To the immediate understanding of mankind nothing seems so self-evident, nothing so
little in need of explanation, as the phenomenon of Life itself, the fact of man’s own
existence. On the other hand, the cessation of this so self-evident existence, whenever it
obtrudes itself upon his notice, arouses man’s ever-renewed astonishment. There are
primitive peoples to whom death whenever it occurs seems an arbitrary abbreviation of
life: if it is not due to visible forces, then some invisible magic must have caused it.
So difficult is it for such peoples to grasp the idea that the present state of being
alive and conscious can come to an end of its own accord.
Once reflection on such problems is aroused, life itself, standing as it does on the
threshold of all sensation and experience, soon begins to appear no less mysterious than
death—that kingdom into which no experience reaches. It may even come about that
when they are regarded too long and too hard, light and darkness seem to change places. It
was to a Greek poet that the question suggested itself: “Who knows then whether Life be
not Death, and what we here call Death be called Life there below?”
From such jaded wisdom and its doubts Greek civilization is still far removed when,
though already at an advanced stage in its development, it first speaks to us in the
Homeric poems. The poet and his heroes speak with lively feeling of the pains and troubles
of life, both in its individual phases and as a whole. The gods have allotted a life of
pain and misery to men, while they themselves remain free from care. On the other hand, to
turn aside from life altogether never enters the head of anyone in Homer. Nothing may be
said expressly of the joy and happiness of life, but that is because such things go without saying among a vigorous folk
engrossed in a movement of progress, whose circumstances were never complicated and where
all the conditions of happiness easily fell to the lot of the strong in activity and
enjoyment. And, indeed, it is only for the strong, the prudent, and the powerful that this
Homeric world is intended. Life and existence upon this earth obviously belongs to
them—is it not an indispensable condition of the attainment of all particular good
things? As for death—the state which is to follow our life here—there is no
danger of anyone mistaking that for life. “Do not try and explain away death to
me,” says Achilles to Odysseus in Hades; and this would be the answer any Homeric man
would have given to the sophisticated poet, if he had tried to persuade him that the state
of things after life on this earth is the real life. Nothing is so hateful to man as death
and the gates of Hades: for when death comes it is certain that life—this sweet life
of ours in the sunlight—is done with, whatever else there may be to follow.
But what does follow? What happens when life departs for ever from the
inanimate body?
It is strange that anyone should have maintained (as it has been in recent times1) that in any stage of the
development of the Homeric poems the belief can be found that with the moment of death all
is at an end: that nothing survives death. We are not warranted by any statement in either
of the two poems (to be found perhaps in their oldest parts, as is suggested) nor yet by
the tell-tale silence of the poet, in attributing such an idea either to the poet or his
contemporaries. Wherever the occasion of death is described we are told how the dead man
(still referred to by his name), or his “Psyche”, hastens away into the house of
Aïdes—into the kingdom of Aïdes and the grim Persephoneia; goes down to the darkness
below the earth, to Erebos; or, more vaguely, sinks into the earth itself. In any case, it
is no mere nothing that can enter the gloomy depths, nor over what does not exist
could one suppose that the divine Pair holds sway below.
But how are we to think of this “Psyche” that, unnoticed during the lifetime of the
body, and only observable when it is “separated” from the body, now glides off to join the
multitude of its kind assembled in the murky regions of the “Invisible” (Aïdes)? Its name,
like the names given to the “soul” in
many languages, marks it off as something airy and breathlike, revealing its presence in
the breathing of the living man. It escapes out of the mouth—or out of the gaping
wound of the dying—and now freed from its prison becomes, as the name well expresses
it, an “image” (εἴδωλον). On the
borders of Hades Odysseus sees floating “the images of those that have toiled (on earth)”.
These immaterial images withdrawing themselves from the grasp of the living, like smoke
(Il. xxiii, 100) or a shadow (Od. xi, 207; x, 495), must at least
recognizably present the general outlines of the once living person. Odysseus immediately
recognizes his mother, Antikleia, in such a shadow-person, as well as the lately dead
Elpenor, and those of his companions of the Trojan War who have gone before him. The
psyche of Patroklos appearing to Achilleus by night resembles the dead man absolutely in
stature, bodily appearance and expression. The nature of this shadowy double of mankind,
separating itself from man in death and taking its departure then, can best be realized if
we first make clear to ourselves what qualities it does not possess. The psyche
of Homeric belief does not, as might have been supposed, represent what we are accustomed
to call “spirit” as opposed to “body”. All the faculties of the human “spirit” in the
widest sense—for which the poet has a large and varied vocabulary—are indeed
only active and only possible so long as a man is still alive: when death comes the
complete personality is no longer in existence. The body, that is the corpse, now becomes
mere “senseless earth” and falls to pieces, while the psyche remains untouched. But the
latter is by no means the refuge of “spirit” and its faculties, any more than the corpse
is. It (the psyche) is described as being without feeling, deserted by mind and the organs
of mind. All power of will, sensation, and thought have vanished with the disintegration
of the individual man into his component parts. So far from it being permissible to
ascribe the functions of “spirit” to the psyche, it would be more reasonable to speak of a
contrast between the two. Man is a living creature, conscious of himself and intelligently
active, only so long as the psyche remains within him. But it is not the psyche which
communicates its own faculties to man and gives him capacity for life together with
consciousness, will and knowledge. It is rather that during the union of the psyche and
the body all the faculties of living and acting lie within the empire of the body, of
which they are functions. Without the presence of the psyche, the body cannot perceive,
feel, or will, but it does not use these
or any of its faculties through or by means of the psyche. Nowhere does Homer attribute
any such function to the psyche in living man: it is, in fact, only mentioned when its
separation from the living man is imminent or has occurred. As the body’s shadow-image it
survives the body and all its vital powers.
If we now ask—as our Homeric psychologists generally do—which, in the face
of this mysterious association between a living body and its counterfeit the psyche, is
the “real” man, we find that Homer in fact gives contradictory answers. Not infrequently
(indeed, in the first lines of the Iliad) the material body is contrasted,2 as the “man himself”,
with the psyche—which cannot therefore be any organ or component part of the living
body. On the other hand, that which takes its departure at death and hastens into the
realm of Hades is also referred to by the proper name of the person as “himself”3—which means that
here the shadowy psyche (for nothing else can go down to Hades) is invested with the name
and value of the complete personality, the “self” of the man. But those who draw from
these phrases the conclusion that either the body or the psyche must be the “real man”
have, in either case,4
left out of account or unexplained one half of the recorded evidence. Regarded without
prejudice, these apparently contradictory methods of speaking simply prove that both the
visible man (the body and its own faculties) and the indwelling psyche could be
described as the man’s “self”. According to the Homeric view, human beings exist twice
over: once as an outward and visible shape, and again as an invisible “image” which only
gains its freedom in death. This, and nothing else, is the Psyche.
Such an idea—that the psyche should dwell with the living and fully conscious
personality, like an alien and a stranger, a feebler double of the man, as his “other
self”—this may well seem very strange to us. And yet this is what so-called “savage”
peoples,5 all over the
world, actually believe. Herbert Spencer in particular has shown this most decisively. It
is therefore not very surprising to find the Greeks, too, sharing a mode of thought that
lies so close to the mind of primitive mankind. The earlier age which handed down to the
Greeks of Homer their beliefs about the soul cannot have failed any more than other
nations to observe the facts upon which a fantastic logic based the conclusion of man’s
double personality. It was not the phenomena of sensation, will, perception, or thought in
waking and conscious man which led to this conclusion. It was the experience of an
apparent double of the self in dreaming,
in swoons, and ecstasy, that gave rise to the inference of a two-fold principle of life in
man, and of the existence of an independent, separable “second self” dwelling within the
viable self of daily life. One has only to listen to the words of a Greek writer of a
later period who, far more explicitly than Homer, describes the nature of the psyche and
at the same time lets us see the origin of the belief in such an entity. Pindar (fr. 131)
tells us that the body obeys Death, the almighty, but the image of the living creature
lives on (“since this alone is derived from the gods”: which, of course, is not Homeric
belief); for it (this eidôlon) is sleeping when the limbs are active, but
when the body is asleep it often reveals the future in a dream. Words could hardly make it
plainer that in the activities of the waking and conscious man, the image-soul has no
part. Its world is the world of sleep. While the other “I”, unconscious of itself, lies in
sleep, its double is up and doing. In other words, while the body of the sleeper lies
wrapped in slumber, motionless, the sleeper in his dream lives and sees many strange and
wonderful things. It is “himself” who does this (of that there can be no doubt), and yet
not the self known and visible to himself and others; for that lies still as death beyond
the reach of sensation. It follows that there lives within a man a second self, active in
dreaming. That the dream experiences are veritable realities and not empty fancies for
Homer is also certain. He never says, as later poets often do, that the dreamer “thought”
he saw this or that. The figures seen in dreams are real figures, either of the gods
themselves or a “dream spirit” sent by them, or a fleeting “image” (eidôlon) that they
allow to appear for a moment. Just as the dreamer’s capacity for vision is no mere fancy,
so, too, the objects that he sees are realities. In the same way it is something real that
appears to a man asleep as the shape of a person lately dead. Since this shape can show
itself to a dreamer, it must of necessity still exist; consequently it survives death,
though, indeed, only as a breath-like image, much as we have seen reflections of our own
faces mirrored in water.6 It cannot, indeed—this airy substance—be grasped or
held like the once viable self; and hence comes its name, the “psyche”. The primeval
argument for such a counterpart of man is repeated by Achilleus himself (Il. xxiii,
103 f.) when his dead friend appears to him and then vanishes again: so, then, ye Gods,
there yet lives in Hades’ house a psyche and shadowy image (of man), but there is no
midriff in it (and consequently none of the faculties which preserve the visible man
alive).
The dreamer, then, and what he sees in his dream proves the existence of an alter
ego in man.7 Man,
however, also observes that his body may suffer a deathlike torpor without the second self
being occupied with dream experiences. In such moments of “swoon”, according to Greek
thought and actual Homeric expression, “the psyche has left the body.”8 Where had it gone? No man
could tell. But on this occasion it comes back again: whereupon the “spirit is gathered
again into the midriff”. If ever, as happens in the case of death, the psyche should
become completely separated from the visible body, then the “spirit” will never return.
But the psyche, which in those temporary separations from the body9 did not perish, will not vanish into
nothingness now.
So far experience takes us, from which primitive logic arrived at very much the same
conclusions all over the world. But, we may proceed to ask, where does this liberated
psyche go? What becomes of it? Here begins “the undiscovered country” and it might appear
that at its entrance there was a complete parting of the ways.
Primitive people are accustomed to attribute unlimited powers to the disembodied
“soul”—powers all the more formidable because they are not seen. Indeed, they refer
in part all invisible forces to the action of “souls”, and strain anxiously by
means of the richest offerings within their power to secure for themselves the goodwill of
these powerful spirits. Homer, on the contrary, knows nothing of any influence exerted by
the psyche upon the visible world, and, consequently, hardly anything of a cult of the
psyche. How, indeed, could the souls (as I may venture to call them without further risk
of misunderstanding) have any such influence? They are all without exception collected in
the realm of Aïdes, far from the living, separated from them by Okeanos and Acheron,
guarded by the relentless god himself, the inexorable doorkeeper. Only a fabled hero like
Odysseus may for once, perhaps, reach the entrance of that gloomy kingdom alive: the souls
themselves, once they have crossed the river, never come back—so the soul of
Patroklos assures his friend. How do they get there? The implication seems to be that on
leaving the body the soul passes away, unwilling and complaining of its fate, but,
nevertheless, unresisting, to Hades; and after the destruction of the body by fire,
disappears for ever into the depths of Erebos. It was only a later poet who, in giving the final touches to the Odyssey,
introduced Hermes, the “Guide of the Dead”. Whether this is an invention of the poet’s,
or, as appears more likely, it is borrowed from the ancient folk-belief of some remote
corner of Greece, in the completely rounded circle of Homeric belief at any rate it is an
innovation and an important one. Doubt has arisen, it appears, whether indeed all
the souls must of necessity pass away into the Unseen; and they are provided with a divine
guide who by his mysteriously compelling summons (Od. xxiv, 1) and the power of his
magic wand constrains them to follow him.10
Down in the murky underworld they now float unconscious, or, at most, with a twilight
half-consciousness, wailing in a shrill diminutive voice, helpless, indifferent. Of
course, flesh, bones, and sinews,11 the midriff, the seat of all the faculties of mind and
will—these are all gone for ever. They were attached to the once-visible partner of
the psyche, and that has been destroyed. To speak of an “immortal life” of these souls, as
scholars both ancient and modern have done, is incorrect. They can hardly be said to
live even, any more than the image does that is reflected in the mirror; and that
they prolong to eternity their shadowy image-existence—where in Homer do we ever
find this said? The psyche may survive its visible companion, but it is helpless without
it. Is it possible to believe that a realistically imaginative, materially minded people
like the Greeks would have regarded as immortal a creature incapable (once the funeral is
over) of requiring or receiving further nourishment—either in religious
cult or otherwise?
The daylight world of Homer is thus freed from spectres of the night (for even in
dreams the psyche is seen no more after the body is burnt); from those intangible and
ghostly essences at whose unearthly activity the superstitious of every age tremble. The
living are no longer troubled by the dead. The world is governed by the gods alone; not
pale and ghostly phantoms, but palpable and fully materialized figures, working powerfully
everywhere, and dwelling on the clear mountain tops: “and brightness gleams around them.”
No daimonic powers can compare with the gods or can avail against them; and night does not
set free the departed souls of the dead. The reader starts involuntarily and begins to
suspect the influence of another age, when in a part of Book XX of the Odyssey, added by a
later hand, he reads how shortly before the destruction of the suitors the clairvoyant
soothsayer beholds in hall and forecourt the soul-phantoms (eidôla) floating in multitudes and hurrying down to
the darkness under the earth: “the sun was darkened in the heaven and a thick mist came
over all.” The later poet has been very successful in suggesting the terror awakened by a
foreboding of tragedy; but such terror in the face of the doings of the spirit world is
entirely un-Homeric.
Were the Greeks, then, always so untroubled by such fears of the souls of the dead? Was
there never any cult of disembodied spirits, such as was not only known to all
primitive peoples throughout the world, but was also quite familiar to nations belonging
to the same family as the Greeks, for instance, the Indians and the Persians? The question
and its answer have more than a passing interest. In later times—long subsequent to
Homer—we find in Greece itself a lively worship of ancestors and a general cult of
the departed. Were it demonstrable—as it is generally assumed without
proof—that the Greeks only at this late period first began to pay a religious cult
to the souls of the dead, this fact would give very strong support to the oft-repeated
theory that the cult of the dead arose from the ruins of a previous worship of the gods.
Anthropologists are accustomed to deny this and to regard the worship of disembodied souls
as one of the earliest forms (if not as originally the only form) of the reverence paid to
unseen powers. The peoples, however, upon whose conditions of life and mental conceptions
such views are generally based, have indeed behind them a long past, but no history. What
is to prevent pure speculation and theorizing in conformity with the preconceived idea
just mentioned (which is almost elevated to the position of a doctrine of faith by some
comparative religionists) from introducing into the dim past of such savage peoples the
primitive worship of gods, out of which the worship of the dead may then subsequently
arise? But Greek religious development can be traced from Homer onwards for a
long period; and there we find the certainly remarkable fact that a cult of the dead,
unknown to Homer, only appears later, in the course of a long and vigorous expansion of
religious ideas in after times; or, at least, then shows itself more plainly—but
not, it is important to notice, as the precipitate of a dying belief in gods and worship
of the gods, but rather as a collateral development by the side of that highly developed
form of piety.
Are we, then, really to believe that the cult of disembodied spirits was absolutely unknown to the Greeks of pre-Homeric
times?
Such an assertion, if made without due qualification, is contradicted by a closer study
of the Homeric poems themselves.
It is true that Homer represents for us the earliest great stage in the evolution of
Greek civilization of which we have clear evidence. But the poems do not stand at the
beginning of that evolution. Indeed, they only stand at the beginning of Greek Epic
poetry—so far as this has been transmitted to us—because the natural greatness
and wide popularity of the Iliad and the Odyssey secured their preservation in writing.
Their very existence and the degree of artistic finish which they show, oblige us to
suppose that behind them lies a long history of heroic “Saga” poetry. The conditions which
they describe and imply point to a long course of previous development—from nomadic
to city life, from patriarchal rule to the organization of the Greek Polis. And just as
the maturity of material development tells its tale, so do the refinement and maturity of
culture, the profound and untrammelled knowledge of the world, the clarity and simplicity
of thought reflected in them. All these things go to show that before Homer, in order to
reach Homer, the Greek world must have thought and learned much—must, indeed, have
unlearned and undone much. As in art, so in all the products of civilization, what is
simple, appropriate, and convincing is not the achievement of beginners, but the reward of
prolonged study. It is prima facie unthinkable that during the whole length of Greek
evolution before Homer, religion alone, the relationship between man and the invisible
world, should have remained stationary at any one point. It is not from the comparison of
religious beliefs and their development among kindred nations, nor even from the study of
apparently primitive ideas and usages in the religious life of the Greeks themselves of
later times, that we are to seek the truth about the religious customs of that remote
period which is obscured for us by the intervening mass of the Homeric poems. Comparative
studies of this kind are valuable in their way, but must only be used to give further
support to the insight derived from less easily misleading methods of inquiry. For us the
only completely satisfactory source of information about pre-Homeric times is Homer
himself. We are allowed—indeed, we are forced—to conclude that there have been
change in conceptions and customs, if, in that otherwise so uniform and rounded Homeric
world, we meet with isolated occurrences, customs, forms of speech that contradict the
normal atmosphere of Homer and can only
be explained by reference to a world in all essentials differently orientated from his own
and for the most part kept in the background by Homer. All that is necessary is to open
our eyes, freed from preconceived ideas, to the “rudiments” (“survivals”, as they are
better called by English scholars) of a past stage of civilization discoverable in the
Iliad and Odyssey themselves.
Such rudiments of a once vigorous soul-worship are not hard to find in Homer. In
particular, we may refer to what the Iliad tells us of the manner in which the dead body
of Patroklos is dealt with. The reader need only recall the general outline of the story.
In the evening of the day upon which Hektor has been slain, Achilles with his Myrmidons
sings the funeral dirge to his dead friend: they go three times in procession round the
body, Achilles laying his “murderous hands” on the breast of Patroklos and calling upon
him with the words: “Hail, Patroklos mine, even in Aïdes’ dwelling-place; what I vowed to
thee before is now performed; Hektor lies slain and is the prey of dogs, and twelve noble
Trojan youths will I slay at thy funeral pyre.” After they have laid aside their arms he
makes ready the funeral feast for his companions—bulls, sheep, goats, and pigs are
killed, “and all around, in beakers-full, the blood flowed round the corpse.” During the
night the soul of Patroklos appears to Achilles demanding immediate burial. In the morning
the host of the Myrmidons marches out in arms, bearing the body in their midst. The
warriors lay locks of their hair, cut off for the purpose, upon the body, and last of all
Achilles places his own hair in the hand of his friend—it was once pledged by his
father to Spercheios the River-god, but Patroklos must now take it with him, since return
to his home is denied to Achilles. The funeral pyre is got ready, many sheep and oxen
slaughtered. The corpse is wrapped in their fat, while their carcasses are placed beside
it; jars of oil and honey are set round the body. Next, four horses are killed, two dogs
belonging to Patroklos, and last of all twelve Trojan youths taken prisoner for this
purpose by Achilles. All these are burnt together with the corpse, and Achilles spends the
whole night pouring out dark wine upon the earth, calling the while upon the psyche of
Patroklos. Only when morning comes is the fire extinguished with wine; the bones of
Patroklos are collected and laid in a golden casket and entombed within a mound.
