Arthur conquered and superseded those about Charlemagne. Sicily is one of scores of places in which his tomb is said to lie.

But one thing we can be sure of right at the start. If Arthur was anything, he was a Briton. For while other countries have their Arthurian battlefields, graves and castles, in Western Britain there is almost no range of rugged hills, no stretch of rock-strewn moorland that does not claim some association with Arthur.

What is the fascination of his story?

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This edited article about Easter Island originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 682 published on 8 February 1975.

A sun-worshipping ceremony on Easter Island by Andrew Howat

Easter Island was a mystery from the moment the look-out of a ship spotted it in 1722. And it has been a mystery ever since to the people who have explored it and tried to unravel its strange secrets.

People have long puzzled over the intriguing story which began to unfold when the observant sailor saw the green blob of land and reported it to the skipper of his ship, Admiral Roggeveen, a Dutchman. Bewildered, the admiral consulted his charts, but no land was marked at that point.

The admiral inked a blob of land on his map and wrote beside it “Easter Island”, for it was Easter Day. Little did he know that by this action he had given a name to the most puzzling island in the world.

After he and some of his men had explored the island, the admiral wrote a report to his superiors, saying, “The island contains about six thousand souls. All over the island stand huge idols of stone, representing the figure of a man with big ears and bearing a head covered with a red crown.”

One can imagine how that report intrigued other adventurers. Many made landings. They tramped the island and counted the statues. There were 230 standing all over the place. And apart from size – varying from five to twelve metres high – the statues were all identical.

Legless, they rose from the earth at hip level. The faces were expressionless, with receding foreheads, tight lips, prominent chins and a curious tilt at the end of the nose.

But more curious still were the ears. Long and thin, they hung down to the jaw. On each statue was a hat-like crown of red stone.

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