Here we have a picture of the funeral of a chieftain which, in the solemnity and
ceremoniousness of its elaborate detail, is in striking conflict with the normal Homeric
conception of the nothingness of the soul after its separation from the body. A full and
rich sacrifice is here offered to such a soul. This sacrifice is inexplicable if the soul
immediately upon its dissolution flutters away insensible, helpless and powerless, and
therefore incapable of enjoying the offerings made to it. It is therefore not unnatural
that a method of interpretation which isolates Homer as far as possible and adheres
closely to his own fixed and determinate range of ideas, should attempt to deny the
sacrificial character of the offerings made on this occasion.12 We may well ask, however, what else but a
sacrifice, i.e. a repast offered in satisfaction of the needs of the person honoured (in
this case the psyche), can be intended by this stream of blood about the corpse; this
slaughtering and burning of cattle and sheep, horses and dogs, and finally of twelve
Trojan prisoners on or at the funeral pyre? To explain it all as a mere performance of
pious duties, as is often done in interpreting many of the gruesome pictures of Greek
sacrificial ceremonies, is impossible here. Besides, Homer often tells us of merely pious
observances in honour of the dead, and they are of a very different character. And the
most horrible touch of all (the human sacrifice) is not put in simply to satisfy Achilles’
lust for vengeance—twice over does Achilles call to the soul of Patroklos with the
words: “To you do I bring what I formerly promised to you” (Il.
xxiii, 20 ff., 180 ff.).13 The whole series of offerings on this occasion is precisely of
the kind which we may take as typical of the oldest sort of sacrificial ritual such as we
often find in later Greek religion in the cultus of the infernal deities. The sacrificial
offerings are completely burnt in honour of the Daimon and are not shared between the
bystanders as in the case of other offerings. If such “holocausts”, when offered to the
Chthonic and some of the Olympian deities, are to be regarded as sacrificial in character,
then it is unjustifiable to invent some other meaning for the performances at the funeral
pyre of Patroklos. The offering of wine, oil, and honey, at least, are normal in
sacrificial rituals of later times. Even the severed lock of hair spread out over the dead
body or laid in the cold hand is a well known sacrificial tribute, and must be supposed
such here as much as in later Greek ceremonial or in that of many other peoples.14 In fact, this gift in
particular, symbolically representing as it does a more valuable sacrifice by means of
another and less important object (in
the giving of which only the goodwill of the giver is to be considered)—this very
offering, like all such symbolical substitutions, bears witness to the long duration and
past development of the cultus in which it occurs—in this case of the worship of the
dead in pre-Homeric times.
The whole narrative presupposes the idea that by the pouring out of streams of blood,
by offerings of wine and burnt offerings of human beings and of cattle, the psyche of a
person lately dead can be refreshed, and its resentment mollified. At any rate, it is thus
thought of as accessible to human prayers and as remaining for some time in the
neighbourhood of the sacrifice made to it. This contradicts what we expect in Homer, and,
in fact, just in order to make this unusual performance plausible to an audience no longer
familiar with the idea, and to make it admissible on a special occasion, the poet (though
the actual course of his story does not really require it)15 makes the psyche of Patroklos appear by
night to Achilles. And, in fact, to the end of the narrative Achilles repeatedly greets
the soul of Patroklos as though it were present.16 The unusual way in which Homer deals with
this whole affair, so full of primeval, savage ideas as it is, seems, indeed, to betray a
certain vagueness about what its real meaning may be. That the writer has certain qualms
on the subject is indicated by the brevity—not at all like Homer—with which
the most shocking part of the story, the slaughter of human beings, together with horses
and dogs, is hurried over. But the thing to be noted particularly is that the poet is
certainly not devising such unpleasant circumstances for the first time out of his own
imagination. This epic picture of the worship of the dead was adopted by Homer from an
earlier source (whatever that source may have been),17 and not invented by him. He makes it serve
his special purpose, which is to provide a satisfactory climax to the series of vivid and
emotional scenes beginning with the tragic death of Patroklos and ending with the death
and dishonouring of the champion of Troy. After such emotional exaltation the overstrained
nerves must not be allowed to relax too suddenly; a last flicker of the superhuman rage
and grief that made Achilles rave so furiously against his foes must show itself in the
serving up of this awful banquet to the soul of his friend. It is as though a primitive
and long-suppressed savagery had broken out again for a last effort. Only when all is over
does the soul of Achilles find repose in melancholy resignation. More calmly he calls upon
the rest of the Achæans to take their seats “in a wide circle round about”; and there
follows the description of those
splendid “Games”, a subject that must have awakened the enthusiasm of every experienced
athlete in the audience—and was there ever a Greek who was not an athlete? It is
true that athletic contests are described by Homer mainly on account of their own peculiar
interest and for the sake of the artistic effects that their description allowed. Still,
the selection of such games as a fitting conclusion to a chieftain’s funeral cannot be
fully understood except as a survival of an ancient and once vigorous worship of the dead.
Such athletic contests in honour of the great immediately after their death are often
referred to by Homer;18 indeed, a funeral is the only occasion19 recognized by him as
suitable for the exhibition of athletic prize-competitions. The practice never quite died
out, and it became usual in later post-Homeric times to mark the festivals of Heroes and,
later of gods, too, by Games which gradually became regularly repeated performances,
developed from the traditional contests that had concluded the funeral ceremonies of great
men. Now, no one doubts that the Agon at the festival of a Hero or a god formed
part of their religious worship. It is only reasonable, then, to suppose that the funeral
games which accompany the burial of a chieftain (and are confined to that one occasion)
belong to the religious cult of the dead, and to recognize that such a mode of
worship can only have been introduced at a time when men regarded the soul, in whose
honour the ceremony took place, as capable of sharing consciously in its enjoyment. Even
Homer is certainly conscious of the fact that the games, like the rest of the offerings
made then, were intended for the satisfaction of the dead and not solely for the
entertainment of the living.20 We may also cite the declared opinion of Varro, who says that the
dead in whose honour funeral games are celebrated are thereby proved to have been regarded
originally, if not as gods, at least as very powerful spirits.21 Of course, this feature of the original
cultus of the soul was very easily stripped of its real meaning—it recommended
itself quite apart from its religious significance—and for that very reason remained
longer than other performances of the kind in general use.
If we now survey the whole series of ritual acts directed to the honouring of the soul
of Patroklos, we can deduce from the seriousness of these attempts to please the
disembodied spirit what must have been the strength of the original conception—how
vivid must have been the impression of enduring sensibility, of formidable power possessed
by a soul to whom such a cult was
offered. It is true of the cult of the dead, as of any other sacrificial custom, that its
perpetuation is due solely to the hope of avoiding hurt and obtaining assistance at the
hands of the Unseen.22
A generation that no longer anticipated either help or harm from the “Souls” might be
ready to perform last offices of all kinds to the deserted body out of pure
piety, and to offer to the dead a certain traditional reverence. But this would
testify rather to the grief of those left behind than to any special reverence felt for
the departed.23 This
is mostly the case in Homer. It is not, however, what we should call piety, but much
rather mistrust of a “ghost” become powerful through its separation from the body, that
explains the exaggerated fullness of the funeral offerings that are made at the burial of
Patroklos. They cannot be made to fit in with the ordinary circle of Homeric ideas.
Indeed, that this circle of ideas excluded all misgiving at the possible action of unseen
spirits is quite clearly shown by the fact that the honours paid even to a dead man held
in such veneration as Patroklos are confined to the solitary occasion of his funeral. As
the psyche of Patroklos himself assures his friend, once the burning of the body is
completed, it, the psyche, will take its departure to Hades, never to return.24 It is easy to see that
from this point of view there was no motive whatever that could lead to a permanent cult
of the soul such as was common among the Greeks of later times. But it should be noticed
further that the luxurious repast offered to the soul of Patroklos on the occasion of his
funeral had no point if the goodwill of the soul which was to be assured by that process
would never have an opportunity in the future of making itself felt. The contradiction
between Homeric belief and Homeric practice on this occasion is complete, and shows
decisively that the traditional view that would see in this description of soul-worship at
the funeral of Patroklos an effort after new and more lively ideas of the life
after death, must certainly be wrong. When new surmises, wishes, conjectures begin to
arise and seek a means of expression, the new ideas generally find incomplete utterance in
the old and inappropriate external forms, but express themselves more clearly and
certainly (generally with some tendency to exaggeration) in the less conservative words
and language of men. Here just the opposite occurs: every word the poet utters about the
circumstances contradicts the elaborately wrought ceremonial which those circumstances
call forth. It is impossible to point to a single touch that accords with the belief
implied by the ceremonial. The poet’s
bias is a different and, indeed, an opposite one. Of this much at least there cannot be
the slightest doubt: the funeral ceremonies over the body of Patroklos are not the first
budding of a new principle, but rather represent a “vestige” of a more vigorous worship of
the dead in earlier times, a worship that must once have been a complete and sufficient
expression of belief in the great and enduring power of the disembodied spirit. It has,
however, been preserved unaltered into an age that, with quite other religious beliefs, no
longer understands, or at best half-guesses at the sense of such strange ceremonial
observances. Thus ritual generally outlives both the state of mind and the belief which
originally gave rise to it.
Neither the Iliad nor the Odyssey contains anything that can equal the scenes at the
funeral of Patroklos as evidence of primitive worship of the dead. But even the ordinary
forms of interment of the dead are not entirely without such “vestigial” features. The
dead man’s eyes and mouth are closed,25 the body is washed and anointed, and after being wrapped in a
clean linen cloth is laid upon a bier,26 and the funeral dirge begins.27 It is hardly possible to see even the
remotest, lingering, reminiscence of a once vigorous worship of the dead in such
performances as these; or in the very simple burial customs that follow the burning of the
body; the bones are collected in a jar or a casket and buried under a mound, and a post
set up to mark the place as a “grave-mound”.28 But when we find that the body of Elpenor, in accordance with the
command issued by his psyche to Odysseus (Od. xi, 74), is burned together with his
weapons (Od. xii, 13); when, further, we read that Achilles burnt the weapons of
his overthrown foe together with his body on the funeral pyre (Il. vi, 418), it is
impossible not to feel that we have here, too, survivals of an ancient belief that the
soul in some mysterious fashion was capable of making use of these objects that are burnt
along with its discarded bodily envelope. No one doubts that this is the reason for such a
custom when it meets us in the case of other nations; with the Greeks, too, it must have
had an equally good foundation, however little such is to be discovered in the ordinary
Homeric view of the soul. The custom, moreover, more precisely described in these cases,
was of general observance; we often hear how the completeness of a burial requires the
burning of the possessions of the dead along with the body.29 We cannot tell to what extent the duty of offering to the dead
all his movable possessions30 (a duty originally without doubt interpreted quite literally) had
come in Homeric times to be interpreted in a symbolical sense—a process which
reached its lowest stage in the custom prevalent in later times of presenting an obol “for
the Ferryman of the Dead”. Finally, the “funeral feast” offered by the king to the
mourning people either after the funeral of a chieftain (Il. xxiv, 802, 665), or
before the burning of his body (Il. xxiii, 29 ff.), could only have derived its
full meaning from an ancient belief that the soul of the person thus honoured could itself
take a share in the feast. In the banquet in honour of Patroklos the dead man is given a
definite portion—the blood of the slaughtered animals which is poured round his body
(Il. xxiii, 34). Like the funeral games, this banquet is apparently intended to
propitiate the soul of the dead man. Consequently, we find even Orestes, after slaying
Aigisthos, his father’s murderer, offering him a funeral feast (Od. iii,
309)—not, surely, in a mood of simple “piety”. The custom of inviting the whole
people, on the occasion of important funerals, to such a banquet no longer appears in
later times; it has little resemblance to the funeral feasts shared by the relations of
the dead man (περίδειπνα) that were
afterwards customary; it is far closer to the great cenæ ferales that accompanied
the silicernia in Rome, to which the relations of the dead man, if he were an
important person, invited the whole population.31 After all, it is no harder to understand
the underlying conception of the soul in this case sharing the feast with the whole
people, than it is to understand the same conception when applied to the great sacrifices
to the gods which, though the congregation partakes, are, in name and in fact, essentially
“Banquets of the Gods” (Od. iii, 336).
Such are the relics of ancient soul-worship to be found within the limits of the
Homeric world. Further attention to the spirits of the dead beyond the time of the funeral
was prevented by the deeply ingrained conviction that after the burning of the body the
psyche was received into the inaccessible world of the Unseen, from which no traveller
returns. But, in order to secure this complete departure of the soul, it is necessary for
the body to be burnt. Though we do occasionally read in the Iliad or the Odyssey that
immediately after death and before the burning of the body “the psyche departed to
Hades”,32 the words
must not be taken too literally; the soul certainly flies off at once towards Hades, but
it hovers now between the realms of the living and the dead until it is received into the final safekeeping of the
latter after the burning of the body. The psyche of Patroklos appearing by night to
Achilles declares this; it prays for immediate burial in order that it may pass through
the door of Hades. Until then the other shadow-creatures prevent its entrance and bar its
passage across the river, so that it has to wander restlessly round the house of Aïs of
the wide gate (Il. xxiii, 71 ff.). This hastening off towards the house of Hades is
again all that is meant when it is said elsewhere of Patroklos himself (Il. xvi,
856) that the psyche departed out of his limbs to the house of Hades. In exactly the same
way it is said of Elpenor, the companion of Odysseus, that “his soul descended to Hades”
(Od. x, 560). This soul meets his friend, nevertheless, later on, at the entrance
of the Shadow-world, not yet deprived of its senses like the rest of the dwellers in that
House of Darkness; not until the destruction of its physical counterpart is complete can
it enter into the rest of Hades. Only through fire are the souls of the dead “appeased”
(Il. vii, 410). So long, then, as the psyche retains any vestige of “earthliness”
it possesses some feeling still, some awareness of what is going on among the living.33
But once the body is destroyed by fire, then is the psyche relegated to Hades; no
return to this earth is permitted to it, and not a breath of this world can penetrate to
it there. It cannot even return in thought. Indeed, it no longer thinks at all, and knows
nothing more of the world beyond. The living also forget one so completely cut off from
themselves (Il. xxii, 389). What, then, should tempt them, during the rest of their
lives here, to try to hold communication with the dead by means of a cult?
The practice of cremation itself will perhaps give us one last piece of evidence that
there had been a time when the idea of the prolonged sojourn of the disembodied spirit in
the realm of the living and its power of influencing the survivors existed among the
Greeks. Homer knows of no other kind of funeral than that of fire. On a funeral pyre are
burnt the bodies of king or leader with the most solemn ritual; those of the common people
fallen in war are given to the flames with less ceremony; none are buried. We may well ask
whence comes this custom, and what is its meaning for Greeks of the Homeric age? This
means of disposing of the bodies of the dead is not by any means the most simple and
obvious; it is far easier to carry out,
and far less expensive, to bury them in the earth. It has been suggested that the custom
of cremation as observed by Persians, Germans, Slavs, and other peoples, is inherited from
a nomadic period. The wandering horde has no permanent habitation in which or near which
the body of the beloved dead can be buried and perpetual sustenance offered to his soul.
Unless, therefore, as is the custom with some nomadic tribes, the dead body is given up to
be the prey of beasts or weather, it might seem a natural idea to reduce it to ashes and
carry the remains, preserved in a light jar, along with the tribe on its further
journeyings.34 Whether
such practical reasonings can have had so much influence in a connexion that is generally
governed entirely by fancy, and in which practical considerations are altogether
scouted—I shall leave undecided. But, in any case, if we postulate a nomadic origin
for the practice of burning the dead among the Greeks, we should have to go back
altogether too far into the past to explain a mode of behaviour that, by no means
exclusively practised in early times by the Greeks, becomes absolutely prescriptive in a
period when they have long ceased to wander. The Asiatic Greeks, and in particular the
Ionians, whose popular beliefs and customs are, in general outline, at least, reproduced
for us in Homer, deserted one settled habitation in order to found another. Cremation then
must have been so permanently established among them that it never entered their heads to
seek any other method of disposing of their dead. In Homer not only the Greeks before Troy
and Elpenor, far away from home, are burnt when they die; Eëtion, too, in his own home is
given a funeral pyre by Achilles (Il. vi, 418). Hektor’s body is burnt in the
middle of Troy and the Trojans themselves in their own native land burn their dead
(Il. vii). The box or urn that holds the cremated bones of the dead is buried in a
mound; the ashes of Patroklos, Achilles, Antilochos, and Aias rest on foreign soil
(Od. iii, 109 ff.; xxiv, 76 ff.). It never occurs to Agamemnon that if Menelaos
dies before Ilios his brother’s grave could be anywhere else than at Troy (Il. iv,
174 ff.). There is, therefore, evidently no intention on the part of the living of taking
the remains of the dead with them on their return home;35 and this cannot be the object of
cremation. It will be necessary to look for some principle more in accordance with
primitive modes of thought than such merely practical considerations. Jakob Grimm36 suggested that the
burning of the corpse might have been intended as an offering of the dead man to the gods.
Among the Greeks this could only mean
the gods of the lower world; but nothing in Greek belief or ritual suggests such a grim
intention.37 The real
purpose aimed at in cremation is not so far to seek. Since the destruction of the body by
fire is supposed to result in the complete separation of the spirit from the land of the
living,38 it must be
assumed that this result is also intended by the survivors who employ the means
in question; and consequently that the complete banishment of the psyche once and for all
into the other world is the real purpose and the original occasion of the practice of
cremation. Isolated expressions of opinion among the nations that have practised the
custom do, as a matter of fact, indicate as its object the speedy and entire separation of
soul from body.39 The
exact nature of the intention varies with the state of belief about the soul. When the
Indians turned from the custom of burying their dead to that of burning them, they were
actuated, it appears, by the idea that the sooner and more completely the soul was freed
from the body and its limitations, the more easily would it reach the Paradise of the
Just.40 Of the
purifying effects of the fire implied in this conception, the Greeks knew nothing until
the idea was revived in later times.41 The Greeks of the Homeric age, innocent of any such “Kathartic”
notion, thought only of the destructive powers of that element to which they entrusted the
body of their dead, and of the benefit that they were conferring upon the soul in freeing
it by fire from the lifeless body, thus adding their assistance to its own efforts to get
free.42 Nothing can
destroy the psyche’s visible counterpart more quickly than fire. If, then, the body is
burnt and the most treasured possessions of the dead man consumed along with it, no tie
remains that can detain the soul any longer in the world of the living.
Cremation, therefore, is intended to benefit the dead, whose soul no longer wanders
unable to find rest; but still more the living, for they will not be troubled by ghosts
that are securely confined to the depths of the earth. The Greeks of Homer, accustomed by
long usage to the burning of the dead, are free from all fears of haunting “ghostly”
presences. But when the practice of the fire-funeral was first adopted, that which was to
be guarded against in the future by the destruction of the body with fire must have been a
real cause of fear.43
The souls that were so anxiously relegated to the other world of the Unseen must have been
feared as awesome inhabitants of this world. And so, from whatever source it may have come
to them,44 the custom
of cremation gives firm ground for
supposing that at some period of their history the belief in the power and activity of the
spirits of the dead and their influence upon the living—a subject of fear rather
than reverence—must have been prevalent amongst the Greeks; even though only a few
scattered hints still bear witness to such beliefs in the Homeric poems.
And evidence of these ancient beliefs we can now see with our eyes and touch with our
hands. Owing to an inestimable series of fortunate circumstances, we are enabled to catch
a glimpse of a far distant period of Greek history, which not only supplies a background
to Homer, but makes him cease to be the earliest source of our information upon Greek life
and thought. He is brought suddenly much nearer, perhaps deceptively nearer, to ourselves.
The last decades of excavation in the citadel and lower town of Mycenæ and other sites in
the Peloponnese right into the centre of the peninsula and as far northwards as Attica and
Thessaly, have resulted in the discovery of graves—shaft-graves, chamber-graves, and
elaborately constructed domed vaults, which were built and walled up in the period before
the Dorian invasion. These graves prove to us—what was already hinted at by a few
isolated expressions in Homer45—that the Greek “Age of Burning” was preceded, as in the
case of the Persians, Indians, and Germans, by a period in which the dead were buried in
the ground intact.46
The lords and ladies of golden Mycenæ, and lesser folk, too (in the graves at Nauplia, in
Attica, etc.), were buried when they died. Chieftains take with them into the grave a rich
paraphernalia of gorgeous furniture and ornaments—unburnt like their own bodies;
they rest upon a bed of small stones, and are covered by a layer of loam and pebbles;47 traces of smoke and
remains of ashes and charred wood bear witness to the fact that the dead were laid upon
the place where the “sacrifice for the dead” had already been made; upon the hearth where
offerings had been previously burnt inside the grave chamber.48 This may very well be a burial procedure
of the most primeval antiquity. Our oldest “Giants’” graves, in whose treasures no metal
of any kind is found, and whose age is on that account considered to be pre-Teutonic,
exhibit similar features. Either on the ground, or, occasionally, on a specially prepared
basis of fire-brick, the sacrificial fire is lighted, and, when it has burnt out, the
corpse is set down upon the place and given a covering of sand, loam, and stone.49 Remains of burnt sacrificial animals
(sheep and goats) have also been found in the graves at Nauplia and elsewhere.50 In conformity with
such different burial customs, the conceptions then held of the nature and powers of the
disembodied spirits must have differed widely from those of the Homeric world. Offerings
to the dead at a funeral occur in Homer only on special and isolated occasions and
accompanied by an obsolete and half-understood ritual. Here they were the regular
procedure both with rich and poor alike. But why should they have made offerings to their
dead if they did not believe in their power? And why should they have taken away gold and
jewellery and art treasures of all kinds and in astonishing quantities from the living and
given them to the dead if they had not believed that the dead could find enjoyment in
their former possessions even in the grave? Where the material body still remains intact,
there the second self can at least occasionally return. Its treasured possessions laid by
its side in the tomb are there to prevent its appearing uninvited in the outer world.51
Supposing, however, that the soul could return if and where it liked, it is evident
that the cult of the dead would not be confined to the occasion of the funeral. And,
indeed, that very circumstance—the prolongation of the cult paid to the dead beyond
the time of the funeral—of which we could not find a vestige in Homer, can at last
(as it seems to me) be traced in pre-Homeric Mycenæ. Over the middle one of four
shaft-graves found on the citadel stands an altar which can only have been placed there
after the grave was closed and sealed up.52 It is a round altar, hollow inside, and not closed in at the
bottom; in fact, a sort of funnel standing directly upon the earth. If, now, the blood of
the victim, mingled with the various drink-offerings, were poured down into this
receptacle, the whole would flow downwards into the ground beneath and to the dead man
lying there. This is no altar (βωμός) such
as was in use in the worship of the gods above, but a sacrificial hearth (ἐσχάρα) for the worship of the inhabitants of the
underworld. This structure corresponds closely with the description we have of the hearths
upon which offerings were made in a later age to “Heroes”, i.e. the souls of transfigured
human beings.53 Here,
then, we have a contrivance for the permanent and repeated worship of the dead; for such
worship alone can this structure have been intended. The funeral offering to the dead had
already been completed inside the grave-chamber. We thus find a meaning in the “beehive” tombs, for the vaulted main-chamber,
beside which the corpse lay in a smaller chamber by itself. They were evidently intended
to allow sacrifices to be made inside them—and not once only.54 At least this is the purpose which the
outer chamber serves elsewhere in double-vaulted graves. The evidence of the eye is
therefore able to establish the truth of what could only be made out with difficulty from
the Homeric poems. We can thus see that there had been a time in which the Greeks, too,
believed that after the separation of body and soul the psyche did not entirely cease from
intercourse with the upper world. Such a belief naturally called forth a cult of the soul,
which lasted on even when the method of burying the body had changed, and even survived
into Homeric times, when, with the prevalence of other beliefs, such observances ceased to
have any meaning.
Homer consistently assumes the departure of the soul into an inaccessible land of the
dead where it exists in an unconscious half-life. There it is without clear
self-consciousness and consequently neither desires nor wills anything. It has no
influence on the upper world, and consequently no longer receives any share of the worship
of the living. The dead are beyond the reach of any feelings whether of fear or love. No
means exists of forcing or enticing them back again. Homer knows nothing of necromancy or
of oracles of the dead,55 both common in later Greek life. Gods come into the poems and
take part in the action of the story; the souls of the departed never do. Homer’s
immediate successors in the Epic tradition think quite differently on this point; but for
Homer the soul, once relegated to Hades, has no further importance.
If we think how different it must have been before the time of Homer, and how different
it certainly was after him, we can hardly help feeling surprise at finding at this early
stage of Greek culture such extraordinary freedom from superstitious fears in that very
domain where superstition is generally most deeply rooted. Inquiries, however, into the
origin and cause of such an untroubled attitude must be made very cautiously and a
completely conclusive answer must not be expected. More especially it must be borne in
mind that in these poems we have to do, directly and immediately, at least, only with the
poet and his circle. The Homeric Epos can only be called “folk poetry” in the sense that
it was adapted to the acceptance of the
whole family of Greek-speaking people who welcomed it eagerly and transformed it to their
own uses; and not because the “folk” in some mystical sense had a share in its
composition. Many hands contributed to the composition of the poem, but they merely
carried it further in the general direction which had been given to it not by the “Folk”
or by the “Saga” tradition, as is sometimes too confidently asserted, but by the authority
of the greatest poetic genius that the Greeks or, indeed, mankind ever knew. The tradition
once formed was handed on by a close corporation of master-poets and their pupils who
preserved, disseminated, continued and imitated the original great poet’s work. If, then,
we find on the whole, and apart from a few vagaries in detail, a single unified picture of
the world, of gods and men, life and death, given in these two poems, that is the picture
which shaped itself in the mind of Homer and was impressed upon his work, and afterwards
preserved by the Homeridai. It is plain that the freedom, almost the freethinking, with
which every possible occurrence in the world is regarded in these poems, cannot ever have
been characteristic of a whole people or race. And not only the animating spirit, but even
the outward shape that is given in the two epic poems to the ideal world surrounding and
ruling over the world of men, is the work of the poet. It was no priestly theology that
gave him his picture of the gods. The popular beliefs of the time, each peculiar to some
countryside, canton, or city, must, if left to themselves, have split up into even more
contradictory varieties of thought than they did in later times when there existed some
few religious institutions common to all Hellas to act as centres of union. The poet alone
must have been responsible for the conception and consistent execution of the picture of a
single and unified world of gods, confined to a select company of sharply characterized
heavenly beings, grouped together in certain well-recognized ways and dwelling together in
a single place of residence above the earth. If we listened to Homer alone we should
suppose that the innumerable local cults of Greece, with their gods closely bound to the
soil, hardly existed. Homer ignores them almost entirely. His gods are pan-Hellenic,
Olympian. In fact, in his picture of the gods, Homer fulfilled most completely his special
poetic task of reducing confusion and superfluity to uniformity and symmetry of
design—the very task which Greek idealism in art continually set before itself. In
his picture Greek beliefs about the gods appear absolutely uniform—as
uniform as dialect, political condition, manners, and morals. In reality—of this we may be sure—no
such uniformity existed; the main outlines of pan-Hellenism were doubtless there, but only
the genius of the poet can have combined and fused them into a purely imaginary whole.
Provincial differences in themselves interested him not at all. So, too, in the special
question that we are considering, if we find him speaking of a single kingdom of the
underworld, the resort of all departed spirits ruled over by a single pair of divinities
and removed as far from the world of men and their cities as the Olympian dwelling of the
Blessed Ones is in the opposite direction, who shall say how far he represents naive
popular belief in such matters? On this side Olympus, the meeting place of all the gods
that rule in the daylight;56 on that the realm of Hades that holds in its grasp the unseen
spirits that have left this life behind—the parallel is too apparent to be due to
anything but the same simplifying and co-ordinating spirit in the one case as in the
other.
It would, however, be an equally complete misunderstanding of the relation in which
Homer stood to the popular beliefs of his time if we imagined that relation to be one of
opposition, or even supposed him to have taken up an attitude resembling that of Pindar or
the Attic Tragedians towards the conventional opinions of their time. These later poets
often enough allow us to see quite clearly the intentional departure from normal opinion
represented by their more advanced conceptions. Homer, on the contrary, is as free from
controversy as he is from dogma. He does not offer his pictures of God, the world and fate
as anything peculiar to himself; and it is natural, therefore, to suppose that his public
recognized them as substantially the same as their own. The poet has not taken over the
whole body of popular belief, but what he does say must have belonged to popular belief.
The selection and combination of this material into a consistent whole was the poet’s real
work. If the Homeric creed had not been so constructed in essentials that it corresponded
to the beliefs of the time, or, at least, could be made to correspond, then it is
impossible to account (even allowing for the poetic tradition of a school) for the
uniformity that marks the work of the many poets that had a hand in the composition of the
two poems. In this narrow sense it can be truly said that Homer’s poems represent the
popular belief of their time; not, indeed, the belief of all Greece, but only of the
Ionian cities of the coasts
and islands of Asia Minor in which the poet and his songs were at home. In a similarly
restricted sense may the pictures of outward life and manners that we find in the Iliad
and the Odyssey be taken as a reflection of the contemporary life of the Greeks with
particular reference to that of the Ionians. This life must have differed in many respects
from that of the “Mycenæan civilization”, and there can be little doubt that the reasons
for this difference are to be sought in the long-continued disturbances which marked the
centuries that divide Homer from the age of Mycenæ, more especially in the Greek
migrations, both in what they destroyed and what they created. The violent invasion of
northern Greek peoples into the central mainland and the Peloponnese, the destruction of
ancient empires and their civilization, the foundation of new Dorian states held by right
of conquest, the great migrations to the Asiatic coasts, and the institution of a new life
on foreign soil—all these violent modifications of the old course of existence must
have dealt a severe blow at the whole fabric of that civilization and culture. In the same
way we find that the cult of Souls and the conception of the fate of departed spirits
which governed this cult did not remain in Ionia (the beliefs of which country are
reflected in Homer) what it had been at the height of the Mycenæan period. To this change,
as to the others which accompanied it, we may well suppose that the struggles and
wanderings of the intermediate period contributed a good deal. Homer’s clear-sighted
vision that transcends the limits of city and even of racial gods, faiths, and worships,
would hardly be explicable without the freedom of movement beyond the boundaries of
country, the common life shared with companions of other races, the widened knowledge of
all the conditions of foreign life, such as must have resulted from the dislocations and
migrations of whole peoples. It is true that the Ionians of Asia Minor did, as we can
prove, take a good many of their religious observances with them to their new homes. The
migrations, however, did not preserve the connexion between the old homes and the new
country with anything like the closeness that marked the later colonization; and when the
colonists left the familiar soil behind, the local cults attached to the soil must often
have had to be abandoned, too. Now the worship of ancestors, connected as it was with the
actual graves of those ancestors, was essentially a local cult. Remembrance of
the great ones of the past might survive transplantation, but not their religious worship,
which could only be offered at the one spot where their bodies lay buried and which had now been left behind
in an enemy’s country. The deeds of ancestors lived on in song, but they themselves began
to be relegated to the domain of poetry and imagination. Imagination might adorn the story
of their earthly life, but a world that was no longer reminded of their power by the
regularly repeated performance of ceremonial, ceased to pay honour to their disembodied
souls. Thus the most highly developed form of the cult of Souls—ancestor
worship—died out, and the later version of the same thing, the cult of those of the
tribe that had died in the new land and been buried there, was prevented from attaining a
similar force and development by the newly-introduced practice of burning the bodies of
the dead. It may well be that the origin of this new form of funeral rite lay, as
has been suggested, in the wish to dismiss the soul of the dead man as quickly and
completely as possible from the realm of the living; but it is beyond doubt that the
result of this practice was to cut at the root of the belief in the near presence
of the departed and the duty of performing the religious observances that were their
right; so that such things being deprived of their support, fell into decay and
disappeared.
We can thus see at least dimly how it was that the Ionian people of the Homeric age
were led by the events of their own history and the alteration in funeral customs into
holding that view of the soul which a study of their own poets has persuaded us was
theirs. This view can hardly have retained more than a few stray vestiges of the ancient
cult of the dead. Still, we should only be in a position to say what were the real reasons
for this alteration in belief and custom if we knew and understood more about the
intellectual changes that led to the gradual appearance of the Homeric view of
the world; a view which included within its range a set of beliefs about the soul. Here it
is best to confess our ignorance. We have before us the results only of those changes.
From them, however, we can at least perceive that the religious consciousness of the
Greeks, among whom Homer sang, had developed in a direction which did not allow much scope
to the belief in ghosts and spirits of the dead. The Homeric Greeks had the deepest
consciousness of man’s finite nature, of his dependence upon forces that lay without him.
To remind himself of this and be content with his lot was his proper form of piety. Over
him the gods hold sway, wielding a supernatural power—not infrequently a misguided and capricious power—but a
conception of a general world-order is beginning to make its way; of a plan underlying the
cross-purposes of individual and common life, working itself out in accordance with
measured and appointed lot (μοῖρα). The
arbitrary power of individual daimones is thus limited, and it is limited further
by the will of the highest of the gods. The belief is growing that the world is, in fact,
a cosmos, a perfect organization such as men try to establish in their earthly states. In
the face of such conceptions it would be increasingly difficult to believe in the vagaries
of a supernatural ghostly order which, in direct opposition to the real heavenly order, is
always distinguished by the fact that it stands outside any all-embracing dispensation,
and allows full play to the caprice and malice of individual unseen powers. The irrational
and the unaccountable is the natural element of the belief in ghosts and spirits; this is
the source of the peculiar disquiet inspired by this province of belief or superstition.
It owes most of its effect to the instability of its fibres. The Homeric world, on the
contrary, lives by reason; its gods are fully intelligible to Greek minds and their forms
and behaviour are clearly and easily comprehensible to Greek imagination. And the more
distinctly were the gods represented, the more did the spirit-phantoms fade away into
empty shadows. There was no one who might have been interested in the preservation and
extension of the superstitious side of religion; there was in particular no priesthood
with a monopoly of instruction or an exclusive knowledge of the details of ritual and the
methods of controlling the behaviour of spirits. If anyone did possess any monopoly of
teaching, it was, in this age when all the highest faculties of the spirit found their
expression in poetry, the poet and the singer. They, however, showed a completely
“secular” outlook even in religious matters. Indeed, these very clear-headed men,
belonging to the same stock which in a later age “invented” (if one may be allowed to put
it so) science and philosophy, were already displaying a mental attitude that distantly
threatened the whole system of that plastic representation of things spiritual which the
older antiquity had laboriously constructed.
The earliest view held by primitive man about the activities of willing, feeling, or
thinking, regards them simply as the manifestations of something which lives and wills
inside the visible man. This something is regarded as embodied in one or other of the
organs of the human body or as concealed therein. Accordingly the Homeric poems give the name of the
“midriff” (φρήν, φρένες) to most
of the phenomena of will or feeling and even to those of the intellect. The “heart” (ἦτορ, κῆρ) is also the name of a
variety of feelings that were regarded as located in the heart and even identified with
it. But this mode of expression had already for Homer become mere formula; such
expressions are not always to be taken literally; the words of the poet often show that as
a matter of fact he thought of these functions and emotions as incorporeal, though they
were still named after parts of the body.57 And so we often find mentioned side by side with the “midriff”
and in the closest conjunction with it, the θυμός, a name which is not taken from any bodily organ and shows
already that it is thought of as an immaterial function. In the same way many other words
of this kind (νόος-νοεῖν-νόημα, βουλή, μένος, μῆτις) are used to describe faculties
and activities of the will, sense, or thought, and show that these activities are thought
of as independent, free-working, and incorporeal. A single thread still attaches the poet
to the modes of conception and expression of the older world, but he himself has
penetrated adventurously far into the realm of pure spirit. With a less cultured people
the identification of the special functions of the will and the intellect only leads to
the materialization of these into the notion of special physical entities, and
consequently to the association of still other “souls”, in the shape of “Conscience”, it
may be, or “Will”, in addition to that other shadowy “double” of mankind, the “second
self”.58 The tendency
of the Homeric singers was already setting in just the opposite direction—the
mythology of the “inner man” was breaking down altogether. They had only to take a few
steps further in the same direction to find that they could dispense with the
psyche as well. The belief in the existence of the psyche was the oldest and most
primitive hypothesis adopted by mankind to explain the phenomena of dreams, swoons, and
ecstatic visions; these mysterious states were accounted for by the intervention of a
special material personality. Now, Homer has little interest in premonitions and ecstatic
states, and no inclination in that direction whatever. He cannot, therefore, have been
very much concerned with the evidence for the existence of a psyche in living men. The
final proof of the idea that the psyche must have been dwelling in man is the fact that it
is separated from him in death. A man dies when he breathes out his last breath. This
breath, something like a breath of air, and not a “nothing”, any more than the wind its
relative, but a body with a definite
form (though it may not be visible to waking eyes)—this is the psyche, whose shape,
the image of the man himself, is well known from dream-vision. One, however, who has
become accustomed to the idea of bodiless powers working inside man will, on this last
occasion when the powers within man show themselves, be likely to suppose that what brings
about the death of a man is not a physical thing that goes out of him, but a power—a
quality—which ceases to act; nothing else, in fact, than his “life”. And he would
not, of course, think of ascribing an independent continuous existence after the
disruption of the body to a mere abstract idea like “life”. Homer, however, never got
quite as far as this; for the most part the psyche is for him and always remains a real
“thing”—the man’s second self. But that he had already begun to tread the slippery
path in the course of which the psyche is transformed into an abstract “concept of life”,
is shown by the fact that he several times quite unmistakably uses the word “psyche” when
we should say “life”.59 It is essentially the same mode of thought that leads him to say
“midriff” (φρένες) when he no longer means the
physical diaphragm, but the abstract concept of will or intellect. To say “psyche” instead
of “life” is not the same thing as saying “life” instead of “psyche” (and Homer never did
the latter); but it is clear that for him in the process of dematerializing such concepts,
even the psyche, a figure once so full of significance, is beginning to fade and vanish
away.
The separation from the land of their forefathers, and habituation to the use of
cremation, the new direction taken by religious thought, the tendency to turn the once
material forces of man’s inner life into attractions—all these things contributed to
weaken the belief in a powerful and significant life of the disembodied soul and its
connexion with the affairs of this world. And at the same time it caused the decline of
the cult of the Souls. So much, I think, we may safely assert. The deepest and most
fundamental reasons for this decline in both belief and cult may elude our search, just as
it is impossible for us to be sure how far in detail the Homeric poems reflect the beliefs
of the people who first listened to them, and where the free invention of the poet begins.
But the combination of the various elements of belief into a whole which, though far from
being a dogmatically closed system, may yet not unfairly be called the Homeric
Theology—this, we may say, is most probably the work of the poet. The poet has a
free hand in the picture he gives of the gods and never comes into conflict with any
popular doctrine because Greek religion
then, as always, consisted essentially in the right honouring of the gods of the country
and not in any particular set of dogmas. There could hardly be any general conception of
godhead and divinity with which the poet might come into conflict. That the popular mind
absorbed thoroughly that picture of the world of gods which the Homeric poems had given,
is shown by the whole future development of Greek culture and religion. If divergent
conceptions did, in fact, also maintain themselves, they derived their strength not so
much from a different religious theory, as from the postulates of a different religious
cult that had not been influenced by any poet’s imagination. They might also more
particularly have had the effect of causing an incidental obscurity within the epic
itself, in the poet’s vision of the Unseen World and its life.
A test case of the thorough-going uniformity and consistency of the Homeric conception
of the nature and circumstances of the souls of the departed is provided for us, within
the limits of the poems themselves, by the story of Odysseus’ Journey to
Hades—a test they are hardly likely to survive, it may well be thought. How is
the poet in describing a living hero’s dealings with the inhabitants of the shadow-world,
going to preserve the immaterial, dreamlike character of the Homeric “Souls”? How keep up
the picture of the soul as something that holds itself resolutely aloof and seems to avoid
all active intercourse with other folk? It is hard to see what could tempt the poet to try
and penetrate with the torch of imagination into this underworld of ineffectual shadows.
The matter becomes somewhat more intelligible, however, as soon as it is realized in what
manner the narrative arose; how through continual additions from later hands it gradually
assumed a form quite unlike itself.60
It may be taken as one of the few certain results of the critical analysis of the
Homeric poems that the narrative of the Descent of Odysseus to the Underworld did not form
part of the original plan of the Odyssey. Kirke bids Odysseus undertake the journey to
Hades in order that he may see Teiresias there and be told of “the way and the means of
his return, and how he may reach his home again over the fish-teeming deep” (Od. x,
530 f.). Teiresias, however, on being
discovered in the realm of shadows, fulfils this requirement only very partially and
superficially. Whereupon, Kirke herself gives to the returned Odysseus a much fuller
account, and as regards the one point already mentioned by Teiresias, a much more precise
account, of the perils that lie before him on his homeward journey.61 The journey to the land of the dead was
thus unnecessary, and there can be no doubt that originally it had no place in the poem.
It is plain, however, that the composer of this adventure only used the (superfluous)
inquiry addressed to Teiresias as a pretext which afforded a more or less plausible motive
for the introduction of this narrative into the body of the poem. The real object of the
poet, the true motive of the story, must then be sought elsewhere than in the prophecy of
Teiresias, which turns out to be so brief and unhelpful. It would be natural to suppose
that the aim of the poet was to give the eye of imagination a glimpse into the marvels and
terrors of that dark realm into which all men must go. Such an intention would be very
intelligible in the case of a medieval or a Greek poet of later times; and there were
afterwards plenty of Greek poems which described a Descent to Hades. But it would be hard
to account for it in a poet of the Homeric school; for such a poet the realm of the dead
and its inhabitants could hardly supply a subject for a narrative. And, in fact, the
inventor of Odysseus’ visit to the dead had quite a different object in view. He was
anything but a Greek Dante. It is possible to see the purpose which guided him as soon as
his poem is stripped of the manifold additions with which later times invested it. The
original kernel which thus remains is then seen to be nothing but a series of
conversations between Odysseus and the souls of those of the dead with whom he had stood
in close personal relationship. Besides Teiresias he speaks with his old ship-companion
Elpenor, who had just died, with his mother Antikleia, with Agamemnon and Achilles; and he
tries in vain to effect a reconciliation with the implacable Aias. These conversations in
Hades are, for the general furtherance of the story of Odysseus’ wanderings and return,
quite superfluous, and they serve in a very minor degree and only incidentally to give
information about the conditions and character of the inscrutable world beyond the grave.
The questions and answers there given are confined entirely to the affairs of the upper
world. They bring Odysseus, who has now been wandering so long alone and far from the
world of actual humanity, into ideal association with the substantial world of flesh and
blood to which his thoughts stretch
out, and in which he himself had once been an actor and is soon to play an important part
again.62 His mother
informs him of the distracted state of Ithaca, Agamemnon of the treacherous deed of
Aigisthos carried out with the help of Klytaimnestra. Odysseus himself is able to console
Achilles with an account of the heroic deeds of his son, who is still alive in the
daylight; with Aias, resentful even in Hades, he cannot come to terms. Thus the theme of
the second part of the Odyssey begins to appear; even to the shadows below there reaches
an echo of the great deeds of the Trojan war and of the adventures of the Return from
Troy, which occupied the minds of all the singers of the time. The introduction of these
stories by means of conversations with the persons who took part in them is the essential
purpose of the poet. The impelling instinct to expand in all directions the circle of
legend in whose centre stood the adventure of the Iliad, and link it up with other circles
of heroic legend, was fully satisfied by later poets in the separate poems of the Epic
Cycle. At the time when the Odyssey was composed these other epic narratives were in the
full tide of their youthful exuberance. The streams had not yet found a convenient bed in
which to run, and they added their individual contributions (for they all related events
which preceded it) to the elaborate narration of the return of the last Hero who still
wandered vainly and alone. The main object of the story of Telemachos’ journey to meet
Nestor and Menelaos (in the third and fourth books of the Odyssey) is manifestly to bring
the son into relation with the father’s companions in war, and so to provide occasion for
further narratives in which a more detailed picture of some of the events between the
Iliad and the Odyssey might be given. Demodokos, the Phæacian bard, is made to recount (in
abbreviated form) two adventures that had occurred to the great chieftain. Even when such
stories did not immediately add to the picture of Odysseus’ deeds or character, they
served to point to the great background from which the adventures of the much-enduring
wanderer, now completely isolated, should stand out; and to set these in the ideal
framework which could alone give them their full significance. This natural creative
instinct of legendary poetry also inspired the poet of the “Journey to Hades”. He, too,
saw the adventures of Odysseus not in isolation but in lively and vital connexion with all
the other adventures that took their origin from Troy. He conceived the idea of bringing
once more, for the last time, the chieftain famed in council and war, into communication
with the mightiest king and the noblest
hero of that famous expedition; and to do that he had to take him to the realm of the
shadows which had long contained them. Nor could he well avoid the tone of pathos which is
natural to this interview on the borders of the realm of nothingness to which all the
desire and the strength of life must eventually come. The questioning of Teiresias is
merely, as has been said, the poet’s pretext for confronting Odysseus with his mother and
his former companions, and this meeting was his prime motive. Probably this particular
device was suggested by the recollection of the story which Menelaos tells of his meeting
with Proteus, the Old Man of the Sea (Od. iv, 351 ff.),63 where the inquiry from the seer as to the
means of reaching home again is also a mere pretext for the narration of Return
adventures—those of Aias, Agamemnon, and Odysseus.
It is certain that the intention of this poet cannot possibly have been simply the
description of the underworld for its own sake. Even the scenery of these mysterious
incidents which might well have attracted his fancy, is only given in brief allusions. The
ship sails over Okeanos to the people of the Kimmerians64 that never see the sun, and reaches at
last the “barren coast” and the “Grove of Persephone”, with its black poplars and weeping
willows. Odysseus with two companions goes on ahead to the entrance of Erebos, where
Pyriphlegethon and Kokytos, a branch of the Styx, flow into Acheron. There he digs his
sacrificial trench to which the souls flock upward out of Erebos over the
asphodel-meadows. It is the same underworld in the bowels of the earth that is presupposed
in the Iliad, too, as the dwelling-place of the dead, only more accurately described and
more fully realized.65
The details of the picture are so lightly sketched in that one might well suppose that
they, too, had been taken from some older mythical material. At any rate, he borrowed the
“Styx”, so well known in the Iliad; and it may be supposed that the same applies to the
other rivers as well, whose names are clearly derived from words meaning burning (of dead
bodies?),66
lamentation, and sorrow.67 The poet himself, interested only in the representation of
character, is not at all disposed to dwell upon the merely fanciful, and confines himself
to a few brief allusions. Nor does he give any very lengthy account of the dwellers in
Erebos, and what he does say of them keeps well within the limits of the usual Homeric
belief. The Souls resemble shadow- or dream-pictures, and are impalpable to the human touch.68 They are without consciousness when they
appear. Elpenor alone, whose body still lies unburnt, has for that very reason retained
his senses and even shows a form of heightened consciousness that approaches prophecy;
resembling in this respect Patroklos and Hektor at the moment when the psyche is parted
from the body.69 This,
however, is to leave him as soon as his corpse is destroyed. Teiresias alone, the prophet
famed above all others in Theban legend, has preserved his consciousness and prophetic
vision even in the Shadow-world through the good-will of Persephone; but this is an
exception which only establishes the rule. What Antikleia tells her son of the
powerlessness and immateriality of the soul after the burning of the body70 sounds almost like an
official confirmation of the orthodox Homeric view. Everything, in fact, in this poet’s
description enforces the truth of this belief, and though the living are, indeed,
untroubled by the feeble souls banished to outer darkness, yet out of Erebos itself the
piteous knell of this decree reaches us in the lament of Achilles as he refuses his
friend’s attempt at comfort—everyone knows the unforgettable words.
And yet the poet ventures to go beyond Homer in one important point. What he hints
rather than actually says of the condition of things in Hades conflicts in no single point
with the conventional Homeric view; but it is an innovation to suggest that this condition
of things can even for the briefest moment be interrupted. The blood drunk by the souls
gives them back for a moment their consciousness; their remembrance of the upper world
returns to them. Their senses must then all the while have been not dead but sleeping.
There can be no doubt that the poet for whom this supposition is indispensable to his
story did not thereby intend to formulate an entirely new doctrine. But in order to add to
his poetic effect, he was led to include in his story some touches which, meaningless
within the circle of his own beliefs, pointed elsewhere, and, indeed, backward, to older,
quite differently moulded beliefs, and to the usages founded upon them. He makes Odysseus,
following the advice of Kirke, dig a grave at the entrance of Hades in which to pour out a
solemn drink-offering to “all the dead”, consisting first of all in a mixture of milk and
honey, then wine and water, over which white meal is finely sprinkled. Next he slays a ram
and a black ewe, bending their heads downwards into the grave.71 Then the bodies of the animals are burnt, and round the blood
collect all the souls, who flutter about it, kept at a distance by Odysseus’ sword72 till Teiresias has
first drunk. Here the drink-offerings constitute undoubtedly a sacrificial offering
devoted to the dead and poured out for their satisfaction. The poet indeed does not think
of the slaughtered animals as a sacrifice; the tasting of the blood is simply intended to
restore to the souls their consciousness; in the case of Teiresias, who retains his
senses, the gift of prophetic clairvoyance. But this, we can see clearly, is a fiction of
the poet’s: what he here describes is in every detail a sacrifice to the dead, such as we
so often find described as such in accounts from later times. The scent of the blood calls
up the spirits; their satiation with blood (αἱμακουρία) is the essential purpose of such offerings; and
these are what the poet’s imagination dimly recalls as models. Nothing in this picture has
been invented. Neither, on the other hand, it is quite clear, has he altered his
sacrificial ceremony to make it fit in with novel ideas that were beginning to
gain ground; ideas that ascribed a more vital existence to the souls of the dead. For
here, too, just as in the case of the offerings to the dead described in the funeral of
Patroklos, the poet’s manner of conceiving the life of the dead is not such as could give
support to new and more vigorous cult ceremonies. His conception tends rather to
contradict the ceremonies that he describes. In fact, what we have here, too, is a
“fossilized” and no longer intelligible vestige of a practice that was once rooted in
belief—a relic deprived of its original meaning and adapted by the poet to the
special purposes of his narrative. The sacrificial ritual used to attract the souls on
this occasion strikingly resembles the ritual which was used in later times to conjure up
the souls of the dead at those places which were supposed to give entrance to the ghostly
world below the earth. It is also not impossible that, even in the time of the poet of the
“Journey to Hades”, in some remote corners of Greek lands such calling-up of the dead was
still practised as a relic of former belief. But, supposing that the poet had some
information of such local cults of the dead, and modelled his story on them,73 that only makes it the
more remarkable that he effaces all trace of the original meaning of his ritual, and in
adherence to the strict Homeric doctrine on the point, banishes all thought that the souls
may possibly continue in the neighbourhood of the living and can thence be conjured up
into the light of day.74 He knows only of one kingdom of the Dead far off in the dim West,
beyond the bounds of sea and ocean,
where the legendary hero of romance can, indeed, reach its gateway, but where alone he can
have communication with the souls of the dead. The House of Hades never allows its
inhabitants to pass out.
And yet all this is hopelessly contradicted by the votive offerings that the poet, by
what can only be called an oversight, makes Odysseus promise to all the dead, and
particularly to Teiresias, upon his return home (Od. x, 521–6; xi,
29–33). Of what use would it be to the dead to receive the offering of a “barren
cow”,75 of “treasures”
burnt upon the funeral pyre; or how could Teiresias enjoy the slaughtering of a black
sheep far away in Ithaca—when they are all confined to Erebos and could not taste
the offerings made to them? This is the most remarkable and important of all vestiges of
an ancient worship of the dead. It proves indubitably that in pre-Homeric times the belief
prevailed that even after the funeral of the body the soul is not eternally banished to
the inaccessible land of shadows, but is able to approach the sacrificer and to enjoy the
sacrifices offered to it, just as much as the gods can. A single obscure allusion in the
Iliad76 suggests what
is here much more clearly and almost naïvely revealed—namely that even at the time
when the Homeric view of the nothingness of the souls for ever parted from their bodies
reigned supreme, the custom of making offerings to the dead after the funeral was over
(though in exceptional circumstances only, and not as a regularly recurring performance)
had not been entirely forgotten.
The contradictions into which he is betrayed by the introduction of such intercourse
between the living and the dead proves that the undertaking was rather venturesome for a
Homeric poet of strictly orthodox views. Still, in the picture of Odysseus’ meeting with
his mother and former companions, which was his main object, the poet hardly strayed at
all from the normal Homeric path. This, however, was, as it happened, the very point in
which later generations of poetically inclined readers or hearers found his narrative
wanting. He himself carefully linked up every detail with his living hero, the central
interest of his story, and only made him speak with the souls of such as had some real and
close connexion with him. A review of the motley inhabitants of the underworld in their
multitude hardly interested him at all. It was the very thing which seemed indispensable
to later readers. They made additions to his story and introduced the multitudes of the
dead of all ages; the warriors with
wounds still visible and in bloodstained armour;77 or else, more in the manner of a Hesiodic
catalogue for the assistance of the memory than making them live in Homeric fashion for
the imagination, they pictured a whole host of mothers, the illustrious ancestors of great
families, passing before Odysseus, though they had no particular claim upon his sympathy;
nor, indeed, is any serious attempt made to bring them into relationship with him.78 This seemed to improve
the picture of the general multitude of the dead, represented in the persons of selected
individuals. Next, the condition of things in the world below must at least be illustrated
by a few examples. Odysseus casts a glance into the inner recesses of the
underworld—which was hardly possible for him, considering that he stood at its
outermost gateway—and sees there the heroic figures of those who, like true “images”
(εἴδωλα) of the living, still continue
the activities of their former lives. There he sees Minos giving judgment among the dead,
Orion hunting, Herakles still with the bow in his hand, and the arrow fitted to the
string, “like one ever about to shoot.” This is certainly not Herakles, the “Hero-God”, as
he was known to later ages. The poet knows nothing as yet of the elevation of the son of
Zeus above the lot of all mortals-—any more than the earliest poet of the “Journey”
knew of the translation of Achilles out of Hades. The disregard of such things was
naturally regarded by later readers as a negligence on the part of the poet. And, in fact,
they boldly inserted three verses here which inform us that he “himself”, the real
Herakles, dwells among the gods—what Odysseus saw in Hades was only his counterfeit.
Whoever wrote this was practising a little original theology on his own account. Such a
contrast between a fully animated “self” possessing the original man’s body and soul still
united, and a counterfeit presentment of himself (which cannot be his psyche) relegated to
Hades, is quite strange both to Homer and to Greek thought of later times.79 It is, in fact, an
example of the earliest “harmonizer’s” solution of a difficulty. The poet does, indeed,
attempt to connect Herakles with Odysseus by making the two enter into conversation, in
imitation of the conversations with Agamemnon and Achilles. But it is soon evident that
these two have really nothing to say to each other; Odysseus, in fact, is silent. There
was no real relationship between them, at most an analogy; Herakles, too, having once
descended alive into Hades. This analogy alone, in fact, appears to have suggested the
introduction of Herakles in this place.80
There now remains (inserted after Minos and Orion and before Herakles and probably
composed by the same hand that was responsible for them) the incident of the three
“penitents” undergoing punishment; a passage that no reader can possibly forget. First
Tityos, whose giant frame is preyed upon by two vultures, is seen, then Tantalos, who in
the middle of a lake is parched with thirst and cannot reach up to the fruit-laden
branches over his head, and last Sisyphos, who is bound to roll up-hill the stone that
ever rolls back again. The limits of the Homeric conception (with which the pictures of
Minos, Orion, and Herakles might still perhaps be reconciled) are in these pictures
definitely overstepped. The souls of these three unfortunates are credited with complete
and continuous consciousness. Without this, their punishment would not have been felt and
would not have been inflicted. And, observing the extraordinarily matter-of-fact and
cursory description, which takes the reasons of the punishment for granted except in the
case of Tityos, we cannot help feeling that these examples of punishment after death were
not invented for the first time by the composer of these lines. They cannot have been
offered to the astonished ears of their hearers as a daring novelty, but were rather
recalled briefly to those hearers’ recollection. Probably these three are selected as
examples out of a much larger collection of such pictures. Can it be that still older
poets (who may still, however, have been more recent than the poet of the earliest parts
of the “Journey”) had already dared to desert the Homeric view of the soul?
However that may be, we may be sure that the punishment of the three “penitents” was
not intended to contradict flatly the Homeric conception of the unconsciousness and
nothingness of the shades. They could not in that case have accommodated themselves so
well to a poem that is founded upon such conceptions. They do not disprove the rule
because they are, and are only intended to be, exceptions to that rule. This,
however, would be impossible if it were justifiable to interpret the poet’s fiction as
representing, in the person of these three unfortunates, three types of special sins and
classes of sinners; as, for example, unbridled Lust (Tityos), insatiable Gluttony
(Tantalos), and Pride of the Intellect (Sisyphos).81 They would in that case be particular
examples of the retribution which one must think of as being extended to all the
innumerable hosts of shadows who have been guilty of the same sins. But nothing in the
description itself warrants such a theological interpretation; indeed, we have no reason
or excuse for attributing to this
particular poet such a desire to prove the existence of a compensatory justice in an after
life. It is quite strange to Homer, and so far as it ever became known to later Greek
theology, it was only introduced very late, through the influence of a speculative
mysticism. No, the almighty power of the gods is able in special cases, so this picture
assures us, to preserve for individual souls their consciousness; in the case of Teiresias
as a reward, in the case of these three objects of the gods’ hatred, in order that they
may be capable of feeling their punishment. The real fault for which they are punished can
be guessed fairly certainly from what the poet tells us about Tityos—it is in each
case a grievous offence committed by them against the gods. The crime of Tantalos we can
make out from what we know of him through other sources. It is less easy to discover what
was the exact misdeed for which the crafty Sisyphos is punished.82 In any case, it is clear that retribution
has overtaken all three of them for sins against the gods themselves—sins which
human beings of later times could not possibly commit. And for this reason alone, neither
their deeds nor their punishment can have anything typical or representative about them;
they are sheer exceptions, and that is why the poet found them interesting.
The episode of Odysseus’ journey to Hades (even in its latest portions) suggests no
acquaintance whatever with any general class of sinners who receive their punishment in
that place. If, indeed, it had alluded to the punishment in the after-world of
perjurers, orthodox Homeric doctrine would not in that case have been violated.
Twice over in the Iliad, on solemn occasions of oath-taking, besides the gods of the upper
world, the Erinyes also are called upon as witnesses of the oath; for they punish under
the earth those who break their oath.83 Not without reason have these passages been held to show “that
the Homeric conception of the phantasmal half-life of the souls under the earth, where
they are without feeling or consciousness, was not a general folk-belief.”84 We must add, however,
that the belief held in Homeric times of the punishment of oath-breakers in the realm of
shadows cannot as yet have been very vital, for it was quite unable to prevent the success
of the totally incompatible belief in the unconscious nothingness of disembodied spirits.
A solemn oath-formula (so much that is primitive persisting, even after it has become dead
letter, in formula) preserved a reference to that ancient belief, which had become strange
to Homeric ears—a vestige, in fact, of a bygone point of view. It may be that in the dim past, when men still vividly
and literally believed in the reality of a punishment in after life for perjury, all the
souls in Hades were credited with a conscious existence; but there never was a time when
men generally believed that earthly sins (including perjury as only one among many) were
punished in Hades. Oath-breaking was not punished as a specially outrageous moral
failing—it may well be doubted whether the Greeks ever considered or felt it to be
such. The perjurer, rather than any other particular sinner, was the special victim of the
dread goddesses, for the simple reason that the perjurer in his desire to emphasize in the
most awful manner his aversion to falsehood, has invoked against himself, if he fails to
keep his oath, the most terrible fate of all—to suffer torment in the realm of Hades
whence is no escape.85
To the Infernal Spirits of the Underworld, to whom he had condemned himself, he falls a
victim if he breaks his word. Belief in the supernatural power of such imprecations,86 and not any special
moral importance attached to truth-telling—an idea quite strange to the older
Antiquity—gave to the oath its peculiar terrors.
A final example of the tenacity with which custom may outlive the belief on which it is
founded is afforded by the story told of Odysseus, that in fleeing from the Kikonian land,
he did not leave it until he had called thrice upon those of his companions who had fallen
in the battle with the Kikones (Od. ix, 65–6). References to similar callings
upon the dead in later literature make the meaning of such behaviour clear. The souls of
the dead who have fallen in foreign lands must be “called”;87 they will then, if this is properly done,
follow the caller to their distant home, where an “empty grave” awaits them.88 This duty is regularly
performed in Homer for the benefit of those whose bodies it is impossible to recover and
bury in the proper way. But a summons of the dead and the erection of such empty
receptacles—intended for whom if not for the souls who must then be accessible to
the devotion of their relations?—was natural enough for those who believed in the
possibility of the soul’s sojourn in the neighbourhood of its living friends; it was not
admissible for supporters of the Homeric belief. Here we have once more a remarkable
vestige of an ancient belief, surviving in a custom that has not been entirely given up
even in altered times. Here, too, the belief which had given rise to the custom, was
extinct. If we ask the Homeric poet for
what purpose a mound was heaped up over the grave of the dead and a gravestone set upon
it, he will answer us: in order that his fame may remain imperishable among men, and that
future generations may not be ignorant of his story.89 That sounds truly Homeric. When a man dies
his soul departs into a region of twilit dream-life; his body, the visible man, perishes.
Only his glorious name, in fact, lives on. His praises speak to after ages from the
monument to his honour on his grave-mound—and in the song of the bard. A
poet would naturally be inclined to think such things.
CHAPTER II I SLANDS OF THE B LEST TRANSLATION — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — § 5 — § 6 — II — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — § 5 — NOTES TO CHAPTER II
The Homeric picture of the shadow-life of the disembodied soul is the work of
resignation, not of hope. Hope would never have beguiled itself with the anticipation of a
state of things which neither afforded men the chance of further activity after death,
nor, on the other hand, gave them rest from the toil of life; one which promised them only
a restless, purposeless fluttering to and fro, an existence, indeed, but without any of
the content that might have made it worthy of the name of life.
Was there never any aspiration after a more consolatory picture of the life after
death? Did the tremendous vital energies of that time really devote themselves so
completely to the realms of Zeus that not even a ray of hope penetrated to the House of
Hades? We should have had to suppose so were it not for a single passing glimpse which we
get of a distant land of hearts’ desire, such as even the Greece that lay under the sway
of the Homeric order of things still imagined for itself.
When Proteus, the sea-god who could foretell the future, has finished informing
Menelaos, on the sea-shore of Egypt, of the circumstances of his return home to his
country and of the fate of his dearest companions, he adds the prophetic words—so
Menelaos himself informs Telemachos in the fourth book of the Odyssey (560 ff.): “But
thou, god-like Menelaos, art not ordained to die in horse-pasturing Argos or to meet thy
fate there; for the immortals shall send thee far away to the Elysian plain, to the ends
of the world where dwells fair-haired Rhadamanthys, and where life is most easy for men.
There is neither snow nor heavy storms nor rain, but Okeanos ever sends zephyrs with
soft-breathing breezes to refresh men—because thou hast Helen to wife and art
thereby in their eyes the son-in-law of Zeus.”
These verses allow us a glimpse into a world about which the Homeric poems are
otherwise silent. At the end of the
world, by the River Okeanos, lies the “Elysian Plain”, a land where the sky is always
clear, as in the land where the gods live.1 There dwells the great Rhadamanthys, not alone, one may suppose as
“men” are spoken of (565, 568). Thither shall the gods some day send Menelaos—he is
not to die (562); that is to say, he is to reach that place alive nor shall he suffer
death there. The place to which he is to be sent is not a part of the realm of Hades, but
a land on the surface of the earth set apart as the abode not of disembodied “souls”, but
of men whose souls have not been separated from their visible selves—for only thus
can they feel and enjoy the sense of life (565). The picture which fancy has
drawn here is the precise opposite of the blessed immortality of the soul in its separate
existence. Just because such an idea remained quite unthinkable for Homeric singers, hope
sought and found an exit from the shadow-world which swallows up all living energy. Hope
imagined a land at the end of the world, but still of this world, to which occasionally
some few favourites of the gods might be “translated” without the psyche being separated
from its body and descending to Hades.
The actual mention of such miraculous “translation” stands alone in the Homeric poems,
and the passage in the Odyssey seems to have been introduced by a later hand.2 But the conditions of
such a miracle are all implied within the range of Homeric ideas. Menelaos is carried off
by the power of the gods and lives an eternal life far from the world of mortals. The
belief that a god could suddenly withdraw his earthly favourite from the eyes of men and
invisibly waft him away on the breeze not infrequently finds its application in the
battle-scenes of the Iliad.3 The gods could also make a mortal “invisible” for a prolonged
period. When Odysseus has been so long lost to his friends they suspect that the gods have
“made him invisible” (Od. i, 235 ff.); they do not regard him as “dead” but “the
Harpies have carried him away”, and he is consequently withdrawn from all human ken
(Od. i, 241 f.; xiv, 371). Penelope, in her grief, prays either for swift
death through the arrows of Artemis, or that a storm wind may lift her up and
carry her away on dark pathways to the mouths of Okeanos, that is, to the entrance of the
Land of the Dead (Od. xx, 61–5; 79 ff.).4 To explain her wish she recalls a fairy tale
of the kind that must often have been told in the women’s quarters; how the daughters of
Pandareos, after the violent death of their parents, were brought up to lovely maidenhood
by Aphrodite and provided by Hera, Artemis, and Athene with all kinds of gifts and accomplishments; till one day when Aphrodite
had gone to Olympos to ask Zeus to make a match for them, the Harpies came and carried
them off and made them the hand-maidens of the hated Erinyes.5 This folk-tale reveals more clearly than is
usual with the generally cultured Homeric narrative the popular belief that men might be
carried off permanently from the land of the living, and, without seeing death, live on in
another dwelling-place. For the daughters of Pandareos are carried away alive—to the
Kingdom of the Dead, it is true, for that is where they must go if they become the
servants of the Erinyes, the spirits of the underworld.6 That is where Penelope wishes to be carried
off, and without dying first—away from the land of the living which has become
intolerable for her. Such a translation is accomplished by means of the Harpies or the
Stormwind, which is the same thing, since the Harpies are nothing else but wind-deities of
a peculiarly sinister kind. They may be compared to the Devil’s Bride or the “Whirlwind’s
Bride” of German folk-tales, who rides in the whirlwind and also carries off men with
her.7 The Harpies and
what we are here told of them, belong to the “vulgar mythology” which so seldom finds any
expression in Homer; a popular folk-lore that could tell of many things between heaven and
earth of which the Homeric “grand style” takes little notice. In Homer the Harpies never
act on their own authority; only as the servants of the gods or of a single god do they
transport mortals where no word of man, no human power, can reach.8
The prophesied removal of Menelaos to the Elysian fields at the end of the world is
only another example of such a “translation” by the will and the might of the gods. Even
the fact that prolonged habitation in that happy land, inaccessible to other men, is
promised to him, does not differentiate the fate of Menelaos from that of the daughters of
Pandareos, or from that which Penelope wishes for herself. For Menelaos, however, immortal
life is promised not in Hades, or even at its entrance, but in a special country of the
blest, as though in a new kingdom of the gods. He is to become a “god”; for since to the
Homeric poets “god” and “immortal” are interchangeable terms, a man who is granted
immortality (that is, whose psyche is never separated from his visible self) becomes for
them a god.
It is also a Homeric belief that gods can raise mortals to their own realm, to
immortality. Kalypso wishes to make Odysseus “immortal and ageless for all time”, that he
may remain for ever by her side (Od. v, 135 f.; 209 f.; xxiii, 335 f.), that is to say, make him a god like herself.
The immortality of the gods is conditioned by the eating of the magic food ambrosia and
nectar;9 man, too, by
eating continually the food of the gods, becomes an immortal god. What Odysseus in his
longing for the earthly home, to which he is drawn by loyalty and duty, rejects, has been
attained by other mortals. The Homeric poems can tell of more than one mortal promoted to
immortal life.
As he is struggling in the stormy sea rescue comes to Odysseus in the person of Ino
Leukothea, once the daughter of Kadmos, “who had formerly been a mortal woman, but now in
the waves of the sea shares in the honour of the gods” (Od. v, 333 ff.).10 Did some god of the
sea bear her away and imprison her for ever in his own element? The belief existed that a
god might descend from heaven even upon an earthly maiden and carry her off for ever as
his spouse (Od. vi, 280 f.).11
Ganymede, the most beautiful of mortals, had been carried away by the gods to Olympos
to dwell among immortals, as the cup-bearer of Zeus (Il. xx, 232 ff.).12 He was a scion of the
old Trojan royal house, to which Tithonos also belonged, whom both the Iliad and the
Odyssey already know as the husband of Eos; from his side the goddess arose every morning
to bring the light of day to gods and men.13 It appears that she had “translated” her beloved not to Olympos
but to the distant dwelling-place by the River Okeanos from which she sets out in the
morning.14 It was Eos
who had once borne off the beautiful Orion, and in spite of the jealousy of the other gods
had enjoyed his love until Artemis “on Ortygia” had slain him with her gentle arrow
(Od. v, 122 ff.). The story may be derived from ancient star-myths, which
represented in the language of myth what is actually to be observed in the morning sky.
But in such myths the elements and celestial phenomena are thought of as living and
animate like men. And in the same way, these star-spirits, in accordance with the regular
development of legend, have long ago sunk, for the Homeric poet, to the level of earthly
youths and heroes. If the goddess can raise Orion into her own kingdom, then, according to
the belief of the time (which is all that matters to us here), the same thing might happen
to any mortal through the favour of the gods. A simple imitation of the same legend in a
purely human setting is the story of Kleitos, a youth of the family of the seer Melampous,
whom Eos has carried off for the sake of his beauty that he may dwell among the gods
(Od. xv, 249 f.).
The translation, then, of Menelaos, while still alive, to the ends of the earth to live
there in perpetual blessedness is indeed a miracle, but a miracle that finds its
justification and precedent in the range of Homeric belief. The only thing new about it is
that Menelaos has a special dwelling-place assigned to him, not in the land of the gods,
the proper realm of immortality, nor as in the case of Tithonos and as Kalypso desired for
Odysseus, in the company of a deity, but in a separate place specially allotted to the
translated hero, the Elysian fields. Nor does this appear to be the invention of the
writer of these lines. He refers so briefly to the “Land of the Departed”15 and its delights that
we are forced to believe that he did not himself originate so enticing a vision.16 He can only, in the
case of Menelaos, have added a fresh companion to the company of the blessed. That
Rhadamanthys the Just dwells there seems to be known to him from ancient tradition, for he
evidently only intends to recall the fact and does not think it necessary to justify this
selection of the brother of Minos.17 It might even be supposed that the picture of such a wonderland
had been invented and embellished by older poets simply for the benefit of Rhadamanthys.
The only novelty is that this picture, which has been fully adopted into the circle of
Homeric poetry, now includes a hero of the Trojan epic cycle among the number of those
translated to that land of ever unclouded happiness. The lines were inserted, as has
already been remarked, at a later date, into the prophecy of Proteus, and it is hard not
to suppose that the whole idea lay far from the thoughts of previous Homeric singers.
Would the flower of the heroic chivalry, including Achilles himself, have been doomed to
that dim shadow-world in which we see them wandering in the Nekyia of the Odyssey, if a
way out into a life exempt from death had already revealed itself to imagination at the
time when the Epic gave the stamp of its approval to the stories which dealt with the fate
of the greater number of the heroes? Because the poem of the Trojan War and the adventures
of the Return from Troy had not yet decided upon the fate of Menelaos, a later poet could
speak of his “translation” to the—since “discovered”—Land of Destiny. It is
highly probable that even at the time of the composition of the Journey to Hades of
Odysseus this conception—afterwards so important for the development of the Greek
belief in immortality—of a secluded resting-place of living and translated heroes
had not yet been completely formulated.
It fits easily into the framework of belief prevailing in the Homeric poems, but it is not
necessarily required by that framework. It is natural on this account to suppose that it
entered the Epic from without. And, remembering the Babylonian story of Hasisatra and the
Hebrew one of Enoch,18
both of whom without suffering death were translated into the realm of immortal
life—either to “Heaven” or to the “End of the Rivers” to the gods—we might be
inclined to follow the fashion that prevails in some quarters nowadays, and believe that
these earliest Greek translation legends were borrowed from Semitic tradition. Little,
however, would be gained by such a mechanical derivation. Here and in all such cases the
main question remains still unanswered: what were the reasons which led the Greek mind to
wish to borrow this particular idea at this particular time from abroad? In the present
instance at least, nothing argues specially for the handing on of the belief in
translation from one nation to another rather than for its independent origin in the
different countries out of similar needs.
This new idea did not contradict the normal Homeric beliefs about the soul but on the
contrary presupposed them and supplemented them without incongruity. It was also, as we
have seen, based upon conceptions that were familiar and natural to Greek thought. There
was, indeed, no need for any stimulus from without to produce from these materials the
undoubtedly new and peculiarly attractive idea of which we receive the earliest intimation
in the prophecy of Proteus.
The importance of this new creation for the later development of Greek belief makes it
all the more necessary to be quite clear as to what exactly this novelty really was. Was
it a Paradise for the pious and the just? A sort of Greek Valhalla for the bravest
heroes?—or was it that a reconciliation and adjustment between virtue and happiness
such as this life never knows had revealed itself to the eyes of hope in a Land of
Promise? Nothing of the kind is warranted by these lines. Menelaos was never particularly
remarkable for those virtues which the Homeric age rated highest.19 He is only to be transported to Elysium
because he has Helen to wife and is therefore the son-in-law of Zeus; such is Proteus’
prophecy to him. We are not told why Rhadamanthys has reached the place of happiness; nor
do we learn it through the title by which he was referred to almost invariably by later poets, the “Just”. We may, however,
remind ourselves that as brother of Minos he was also a son of Zeus.20 It was not virtue or merit that gave him a
claim to blessedness after this life; indeed, of any such claim we never find the least
trace. Just as the retention of the psyche in the body and the consequent avoidance of
death can occur only as a miracle or by magic—that is, as an exceptional
case—so does translation into the “Land of Destiny” remain a privilege of a few
special favourites of the gods. No one could deduce from such cases any article of faith
of universal application. The nearest parallel to this miraculous preservation of life for
a few individuals in a land of blessed repose is to be found in the equally miraculous
preservation of consciousness in those three enemies of the gods in Hades whom we hear of
in the Nekyia of the Odyssey. The Penitents in Erebos and the blessed in Elysium
correspond: both represent exceptions which do not destroy the rule and do not affect the
main outline of Homeric belief. In the first case, as in the second, the omnipotence of
Heaven has broken through the rule. Those, however, who owe to the special favour of the
gods their escape from death and their translation to Elysium are near relatives of the
gods. This seems to be the only reason for the favour shown to them.21 If therefore any more general reason
beyond the capricious good-will of some god is to account for the translation of these
individuals it might perhaps be found in the belief that near relationship with the gods,
that is, the very highest nobility of lineage, could preserve a man from the descent into
the common realm of hopeless nothingness after the separation of the psyche from the body.
In the same way the beliefs of many primitive peoples represent the ordinary man as
departing to a joyless country of the dead (if he is not annihilated altogether) while the
descendants of gods and kings, or the aristocracy, go to a land of unending happiness.22 Such a fancy, however,
is only dimly apparent in the promise made to Menelaos; nowhere is anything said of a
general rule from which the individual case might be deduced.—
But the individuals who are admitted to an everlasting life in the Elysian land at the
end of the world are much too distantly removed from the habitations of the living for
them to be credited with the power of influencing the world of men.23 They resemble the gods only in the
enjoyment accorded to them of an unendingly conscious life. Of the omnipotence of the gods they have not the smallest share24 any more than the
dwellers in Erebos, from whose fate their own is otherwise so different. We must not
suppose, therefore, that the origin of the stories of the promotion of individual heroes
above their companions and their translation into a distant dwelling-place, is to be
sought in any cultus offered to those individuals in their previous earthly
dwelling-place. Every religious cult is the worship of something real and powerful; no
popular religion and no poet’s fancy would have given the national heroes, if they were to
be regarded as powerful and worshipped accordingly, such a distant and inaccessible
home.
It was the free activity of the poetic fancy which created and embellished this last
refuge of human aspiration upon the Elysian plain. The needs which this new creation was
chiefly intended to satisfy were poetical and not religious.
The atmosphere of the younger of the two Homeric epics already differs widely from that
of its older companion, the Iliad, with its heroic delight in the untiring manifestation
of vital energy. It is likely that the feelings of the conquerors of a new home upon the Asiatic coast
may have differed considerably from those of the same people confirmed in undisturbed
possession and enjoyment of their conquests. It seems as if the Odyssey reflected the
temper and aspiration of these Ionian city-dwellers of a later time. A spirit of
contentment and leisure seems to flow like an undercurrent through the whole poem, and has
made for itself a haven of rest in the midst of the busy action of the story. When the
poet’s own feelings find their true expression they show us idyllic scenes of quiet
enjoyment of daily life; magnificent in the country of the Phæacians, gay and more homely
at the farm of Eumaios; pictures of quiet repose after the fights of the heroic past, that
have now faded into a mere pleasant memory, such as we get in the house of Nestor, or in
the Palace of Menelaos and the regained Helen. Or, again, we have a description of nature
in a mood of liberality and gentleness, as upon the island of Syriê, the home of Eumaios’
childhood, upon which in ample possession of cattle, wine and corn, a people live free
from necessity and pain, till they arrive at a good old age when Apollo and Artemis with
their gentlest shafts bring swift death to them (Od. xv, 403 ff.). If you ask the
poet where this fortunate island lies he will tell you that it lies over there beyond
Ortygiê where the sun turns back. But where is Ortygiê,25 and who can point out the place where the
sun begins his return journey far in the West? The country of idyllic happiness lies
indeed almost beyond the limit of this
world. Phœnician merchant-men who go everywhere may perhaps reach that land as well
(415 ff.), and Ionian seamen in this earliest period of Greek colonization into which the
composition of the Odyssey reaches may well have hoped to find far out over the sea such
propitious habitations of a new life.
In the same way the country and the life of the Phæacians seem like an ideal picture of
an Ionian state newly founded in a distant land far from the turmoil, the restless
competition, and all the limitations of their familiar Greek homes. But this unclouded
dream-picture, bathed in purest light, lies far away in a distant land all but
inaccessible to man. Only by chance is a strange ship cast away on to that coast, and at
once the magic ships of the Phæacians carry back the stranger through night and cloud to
his own home again. True, there is no reason to see in the Phæacians a sort of
ferry-people of the dead, neighbours of the Elysian fields. Still, the poetic fancy which
invented the country of the Phæacians is not unrelated to that which gave rise to the idea
of an Elysian plain beyond the bounds of the inhabited world. Given the idea that a life
of untroubled bliss can only be had in the remotest confines of the earth, jealously
guarded from all intrusion, only one more step remains to be taken before men come to
believe that such bliss is really only to be found where neither accident nor purpose can
ever bring men, more remote even than the Phæacians, than the country of the Æthiopians,
the beloved of the gods, or than the Abioi of the North, already known to the Iliad. It
must lie beyond the bounds of real life. Such idyllic longings have given rise to the
picture of Elysium. The happiness of those who there enjoy everlasting life seemed to be
fully safeguarded only if their place of abode were removed for ever beyond the range of
all exploration, out of reach of all future discovery. This happiness is imagined as a
condition of perfect bliss under the most benignant sky; easy and untroubled says the
poet, is the life of men there, in this resembling the life of the gods, but at the same
time without aspiration and without activity. It is doubtful whether the poet of the Iliad
would have considered such a future worthy of his heroes, or given the name of happiness
to such felicity as this.
We were obliged to assume that the poet who inserted these inimitably smooth, melodious
verses in the Odyssey was not the first inventor or discoverer of the Elysian paradise
beyond the realm of mortality. But
though he followed in the footsteps of others, when he introduced into the Homeric poem a
reference to this new belief, he was giving this idea for the first time an enduring place
in Greek imagination. Other poems might disappear, but anything that appeared in the Iliad
or the Odyssey was assured of perpetual remembrance.
The imagination of Greek poets or Greek people never gave up the alluring fancy of a
distant land of blessedness into which individual mortals might by the favour of the gods
be translated. Even the scanty notices which have come down to us of the contents of the
heroic poems that led up to, continued, or connected the two Homeric Epics and linked them
up with the whole cycle of Theban and Trojan legend enable us to see how this post-Homeric
poetry took pleasure in the recital of still further examples of translation.
The Kypria first described how the army of the Achæans for the second time encamped in
Aulis, was detained by adverse winds sent by Artemis; and how Agamemnon on the advice of
Kalchas would have sacrificed his own daughter Iphigeneia to the goddess. Artemis,
however, snatched away the maiden and transported her to the land of the Taurians, and
there made her immortal.26
The Aithiopis, a continuation of the Iliad, tells of the help brought to the Trojans by
Penthesileia and her Amazons, and after her death by Memnon the Æthiopian prince, an
imaginary representative of the eastern monarchies of inner Asia. Antilochos, the new
favourite of Achilles, falls in the war, but Achilles slays Memnon himself. Thereupon Eos
the mother of Memnon (and known as such already to the Odyssey) obtains the permission of
Zeus to give immortality to her son.27 It may be supposed that the poet described what we see so often
represented upon Greek vases: the mother bearing through the air the dead body of her son.
According to the story told in the Iliad, Apollo, with the help of Sleep and Death, the
twin brothers, bore off the body of Sarpedon, the son of Zeus, to his Lycian home after he
had been slain by Achilles, merely in order that he might be buried in his own country.
But the poet of the Aithiopis has tried to outdo the story in the Iliad in impressiveness
(for it was evidently his model),28 and has made Eos, with the permission of Zeus, not merely carry
off the dead to his far-off home in the East, but there awaken him to immortal life.
Soon after the death of Memnon fate overtakes Achilles himself. When his body, rescued
by his friends after much hard fighting, is laid upon its bier, Thetis, his mother, with
the Muses and the other sea-goddesses
come and sing the funeral dirge. Of this we are told in the last book of the Odyssey
(xxiv, 47 ff.) which relates further how his body was burnt, his bones gathered together
and entombed under a mound, and the psyche of Achilles departed to the House of Hades; the
whole story being told to him in the underworld by the psyche of Agamemnon. But the author
of the Aithiopis—always remarkable for his bold innovations in the traditional
material—here ventures upon an important new touch. From the funeral pyre, he tells
us, Thetis carried off the body of her son and brought him to Leuke.29 That she restored him to life again there
and made him immortal the one meagre extract which accident has preserved to us does not
say. But there can be no question that that is what the poet narrated—all later
accounts conclude the story in this way.
The parallel is clear: the two opponents, Achilles and Memnon, are both set free from
the fate of mortals by their goddess-mothers. In bodies once more restored to life they
continue to live, not among men, nor yet among the gods, but in a distant
wonderland—Memnon in the east, Achilles in the “White Island”. The poet himself can
hardly have imagined Achilles’ Island to have been in the Euxine Sea, where, however,
later Greek sailors located this purely mythical spot.
The translation of Menelaos is still more closely paralleled by the story told in the
Telegoneia, which was the final and the latest-written of the Cyclic poems, of the fate
which attended the family of Odysseus. Telegonos, the son of Odysseus and Kirke, slays his
father unwittingly; when he discovers his mistake he brings the body of Odysseus with
Penelope and Telemachos to his mother, Kirke, who makes them immortal; and there they dwell
now (in the Isle Aiaia, far away over the sea, we must suppose)—Penelope as the wife
of Telegonos, and Kirke with Telemachos.30
It is natural to feel surprise that in none of these stories is there any mention of
translation to a common meeting-place of the Elect, such as the Elysian plain seemed to
be. We must on that account be content to leave unanswered the question to what precise
extent these lines of the Odyssey which describe the translation of Menelaos to Elysium
may have influenced the development of translation stories in the post-Homeric Epics. The
influence must clearly have been
considerable.31 The
stories of the translation of individual heroes to a solitary after-life in secluded
abodes of immortality show, at any rate, the same direction of fancy as that which
produced the fields of Elysium. No longer does Eos, after she has snatched him from Hades,
raise her son to be among the gods as once she had raised Kleitos and others of her
favourites. Memnon enters upon a peculiar state of being that differentiates him from the
rest of mankind as much as from the gods. The same applies to Achilles and the other
translated heroes. Thus did poetry increase the number of those who belonged to this
middle realm; who, born in mortality have, outside the realms of Olympos, achieved
immortality. It is still only favoured individuals who enter this kingdom; it is still
poetical aspiration, giving free rein to its creative instinct, that continues to
transport an ever-increasing number of the bright figures of Legend into the illumination
of everlasting life. Religious worship can have had no more influence in the development
of these stories than it had in the narrative of the translation of Menelaos. Achilles,
for example, may in later times have had a cult paid to him on an island at the mouth of
the Danube, supposed to be Leuke. But the cult was the result and not the motive or the
cause of the story. Iphigeneia was certainly the epithet of a Moon-goddess; but the poet
who told of the translation of her namesake, the daughter of Agamemnon, had no suspicion
of the latter’s identity with a goddess—otherwise he would never have regarded her
as Agamemnon’s daughter. Nor, we may be fairly certain, can it have been an accidental
meeting with the cult of the goddess Iphigeneia, which induced him to invent an
immortality iure postlimini for his mortal Iphigeneia, by the machinery of
translation. Both for the poet and his contemporaries the importance and the essence of
his narrative—whether free invention or a reconstruction out of older
material—lay in the fact that it told of the raising of a mortal maiden, the
daughter of mortal parents, to immortal life, and not to religious veneration which could
not have made itself very apparent to the maiden relegated to the distant Tauric
country.
The busy expansion of the legendary material went on in epics that finally lost
themselves in genealogical poems. To what extent it may have made use of the motif
of translation or transfiguration we can no longer accurately judge. The materials at our
disposal are quite insufficient to warrant any conclusion. When such a misty figure as
Telegonos is deemed worthy of immortality, it may be supposed that in the mind of the poet all the heroes of Epic tradition
had come to be possessed of a virtual claim to a share in this mode of continued existence
in a life after death. Certainly the more important among them could not be left
out—those at least of whose end the Homeric poems themselves had not already given a
different version. The poem of the Return of the Heroes from Troy may especially have
given scope for many translation stories.32 We may, for example, ask whether Diomedes, at least, whose
immortality is often vouched for by later mythology, was not already added to the number
of the immortals in the epics of the Heroic cycle. An Attic folk-song of the fifth century
can speak with assurance of Diomedes as not having died but as living in the “Islands of
the Blest”. Thus a far greater company of the Heroes of the Trojan War was thought of by
the poetry of Homeric tradition as gathered together in “Isles of the Blest”, far out to
sea, than we should guess from the summaries of the post-Homeric Epics which accident has
preserved to us. This conclusion must be drawn from the lines of a Hesiodic poem which
give us some remarkable information about the oldest Greek forms of the Cult of the Souls
and belief in immortality, and the lines, therefore, must be subjected to a closer
examination.
The Hesiodic poem known as the “Works and Days” consists of a number of independent
pieces of didactic or narrative interest loosely strung together. In it, not far from the
beginning, comes the story of the Five Ages of Men. As regards its subject-matter, the
train of thought which unites this section to the passages which precede and follow it is
hardly discoverable; in form it is quite disconnected.
In the beginning we are there told the gods of Olympos created a Golden race whose
members lived like the gods, without care, sickness or decrepitude, and in enjoyment of
rich possessions. After their death, which came upon them like sleep to tired men, they
became, by the will of Zeus, Daimones and Guardians of mankind. They were followed
by a Silver race, far inferior to the first, and unlike them in body as in mind. The men
of this race had a long childhood, lasting a hundred years, followed by a short youth,
during which their wantonness and pride in their dealings with each other and with the
gods brought them much sorrow. Because they refused the honours due to the gods Zeus
destroyed them and they are now Daimones of the Underworld, honoured but inferior to the Daimones of the Golden
Age. Zeus then created a third race, this time of Bronze—hard-hearted and of great
strength; war was their delight, and being destroyed by their own hands they went down
unhonoured to the House of Hades. Thereupon Zeus made a fourth race that was juster and
better, the race of Heroes, who were called “Demigods”. They fought before Thebes and Troy
and some of them died, while others Zeus sent to dwell at the ends of the world on the
Islands of the Blest by the river Okeanos, where the Earth brings them her fruits three
times in the year. “Would that I did not belong to the fifth Age; would that I had died
earlier or been born hereafter,” says the poet, “since now is the Iron Age,” when toil and
grief never leave men, when there is enmity of all against all and force conquers right,
and Envy, evil-tongued, delighting in wickedness, fierce-eyed, is over everything. Now,
Shame and the goddess of retribution, Nemesis, depart from men and go to the gods; every
misfortune is left behind for man, and there is no defence against evil.
The author here lays before us the results of gloomy reflection upon the origin and
growth of evil in the world of men. He sees the steps of mankind’s degeneration from the
height of godlike happiness to the extremes of misery and wickedness. He is following
popular conceptions. It is natural to every race of men to lay the scene of earthly
perfection in the past, so long, at least, as man gets his information about that past not
from distinct historical memory, but from the picturesque stories and beautiful dreams of
the poets which encourage the natural tendency of fancy to retain only the more attractive
features of the past in the memory. The folk-lore of many lands can tell of a Golden Age
and how mankind gradually fell from that high estate; and it is not at all surprising if
fanciful speculation starting from the same point and travelling along the same road has
reached the same conclusion in the case of more than one people without the aid of any
historical connexion. We have a number of expressions of the idea of man’s gradual
degeneration through several Ages which present the most striking similarities among
themselves and with the Hesiodic picture of the five Ages of Men. Even Homer is sometimes
overcome by the mood; it lies, for instance, at the root of such idealizations of the past
as are implied when in his description of the heroic life he thinks of “men as they now
are” and “how few sons are equal to their fathers in virtue; worse, most of them; few,
indeed, are the men who are better than their fathers” (Od. ii, 276 f.). But the epic poet keeps himself and his
fancy on the heights of the heroic Past; only occasionally, and in passing, his glance
falls upon the commonplace level of real life. But the poet of the “Works and Days” has
all his thoughts fixed upon the level plain of real and contemporary life; the glance
which he occasionally casts upon the heights of the storied past is all the more bitter on
that account.
What he has to say of the first condition of mankind and the gradual process of
deterioration is given, not as an abstract exposition of what in the necessary course of
things must have occurred, but rather as a traditional account of what had actually
happened—in fact, as history.
In this light he himself must certainly have regarded it, though, apart from a few
vague memories, no historical tradition is contained in what he says of the nature and
deeds of the earlier generations of mankind. His story remains an imaginary picture. And
for this reason the development, as he presents it, takes a logically defined and
regulated course, based on the idea of a gradual deterioration. The uneventful happiness
of the first race of men who know neither virtue nor vice is followed by a second race,
which after a prolonged minority displays pride and contempt of the gods. In the third, or
brazen age, active wickedness breaks out, with war and murder. The last age, at the
beginning of which the poet himself seems to stand, marks the breakdown of all moral
restraint. The fourth race of men, to which the heroes of the Theban and Trojan wars
belong, is alone among all the others in not being named and ranked after a metal. It is
an alien in the evolutionary process. The downward course is checked during the fourth
age, and yet in the fifth it goes on again as if it had never been interrupted. It is not
apparent why that course should have been interrupted. Most of the commentators have
recognized in the story of the fourth age a fragment of different material, originally
foreign to the poem of the Ages of Men and added deliberately by Hesiod to this poem,
which he may have taken over in its essential features from older poets. But if we adopt
this view we have to ask what can have tempted the poet to such serious disturbance and
dislocation of the orderly succession of the original speculative poem. It will not be
enough to say that the poet, brought up in the Homeric tradition, found it impossible to
pass over, in a description of the earlier ages of men, the figures of the heroic poetry
which, thanks to the power of song, had acquired in the imagination of the Greeks more
reality than the plainest manifestations of actual life. Nor is it likely that, having in his grim description of the Bronze
race introduced a darker picture of the Heroic age, drawn from a point of view different
from that of the courtly Epos, he wished to set by its side this bright vision of the same
age as he saw it in his own mind. If the picture of the Bronze race does really refer to
the Heroic age,33
giving its reverse side, so to speak, Hesiod never seems to have noticed the fact. He must
have had stronger grounds than these for the introduction of his narrative. He cannot have
failed to perceive that he was breaking the continuity of moral deterioration by his
introduction of the Heroic race. It follows that he must have had some aim, other than
that of the description of the moral deterioration of men, which he imagined himself to be
serving by the introduction of this new section. This other purpose will become plain if
we inquire what it is that really interests the poet in the Heroic race. It is not their
higher morality—that only interrupted the series of continually worsening
generations. Nor would he in that case have dismissed the subject with a few words which
barely suffice to connect this section with the theme of moral development. Further, it is
not the fights and great deeds done at Thebes or Troy that interest him for he says
nothing of their greatness, and at once declares that the cruel war and the dread fury of
battle destroyed the Heroes. This, again, does not discriminate between the Heroes and the
men of the Bronze age who also, being destroyed by their own deeds, had to go down to
Hades. What distinguishes the Heroic age from the others is the way in which some of the
Heroes depart from this life without dying. This is the point that interests the poet, and
this it must have been that chiefly induced him to bring in here his account of the fourth
race of men. He combines clearly enough with his main purpose of describing the advancing
moral decline of man, a secondary aim—that of telling what happened after death to
the representatives of each successive race. In introducing the Heroic race of men this
secondary aim becomes the chief one, and justifies what would otherwise have been merely
an intrusive episode. It is this aim, too, which gives the Hesiodic narrative its
importance for our present inquiry.
The men of the Golden Age, after sleep has overcome them and they have died and been
laid in the earth, become by the will of Zeus “Daimones”—Daimones upon earth,
watchers of men, wandering over all the earth, veiled in clouds, observing justice and injustice,34 dispensing riches like kings. These men of
the earliest times have then become effective realities. They are not spirits confined to
an inaccessible region beyond this world, but powers acting and working amongst men. In
this exalted state Hesiod calls them Daimones, and thus describes them by a name
which is otherwise applied by him as well as by Homer only to the immortal gods. The name
so employed is not to be understood as implying a separate class of immortals, an
intermediate class of beings between gods and men, as later speculation used the word.35 These later beings of
an intermediate class were thought of as possessing an originally immortal nature like the
gods, and as dwelling in an intermediate region of their own. Hesiod’s Daimones, on the
contrary, have once been men and have only after their death become immortals invisibly36 roaming the earth.
When they are given the name Daimones nothing more is implied than that they now share the
invisible might and unending life of the gods, and to that extent may be called
gods—with as much right as Ino Leukothea, for instance, who, according to Homer,
became a goddess after being a mortal; or as Phaëthon, who, according to the Hesiodic
Theogony, was raised by Aphrodite from the world of mortality and is now called a “godlike
Daimon” (Th., 991). On the other hand, these immortals who were once men are
clearly distinguished from the everlasting gods, “who have their Olympian dwellings,” by
being called Daimones “who rule upon earth”.37 And though they are given the name, familiar to everybody from
Homer, of Daimones, i.e. gods, they, nevertheless, form a class of beings which is
entirely unknown to Homer. Homer knows of certain individual men who are raised or
translated, body and soul together, to undying life. The later Epos can tell of certain
also who, like Memnon or Achilles, receive a new life after their death and now live on in
undivided unity of body and soul. But that the soul outside Erebos could carry on a
conscious life of its own and influence living men—of this there is no mention in
Homer. Yet this is exactly what has happened according to the Hesiodic poem. The men of
the Golden Age have died and now live on divided from their bodies, invisible and godlike,
and therefore called gods. Just as in Homer, the gods themselves assume manifold shapes
and visit the cities of men, observing the good and evil deeds of men,38 so also do the souls
of the dead in Hesiod. For the beings who here, after their separation from the body, have
become Daimones, are Souls—that is to say, beings who after their death have entered in any case upon a higher
existence than was theirs while they were united to the body. This, however, is an idea
that we never meet with in the Homeric poems.
And yet it is quite unthinkable that this remarkable conception is the independent and
passing invention of the Boeotian poet. He comes back to it again later on in the course
of his poem. “Thirty thousand,” that is, innumerable immortal Watchers over mortal men
wander invisibly in the service of Zeus over the earth, taking note of right and wrong
(Op., 252 ff.). The conception is important to him for ethical reasons; if he is to
make use of it in his argument he must not have invented it himself. And, in fact, nothing
that belongs to the sphere of religious belief and cultus, or even the lower levels of
superstition, has been invented by this earnest-minded poet. The Boeotian school of poetry
to which he belonged was far removed from, and indeed, hostile to the free inventiveness
and roaming fancy with which the Homeric school “. . . know how to put forward many lies
and make them seem like truth” (Th., 27). In pursuance of their purpose not simply
to please but always in some sense to teach, the Boeotian poets never innovate in the
region of the purely mythical, but simply order or piece together, or merely register what
they find in the tradition. In religion especially invention lies farthest from their
minds, though they do not by any means deny themselves the right of independent
speculation about the traditional. Thus, what Hesiod tells us about the men of a previous
age, whose souls after death become Daimones, came to him from tradition. It might still
be objected that this tradition while being older than Hesiod may, nevertheless, be more
recent than Homer, and be the result of post-Homeric speculation. It is unnecessary to
develop the reasons which make such a view untenable; the course of our inquiry up to the
present has made it possible for us to maintain decidedly that in what Hesiod here says we
have a fragment of primitive belief reaching back far beyond Homer and surviving in the
secluded Boeotian countryside. We have found even in the poems of Homer vestiges of a cult
of the dead sufficient to make us believe that once in a distant past the Greeks resembled
the majority of other nations and believed in the continued, conscious existence of the
psyche after its separation from the body and in its powerful influence upon the world of
men. We found, too, that in accordance with this belief, religious honours of various
sorts were paid to the disembodied souls. In Hesiod’s narrative we simply have documentary
confirmation of what could only be with
difficulty extracted from the study of Homer. Here we encounter the still living belief in
the elevation of the soul after death to a higher life. They are the souls, it must be
noted, of a race of men long since disappeared, about whom this belief is held. The belief
in their godlike after-life must therefore be long-standing, and the worship of these
souls as powerful beings still continues. For when it is said of the souls of the second
race “these also receive worship”39 (Op., 142), it is distinctly implied that the Daimones of
the first or Golden generation a fortiori received worship.
The men of the Silver generation, on account of their refusal to pay due honour to the
Olympians, are “hidden” by Zeus under the earth, and are now called “mortal Blessed Ones
that live below the earth, second in rank, yet worship is paid to them also” (141-2).
Thus, the poet knows of the souls of men who likewise belonged to the distant past, whose
home is in the bowels of the earth, who receive religious honour and who must therefore
have been conceived as powerful. The poet has not specified the nature of their influence
upon the upper world. It is true that he does not distinctly call the spirits of this
second generation “good”, as he had done the first (122), and he makes them spring from
the less perfect Silver age and seems to have given them inferior rank. But it does not
follow that he here anticipated later speculation and thought of the second generation as
a class of wicked demons whose nature it is to work evil.40 Only to the Olympians do they seem to
stand in a rather more distant relationship—almost one of hostility. They had before
paid the gods none of their pious dues, and so now they are not called, like the souls of
the first race, “Daimones appointed by Zeus to be Watchers of men.” The poet refers to
them with a remarkable expression, “mortal Blessed Ones,” that is, mortal gods. This very
singular denomination, the two parts of which really cancel one another, points to a
certain embarrassment felt by the poet in making use of an expression taken from the
Homeric vocabulary (to which the poet felt himself confined) to designate clearly and
effectively a class of beings that was unknown to Homer.41 The disembodied souls of the first race he
had simply called Daimones. But this name, common as it was both to the race of those who
from mortality had achieved immortality and to the immortal gods, left the essential
difference between the two classes of immortal beings unexpressed. For that very reason
the name was never employed in Hesiod’s fashion by later ages,42 who always called such as, not having been born immortal, had achieved
immortality, by the name of “Heroes”. Hesiod, who could not use the word in this sense,
described them by the bold oxymoron: mortal Blessed Ones, human gods. As immortal spirits
they resembled the gods in their new state of being. But their nature was still mortal,
and hence their bodies had to die, and this constituted their difference from the
everlasting gods.43
The name Daimones then does not appear to involve any essential distinction between the
spirits of the men of the Silver generation and the Daimones of the Golden Age. Only the
place where the two classes of spirits have their dwelling is different—the Daimones
of the Silver race live in the depths of the earth. The expression “of the underworld”,
used of them, is a vague one, and only suffices to differentiate them from the spirits of
the “upper world” who were derived from the first race. Still, the abode of the souls of
the Silver Age is in any case not thought of as being the distant meeting-place of the
unconscious, vegetating shadow-souls—the House of Hades; the “phantoms” that hover
about that place could not have been called Daimones or “mortal gods”, nor do they receive
any kind of worship after their death.
The Silver Age, then, belongs to a long-since vanished past.44 The stalwarts of the Bronze Age, we are
told, destroyed by their deeds, went down into the gloomy home of the dreadful Hades,
nameless. Black Death seized them, for all their violence, and they left the light of the
sun.
Except for the addition of the adjective “nameless” one might, indeed, suppose that
this was a description of the fate of the souls of the Homeric heroes. Perhaps, however,
the word45 only means
that no honourable and distinctive title, such as belonged to the souls of the first and
second as well as to the fourth race, was attached to those who had gone down into the
shadow-world of annihilation and become as nothing.
There follows “the divine race of Heroes who were called the Demigods”. The wars at
Thebes and Troy destroyed these. Part were “enfolded in the destiny of Death”; others
received life and a home far from men at the hand of Zeus Kronides, who gave them a
dwelling-place at the ends of the world. There they live, free from care, in the Islands
of the Blest, by the deep-flowing Okeanos; favoured Heroes, for whom the Earth, of her own
accord, brings forth her sweet fruits three times a year.
Here, at last, for the first time we have reached a clearly definable period of
legendary history. The poet means to speak of the Heroes whose adventures were narrated in
the Thebais, the Iliad and kindred poems. What we notice here specially is how little the
Greeks yet knew of their history. Immediately after the disappearance of the Heroes the
poet begins the age in which he himself must live. Where the realm of poetry ends, there
is an end of all further tradition; there follows a blank, and to all appearances the
present age immediately begins. That explains why the Heroic Age is the last before the
fifth, to which the poet himself belongs, and why it does not, for example, precede the
(undated) Bronze Age. It connects itself conveniently with the Bronze Age also in what is
related of the fate suffered by a part of its representatives, for the subject which here
particularly interests the poet is the fate of the departed. Some of the fallen Heroes
simply die—that is to say (there can be no doubt of it) they enter the realm of
Hades like the members of the Bronze race or the Heroes of the Iliad. But when others are
distinguished from those whom “Death took” in that they reach the Islands of the
Blest, it is impossible not to suppose that these last have not suffered death, that is,
the separation of the Psyche from the visible Self, but have been carried away alive in
the flesh. The poet is thinking of such cases as those we have met with in the Odyssean
narrative of Menelaos, or, in the Telegoneia, of Penelope, Telemachos and Telegonos. These
few exceptional instances could hardly have made such a deep impression on him that he
felt himself bound on their behalf to erect a special class of the Translated to be set
over against those who simply died. There can be no doubt that he had many more examples
before him of this same mysterious mode of separation from the world of men that did not
involve death. We have already seen how the lines in the Odyssey in which the translation
of Menelaos is foreshadowed, point back to other and earlier poems of the same kind.
Further, the references to the subject which we found in the remains of the Cyclic Epics
make it easy to suppose that later Heroic poetry had been continually widening the circle
of those who enjoyed translation and illumination.
Only from such a poetical source can Hesiod have derived his conception of a common
meeting-place where the Translated enjoy for ever their untroubled existence. He calls
that place the “Islands of the Blest”; and these lie far removed from the world of men, in
the Ocean, on the confines of the earth, just where the Odyssey puts the Elysian plain, another meeting-place of the
still-living Translated, or rather the same under a different name. Its name does not
oblige us to regard the “Elysian plain” as an island, but neither does it exclude that
assumption. Homer never expressly calls the land of the Phæacians an island,46 but the imagination of
most readers will picture Scheriê as such, and so did the Greeks perhaps already at the
time of the Hesiodic school of poets. In the same way a poet may have thought of the “Land
of Destiny” that receives passing mention in Homer as an island, or group of islands; only
an island surrounded and cut off by the sea can give the full impression of a distant
asylum far from the world, inaccessible to all save those specially called thither. And
accordingly the mythology of many peoples, especially those who live by the sea, has made
a distant island the dwelling-place of the souls of the departed.
Complete isolation is the essential feature of the whole idea of translation, as Hesiod
clearly shows. A later poet has added a line—which does not quite fit into its
place—to make this isolation even more marked.47 According to it, these Blessed Ones live
not only “far from men” (167), but also (169) far from the immortals, and are ruled over
by Kronos. The writer of this line follows a beautiful legend, later, however, than
Hesiod, in which Zeus released the aged Kronos, together with the other Titans,48 from Tartaros, so that
the old king of the gods, under whose rule the Golden Age had once prevailed with peace
and happiness upon earth, now wields the sceptre of another Golden Age over the Blessed in
Elysium, himself a figure of peaceful contemplation dwelling far away from the stormy
world, from the throne of which he has been ousted by Zeus. Hesiod himself has provoked
this transference of Kronos from the Golden Age to the land of the Translated; for in the
few lines that he devotes to the description of the life of the Blessed a reminiscence of
the picture of the Golden Age’s untroubled existence is clearly discernible. Both
pictures, the one of a childhood’s paradise in the past, the other of unclouded happiness
reserved in the future for the elect, are closely related; it is difficult to say which of
them has influenced the other49 since the colours must have been the same in any case—the
purely idyllic having an inevitable uniformity of its own.
Hesiod says nothing of any influence upon this world exerted by the souls of the
Translated in the Islands of the Blest, such as is attributed to the Daimones of the
Golden race, nor of any religious
worship, which would be implied by such influence if it existed, such as the underworld
spirits of the Silver Age receive. All relations with this world are broken off, for any
influence from this side would completely contradict the whole conception of these blessed
departed. Hesiod faithfully sets down the conception of the Translated exactly as poetic
fancy, without any interference from religious cultus, or the folk-belief founded on it,
had instinctively shaped it.
Supposing, then, that he follows Homeric and post-Homeric poetic tradition in this
particular, whence did he derive his ideas about the Daimones and spirits of the Golden
and Silver Ages? He did not and could not have got these from Homeric or semi-Homeric
sources, for they (unlike the idea of Translation) do not simply expand, but actually
contradict Homeric beliefs about the soul. To this question we may answer with certainty;
he derived them from cultus. There survived, in spite of Homer, at least in central
Greece where the Hesiodic poetry had its home, a religious worship paid to the souls of
certain departed classes of men; and this cultus preserved alive, at least as a vague
tradition, a belief which Homer had obscured and dispossessed. It only reached the
Boeotian poet, whose own conceptions spring entirely from the soil of Homeric belief, as
from a far distance. Already in the days of the Bronze race, he tells us, the souls of the
dead were swallowed up in the dread House of Hades, and this (with a few miraculous
exceptions) applies to the Heroic race as well. And for the poet, standing as he does, at
the opening of the Iron Age, to which he himself belongs, nothing remains but dissolution
in the nothingness of Erebos. That such is his view is proved by his silence about the
fate after death of his generation—a silence that is all the more oppressive because
the grim picture that he gives of the misery and ever-increasing depravity of real and
contemporary life might seem to require a brighter and more hopeful picture of future
compensation, if only to balance it and make it endurable. But he is silent about all such
future compensation; he has no such hope to offer. Though in another part of the same poem
Hope alone of all the blessings of an earlier and better age still remains among men, such
Hope no longer illuminates the next world, at any rate, with its beams. The poet, more
deeply distressed by the common realities of life, can by no means dispense so easily as
the singers of the epic tradition enclosed in the magic circle of their poetry, with such
hopes of the future. He can draw comfort only from what poetry or religious myth tell him of the far distant past. It never
enters his head to believe that the miracle of the translation of living men could
transcend the limits of the Heroic Age and repeat itself in the common and prosaic present
day. And the time when, according to a law of nature no longer (so it seems) in operation,
the souls of the dead became Daimones and lived a higher life upon and beneath the earth,
is situated far back in the distant past. Another law rules now; the men of to-day may
still worship the immortal spirits of the Golden and the Silver Age, but they themselves
will never be added to the number of those illuminated and exalted souls.
Hesiod’s description, then, of the five Ages of Men gives us the most important
information about the development of Greek belief in the soul. What he tells us of the
spirits of the Silver and Golden race shows that from the earliest dawn of history down to
the actual lifetime of the poet, a form of ancestor-worship had prevailed, based
upon the once living belief in the elevation of disembodied and immaterial souls to the
rank of powerful, consciously active spirits. But the company of these spirits receives no
additions from the life of the present day. For centuries now the souls of the dead have
been claimed by Hades and his vain shadow world. The worship of the soul is stationary; it
affects only the souls of the long-since departed; it no longer increases the number of
the objects of its worship. In other words, the belief has changed; the Homeric poems have
triumphed and the view they held, and to which they gave authority, and, as it were,
official sanction, now prevails. They teach men that the psyche once separated from the
body loses all its powers and consciousness; the strengthless shadows are received into a
distant Underworld. For them, no action, no influence upon the world of men is possible,
and therefore no cult can be paid to them. Only on the farthest horizon faintly appear the
Islands of the Blest, but the circle of the fortunate, who, according to the visionary
fancy of the poets, are translated alive there, is now closed, just as the circle of epic
story is complete also. Such miracles no longer happen.
Nothing in this evolutionary process so clearly depicted in the poem of Hesiod
contradicts what we have learned from Homer. One thing only is new and immensely
important; in spite of everything the memory survives that once the souls of departed
generations of men had achieved a higher, undying life. Hesiod speaks in the present tense of their being
and working and of the worship paid to them after their death; if they are believed to be
immortal, men will naturally continue to worship them. And the opposite also is true; if
the worship of such spirits had not survived into the present, no one would have held them
to be deathless and eternally potent.
In a word, we are in the old Greek mainland, the land of Boeotian peasants and urban
farmers, among a stay-at-home race which neither knows nor desires to know of the
seafaring life that tempts men to foreign lands whence they bring back so much that is new
and strange. Here in the central uplands vestiges of ancient custom and belief remained
that had been forgotten in the maritime cities of new Greece on the Asiatic coast. Even
here, however, the new learning had penetrated to this extent: the structure of ancient
belief, transported into the distant past, interwoven with fanciful tales of the earliest
state of mankind, like the expiring echo of half-forgotten song lives on only in memory.
But the cult of Souls, is not yet quite dead; the possibility remains that it may yet
renew its strength and expand into fresh life when once the magic influence of the Homeric
view of the world shall have been broken.
CHAPTER III C AVE D EITIES: S UBTERRANEAN T RANSLATION — § 1 — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — NOTES TO CHAPTER III
The history of Greek culture and religion shows no sudden break or revolution in its
course. The Greeks neither at any time experienced a movement from within that caused a
violent recoil from the path which they had chosen, nor were they ever diverted by the
overwhelming might of an invading force from the natural course of their evolution. Out of
their own natural feelings and reflexion this most intellectually gifted nation evolved
the great ideas that nourished succeeding centuries. They anticipated all later ages. The
profoundest and the boldest, the most devout as well as the most irreverent speculations
as to the nature of God, the world and men have their origin among the Greeks. But this
excessive many-sidedness led to a general condition of equipoise in which individual
factors restrained or balanced each other. Whereas the most violent impacts and sudden
revolutions in the history of civilization are given by just those nations who are only
able to embrace one idea at a time and who, confined in the narrow limits of their
fanaticism, throw everything else overboard.
It is true, indeed, that the Greeks were ever open to influences—whether
civilized or the reverse—from abroad. In wave after wave of peaceful invasion
foreign ideas and ways of life, especially from the East, flowed over Greece. In one case,
at least (that of the ecstatic religion of the Thracian Dionysos-worshippers), a spring
flood burst out that broke down all the dykes. In many cases the invading elements might
be easily eliminated again from Greek culture; in many others they obtained a permanent
footing and influenced it deeply. But never did an influence from abroad obtain in Greece
an authority at all comparable to the subversive and transforming power exercised by
Buddhism, Christianity, or Islam over the peoples on whom they laid their grip. The Greek
genius, as supple as it was tenacious, maintained control over all such foreign
influences, in full possession of its original nature, its genial naivety. New ideas, whether introduced from abroad
or engendered at home, were taken up and assimilated, but the old were not done away with;
they gradually amalgamated with the new so that much was learnt while nothing was quite
forgotten. The stream flowed on in its peaceful course, but it still remained the same
stream. Nec manet ut fuerat nec formas servat easdem: sed tamen ipse idem est.
The history of Greek culture, then, has no sharply contrasted epochs, no periods of
abrupt change, when the old is completely given up and a new era definitely begins.
Indeed, the most serious revulsions of Greek history, culture, and religion took place
beyond doubt before the time of the Homeric Epos, and in that dim past it is
possible that more violent and startling upheavals may have occurred to make the Greeks
what we afterwards know them to be. Greek life becomes first clearly known to us in Homer.
It is true that the broad uniformity that it has in the picture reflected for us in the
poems of Homer vanishes in the course of the years that follow. New forces emerge; much
that was forgotten comes to light again now that the Homeric system of ideas, once all
powerful, is falling to pieces; out of the very old and the quite new things of which
Homer never gives the least hint are being put together. But nowhere during the violent
movements of the next troubled centuries after Homer did any absolute break with the Epic
or its system take place. Only in the sixth century did the defiant speculation of a few
bold spirits begin to seek a way of escape from the thraldom of the Homeric poems which
still lay over the whole of Greece. The history of the Greek common people knows nothing
of a reaction against Homer and his world. Homeric religion and moral ideas gradually
ceased to reign supreme in men’s minds, but they were never violently or completely
discarded.
So we, too, though we leave behind us Homer and the Epos and enter upon the tortuous
paths of the later history of Greek soul worship and belief in immortality, may still for
a time be guided by the Ariadne thread of the epic. In our subject, too, there are links
which connect the Homeric with following ages. Soon enough the thread will break, and we
shall have to enter the new field of inquiry depending on our own resources. . . .
Prominent among the chieftains, who, under the leadership of Adrastos, came to the help
of Polyneikes and laid siege to Thebes, was Amphiaraos the Argive hero and seer descended
from the mysterious priest and prophet Melampous. He was drawn into the war against his
will, for he foresaw its unhappy end. After the decisive struggle in which the opposing
brothers fell slain by each other’s hand, the Argive host turned to flight, and with them
fled Amphiaraos. But before Periklymenos, who was pursuing him, could drive his spear into
the fugitive’s back, Zeus made the earth open before him in a flash of lightning and Amphiaraos with his horses, his
chariot, and his charioteer, was swallowed up in the depths where Zeus made him
immortal. So runs the legend of the fate of Amphiaraos as we learn it from
innumerable sources from Pindar onwards,1 and we may be sure that thus it was told in the Thebaïs, the old
epic poem of the war of the Seven against Thebes, which was taken up into the Epic
Cycle.2
At Thebes, then, Amphiaraos lived on for ever under the earth. Northwards in the
Boeotian countryside, near Lebadeia, men told of a similar marvel. In a cave of the
mountainous ravine, before which Lebadeia lies, lived Trophonios for ever immortal. The
legends that professed to explain his miraculous cave-existence do not quite agree among
themselves, as, indeed, is generally the case with those figures who were not early taken
up by the poets and given a fixed place in the narratives of heroic adventure. But all
accounts (the oldest of which perhaps go back to the “Telegoneia”) agree in the assumption
that Trophonios, like Amphiaraos, was first a man, a famous master-builder, who
while flying from his foes, had dived underground at Lebadeia and now lives for ever in
the depths of the earth whence he foretells the future to those who come and question him
there.
These stories, then, claim to speak of men who during their lifetime were swallowed up
by the earth, and who now live on for ever at the places where they were taken down into
the depths—places situated in quite definite localities of the Greek
countryside.
We are not entirely without other legends of a similar character. One of the wild
spirits of the Lapith people from Thessalia, Kaineus by name, having been made
invulnerable by Poseidon (who had before this transformed him from a woman into a man),
was cudgelled with tree-trunks in a battle with the Centaurs; but they could do nothing to
him, and with “upright foot” (i.e. standing upright, alive, not lying at full length like
a dead man or one mortally wounded) he clove the earth under him and went down alive into
the depths.3 In Rhodes
Althaimenes was honoured as the “founder” of the Greek cities on that island; he had not
died but had vanished into a chasm in the ground.4 Like Amphiaraos, his son Amphilochos, the
heir of his prophetic power, appears to have had a legend according to which he still
dwelt alive under the earth either in Akarnania or Cilicia.5 A few more examples of the same type might
be produced,6 but the
number of such stories remains small, and they only make their appearance here and there,
as if by accident, in the tradition.
Epic poetry without whose co-operation such local legends rarely achieved widespread or
lasting popularity, with few exceptions left such narratives out of account. In fact, they
conflicted with the normal Homeric outlook. The belief, however, that immortality when it
was miraculously bestowed by the favour of heaven upon certain individual men, was
absolutely conditioned by the non-occurrence of death, i.e. the separation of the psyche
from the visible man—this belief has helped to shape these stories too. They never
speak of an undying existence of the soul by itself in separation from the body. Thus far
they are firmly rooted in orthodox Homeric belief.
But the heroes of these stories have their everlasting existence in special abodes
under the surface of the earth, in subterranean chambers7—not in the common meeting place of the
departed; they each have their own peculiar domain far from the House of Aïdoneus. Such
isolation of individuals below the earth does not agree with Homeric ideas; though it
almost seems as if a dim echo of these stories of seers like Amphiaraos and Amphilochos,
translated alive and with consciousness undestroyed, could be discerned in what the
Homeric Nekyia says of Teiresias the Theban seer, in whom alone of all the shadows
Persephone had allowed consciousness and intelligence (the essential vital powers) to
remain undiminished.8
But even he is fast bound in Erebos, the general home of the dead, and cut off from all
connexion with the upper world, as is demanded by the Homeric view of the world.
Amphiaraos and Trophonios, on the other hand, are released from Hades; not having suffered
death they have not entered the world of the strengthless dead. They are also translated
out of this life (besides out of Hades). But this “subterranean translation” is in its
nature and in the origin of the belief in it quite distinct from that “translation to
Islands of the Blest” of which we spoke in the last chapter. Those
Heroes dwelling alone or in company on holy islands far out over the sea are far removed
from human life and beyond the reach of prayers and desires. No influence upon the things
of this world is attributed to them, and consequently no cult is offered to them: there
never existed a cult of the dwellers in Elysium as such. They glimmer in the
distance like visions of the poet’s fancy from which no one anticipates active
interference with the world of reality. It is quite different with these dwellers in the
caves. They are actually alive under the surface of the earth; not far away in the
inaccessible, spectral world of Hades, but here in the midst of Greece. Questions and
prayers can reach down to them, and
they can send up aid to those who call to them. To them, accordingly, as powerful and
effectual Spirits a cult is paid.
We have detailed information of the manner in which Amphiaraos was worshipped, more
especially in later times, when, in addition to the neighbourhood of Thebes, where the
original legend of his descent beneath the earth was localized, Oropos also, the boundary
town between Boeotia and Attica, was with overwhelming success identified as the place of
his disappearance and made a centre of his influence.9 We have also a certain amount of
information, again from later ages, about the cult of Trophonios. With the passage of
time, the details of the worship grew and multiplied, but among them all certain features
stand out as especially characteristic and allow us to understand the religious ideas
lying behind them. To Amphiaraos and Trophonios were offered just those sacrifices which
were also paid to the Chthonic deities, i.e. those deities who dwelt in the depths of the
earth.10 Aid was not
expected from them in the details of the daily life of individuals or states. Only in the
actual locality of their descent were they effectual, and only there because they revealed
the future. Kroisos had already, and Mardonios after him, sent inquiries to the most
famous oracles of the day,11 and among them to Amphiaraos at his ancient oracular seat near
Thebes and to Trophonios at Lebadeia. Of Amphiaraos it was believed that he revealed the
future by visions sent in dreams to those who after making offering laid themselves down
to sleep in his temple. To question Trophonios, it was necessary to pass through a narrow
passage into his cave. Inside, the inquirer expected to see Trophonios in person or, at
least, to hear his instructions.12 He dwelt, like a spirit confined to the scene of his magical
existence, in bodily person at the bottom of his cave. In fact, the method of
Incubation, or temple-sleep, by which Amphiaraos (like many other daimones and
Heroes) was questioned, was based on the assumption that the daimon, who was only visible
indeed to mortal eyes in the higher state achieved by the soul in dreams, had his
permanent dwelling at the seat of his oracle.13 That is why his appearance can only be expected at this
particular place and nowhere else. Originally, too, it was only the dwellers in the depths
of the earth who were thus visible in dreams to those who lay down to sleep in the temple
over the place where they had their subterranean abode. Homer knows nothing of either gods
or daimones who live permanently under the ground in definite places in the inhabited
world, near mankind; and for that
reason he betrays no knowledge of Incubation-oracles.14 There is some ground for the belief that
this method, inherent in the divinatory power, of getting into touch with the spirit
world, was one of the oldest types of Greek oracular art—certainly not later than
the Apolline mantikê of inspiration. And it is precisely in the legend of
Amphiaraos, as we may believe it to have been related as early as the cyclic poem of the
Thebaïs, that we have a proof that already in the days when the quasi-Homeric poetry was
still popular, people believed in deathless dwellers below the earth and in their active
potency in the mantic art.
It is clear, then, that the worship of Amphiaraos and the belief in his subterranean
existence was not due to the influence of the Epic. Rather the reverse was the case; the
cult already existed and provided the idea of the daimon and this gave rise to the Epic
narrative. The Epic found an existing cult of an oracular daimon who dwelt beneath the
earth near Thebes ready to its hand. It reduced this fact to a form which it could
understand in a manner typical of the relation which frequently existed between the facts
of religious life and Epic poetry. The cult was connected with an event in legendary
history, and so brought into harmony with the Epic outlook. The Epic knew nothing of gods
attached in this way to a particular earthly spot, and so the
spirit worshipped in the cult became in the epic imagination a chieftain and Seer
who had not always lived beneath the earth in that place, but had only been transported
there subsequently by a miraculous fiat of the supreme god, who had also accorded an
eternal life in the depths to the translated hero.15
We may perhaps find a parallel in more recent Saga story that will throw light on the
question. German mythology is perfectly familiar with such figures for ever, or until the
day of judgment, alive in caverns of the mountains or subterranean chambers. Thus,
Charlemagne, or it may be Charles the Fifth, still has his abode in Odenberg or in
Unterberg, near Salzburg, Frederick II (or, in more recent versions of the legend,
Frederick I Barbarossa) in Kyffhäuser, Henry the Fowler in Sudemerberg, near Goslar. Thus,
too, King Arthur, Holger Danske, and many other favourite characters of popular tradition
dwell in subterranean caverns.16 Occasionally, we can still plainly see how these were originally
ancient gods who according to pagan belief dwelt in hollow mountains and whose
place has been taken by these heroes and holy men “translated” beneath the earth.17 So, too, Greek
tradition allows us to see even now that those ancient translated mortals, Amphiaraos and Trophonios, are only Epic
substitutes for ancient deities who did not owe their everlasting life and subterranean
abode to the favour of heaven, but had possessed these from the beginning. At least, at
the site of his worship men knew that the prophetic dweller in the cave was a
god; one of them is called Zeus Trophonios or Trephonios, not only by learned
authorities, but in inscriptions from Lebadeia;18 Amphiaraos, too, is once called Zeus
Amphiaraos and more often a god.19 In the Translation legends of Christianized people the kings have
usurped the place of the ancient gods because the gods themselves, fallen into neglect,
have been dethroned. For reasons not so very different from these the ancient gods on
Greek soil were turned into heroes.
Surrounded by the unending multiplicity of contemporary notions of divinity the
imagination of the Epic poet had fashioned for itself a generalized picture of a divine
kingdom. This was at that time a solitary attempt to erect a Panhellenic theological
system, but it had the greatest influence upon the mental conceptions of Greeks of every
race, for the Epic poet addressed them all. He stood as though on a height looking down on
all the narrow valleys and mountainous countrysides cut off from the rest of the world,
and a wide prospect opened out before his eyes. He soars above all the innumerable contradictory and conflicting
details of local cult and belief, and finds something universal beyond. The name and
conception of Zeus, Apollo, Hermes, Athena, and all the gods represented innumerable
diversities in the myths and ritual of the different cities and races; their outward
shapes and personalities differed widely according to their localization and the manner of
their influence. Instead of all these the Epic poet sees only one Zeus, Apollo, etc.,
reduced in each case to a single unified personality. And just as he had looked beyond the
multiplicity of local deities so he did not confine his gods to particular local
habitations and centres of influence in the Greek countries; they did not belong to one
locality more than another. True they worked and ruled in the world, but they were for all
that free to move where they would. They dwell and meet together on the heights of
Olympos, the Pierian Holy Mountain, which, however, became in the imagination of Homer,
unfettered by attachment to any particular place, more and more an ideal mountain of
fancy. So the broad sea is the dwelling-place of Poseidon; he is not confined to any one
place. Even the rulers of the spirit world. Aïdes and Persephoneia, have their abode, not,
indeed, on Olympos, and certainly not
here or there beneath the surface of the Greek countryside, but far away in a land of
fancy; they, too, are not bound to any particular locality of the actual world. At the end
of this enormous work of unification and idealization, that, out of all the infinite
special manifestations of the name Zeus, each worshipped only in its narrow little circle
in Greece, had evolved the single almighty figure of Zeus Father of Gods and Men—how
could one who had imagined all this be able to understand, if he met with such a creature,
a special Zeus, calling himself Zeus Trophonios, who passed his undying existence in a
cave near Lebadeia and was only powerful in that one spot?
Of course, the inhabitant of such a holy spot would not allow himself to be deprived of
the belief in the existence and presence of the god on his native soil. Though he might be
ready enough in general and in respect of other men’s local deities to regulate
conceptions of the nature of the gods in accordance with the Homeric picture, yet he
refused absolutely to be shaken in his belief in his own local deity, however unknown to
the Olympian family of gods in Homer that deity might be. The local worship in its
unaltered, undisturbed persistence, witnessed to the objective truth of his belief. Thus
there were preserved in the pious faith of their worshippers large numbers of local
deities whose circle of influence was, however, very limited. They had not been raised
with the other gods to the heights of Olympos, but had remained faithful to the soil in
which they had their home,20 witnesses to a far distant past in which the members of every
remote little community had their separate god bound to the soil beyond which their
thoughts did not stray. We shall see how in post-Homeric times many such ancient
earth-gods, i.e. gods thought of as living below the surface of the ground, were given new
and in some cases a more wide-reaching lease of life. The Epic in its prime knew nothing
of these earth-dwelling deities. When it could not close its eyes to their existence it
changed them into translated heroes, and beyond the immediate locality of the cult this
version of them became the commonly accepted one throughout the rest of Greece.
But the Epic was by no means uniform in intention, or carried through as a systematic
unity; it was far from being the offspring of a learned reflection that could tolerate no
discrepancy. Even here we find at least some few dim recollections of the ancient belief in gods that can have their
permanent abode in mountain hollows.
The Odyssey (xix, 178 f.) calls Minos, the son of Zeus (cf. Il. xiii, 450; xiv,
322; Od. xi, 568) who ruled in Knossos the Cretan city, “the familiar gossip of
great Zeus.”21 Very
probably the poet meant by these words much the same as was understood by them in later
times: that Minos was personally acquainted with Zeus, on earth, of course, and, in fact,
in the cave—not far from Knossos on the side of Mount Ida—which was revered as
the “Cave of Zeus”.22
The island of Crete, overrun by the Greeks at an early period, still preserved in its
remote seclusion much that was primeval in belief and legend. There, sometimes on Mount
Ida, sometimes on Mount Dicte (in the east of the island) the holy cave was pointed out
where (already in Hesiod) Zeus was said to have been born.23 According to a local legend, which
probably was present to the fancy of the writer of these lines of the Odyssey, the god now
fully grown up still dwelt in his subterranean chamber, and was visited by individual
mortals. As Minos before him, so, too, Epimenides had been allowed to hear the prophecies
of the god.24 The Zeus
that dwelt in Ida was worshipped in a mystical cult;25 every year a “throne” was “spread” for
him, i.e. probably a “divine banquet” (Theoxenion) was prepared for his consumption, as
for other especially Chthonic deities. The initiated then entered the cave dressed in
black woollen garments, and remained within for thrice nine days.26 Everything points to the existence of
conceptions similar to those that we found expressed in the cult of Zeus Trophonios at
Lebadeia. Zeus dwelling in bodily form in the depths of his cave can appear in person to
those who enter his cave duly sanctified.
Then there appears, from the fourth century onwards, the strange statement, perhaps
started by Euhemeros and eagerly taken up in later ages by scoffers like Lucian or
Christian opponents of the old religion, that Zeus lay buried on Ida.27 What is here called
the grave of the god is nothing in reality but the cave which was
generally regarded as his permanent abode.28 The idea—always strange to the Greeks29—that a god could lie buried anywhere
on the earth, deprived of life for ever or even for a limited period of time, is often met
with in the tradition of Semitic and other non-Greek peoples.30 We need not inquire what deeper or perhaps
allegorical sense such legends may have had in the beliefs of those nations; there is no
reason to suppose that such foreign legends had any influence in the formation of Greek
myth. Nor does the tradition in Greek
lands give the slightest support to the view current among modern mythologists that the
death and burial of gods is intended to symbolize the “death of Nature”. It is, in fact,
plain that in the legend of the Cretan Zeus’ grave, the “grave” has simply taken the place
of the cave as the everlasting abode of the undying god, and that it is a paradoxical
expression intended to signify his perpetual confinement to that place. We are immediately
reminded of a no less paradoxical notice of a god’s grave at Delphi. Under the navel stone
(Omphalos) of the Earth-goddess (which was a vaulted piece of masonry in the Temple of
Apollo recalling in its shape the ancient vaulted tombs),31 there lay buried a divine being. Our
learned authorities call this being Python, the enemy of Apollo; one and only one quite
untrustworthy witness says it was Dionysos.32 Here we have a case of one god setting up his temple and abode
over the grave of another god. Apollo, the god of prophecy, thrones it over the
Earth-spirit Python, the son of the Earth-goddess Gaia. Now, we have ancient and in the
highest degree trustworthy traditions to the effect that there was originally at Delphi an
ancient Earth-Oracle into whose place Apollo and his mantic art came later as an intruder.
We are therefore justified in believing that this circumstance in the history of religion
has found expression in the legend that Apollo’s temple and oracular seat stood over the
place where an ancient and superseded oracle-daimon lay “buried”.33 In the days when the primeval Earth-Oracle
was still powerful its guardian would not lie dead and buried under the Omphalos of the
Earth-goddess, but would have dwelt there alive underground, like Amphiaraos or Trophonios
or Zeus on Ida.
The “grave” under the Omphalos means in the case of Python the overthrow of an
earth-dwelling Chthonic Daimon by the cult of Apollo. The “grave” of Zeus, which had
thrust itself into the place of an older legend of the dwelling of Zeus in the cave of the
mountain, expresses the same idea as this legend, but expresses it in a form current in
later ages which knew of many “Heroes” who after their death and from their graves gave
proof of a higher existence and a powerful influence. The Zeus that died and is buried is
only a god reduced to a Hero;34 remarkable and paradoxical is only the fact that unlike Zeus
Amphiaraos, Zeus Trophonios (and Zeus Asklepios), he has not, in the usual fashion,
dropped his title of god, which directly contradicted his “Hero” nature. It is possible that in the case of this cave-Zeus,
half-god half-Hero, a conception has been transferred merely on analogy from other cases
where it was applied more properly, after they had become fully “Heroized”, to gods who
according to the no longer intelligible theory had once been dwellers in the depths of the
earth.
We have several accounts of Heroes who were buried in temples of gods and were
sometimes associated with the cult of the higher god to whom the temple was dedicated. The
way in which such legends could arise may be seen unusually clearly from the case of
Erechtheus.
The Ship-Catalogue in the Iliad (ii, 546 ff.) tells us that Erechtheus was the son of
the Earth, but that Athene brought him up and “settled him in her rich temple”,35 where the Athenians
every year honour him with sacrifice of sheep and bulls.36 It is plain that Erechtheus is here
thought of as still living; to honour a dead man with such offerings, repeated every year
and attended by the whole community, would be a custom quite unknown to Homer. Erechtheus
is, therefore, thought of as dwelling alive in the temple in which Athene has set him
down, i.e. the ancient temple on the Acropolis which was enclosed in the “strong house of
Erechtheus”, to which, according to the Odyssey, Athene betakes herself as her
own home. On the old citadel of the Kings, royal residence and sanctuary of the
goddess were combined; its foundation walls have recently been discovered on the spot
where later joint worship was paid to Athene and Erechtheus in the “Erechtheion”.37 Erechtheus dwells
below the ground in a crypt of this temple,38 like other earth-deities, in the form of a snake, immortally. He
is not dead, for as Euripides still says, in a story which otherwise follows different
lines, “the earth gaped and covered him over,”39 i.e. he was translated and lived
on under the earth. On the analogy of the examples already discussed it is clear that this
is also a case of a primitive local deity,40 once supposed to have been living always in a cave on the
mountain-side, transformed to a Hero who has been brought there and raised to immortal
life. The later belief in Heroes required a grave at which the continued
existence and potency of the “Hero” was localized; by a natural process of development the
Hero Erechtheus translated alive and made immortal is thought of as buried in a
grave. Erichthonios, who was expressly identified with the Homeric Erechtheus, was by
later ages supposed to be buried in the Temple of Polias, i.e. the oldest temple of
Athene, on the Acropolis.41 We have clearly before us the steps by which the aboriginal deity, dwelling beneath the
ground, the son of Earth, is made into a mortal Hero, translated to immortality and placed
under the protection of the Olympian goddess who has now become more powerful than he; and
finally transferred, cave and all, to the precincts of her temple, and finally reduced to
the condition of a Hero like another, who had died and lies peacefully buried in the
temple of the goddess on the citadel.
With this example before us we may explain several other analogous cases, in which we
have only the last stage of the process, the grave of a Hero in a god’s temple, without
any of the intermediate steps. A single example may be given.
At Amyklai, not far from Sparta, in the holiest temple of Laconia, stood the ancient
bronze statue of Apollo upon an altar-shaped base, within which, according to legend,
Hyakinthos lay buried. Through a bronze door in the side of the altar offerings for
the dead were sent down to “Hyakinthos” buried below every year at the festival of the
Hyakinthia.42 The
recipient of these offerings has little resemblance to the gentle youth of popular legend.
The Hellenistic poets tell how he was beloved by Apollo and died by a cast of Apollo’s
discus and was changed into a flower. The fable, almost destitute of local reference, has
been put together from many popular themes.43 The sculpture on the above-mentioned altar, on the other hand,
represents among many gods and heroes Hyakinthos and his sister Polyboia as they are being
carried up to heaven—which will not square with the metamorphosis story. Further, he
is represented as bearded, and so not as the boy whom Apollo loved,44 but as a grown man (of whose daughters
indeed other legends make mention).45 The true story of this Hyakinthos has disappeared almost
without leaving a trace. But in what the monument reveals and in what we know of the
yearly festival held in honour of Hyakinthos significant features emerge which perhaps can
tell us the real character of the Daimon that was honoured at Amyklai together with, and
as our information clearly shows, before Apollo himself.46 Hyakinthos was given offerings that were
otherwise peculiar to the gods that ruled the lower world.47 These offerings were let down directly
into the underground place where, in fact, Hyakinthos himself was supposed to dwell. In
the great festival of the Hyakinthia the alternate worship of Apollo and Hyakinthos (after
whom as the chief personage the festival is named) points to the incomplete amalgamation
of two originally distinct cults; and the plain and unadorned, almost dismal, ceremonies
of the days devoted to
Hyakinthos—contrasted with the more cheerful worship paid to Apollo on the middle
day of the feast48—allow us to see clearly the real nature of Hyakinthos as a
Daimon related to the gods of the underworld. On the altar-relief Polyboia was represented
as his sister: she was a goddess of the underworld like Persephone.49 Hyakinthos was, then, an old local deity
of the Amyklaian countryside, dwelling below the earth, and his worship at Amyklai was
older than that of Apollo. But he is a dim figure. The Olympian god (probably not before
the Doric conquest of the Achæan land) has set himself down beside, and indeed over, the
ancient earth-spirit, and now outshines him without quite being able to banish his
worship. The divine existence of the latter under the ground could not be imagined by
later ages, except as the after-existence of the psyche of a dead and buried Hero whose
body lay in the “grave” under the statue of the god. Next, in order to explain their
association in cult, poetic legend made the god a lover, just as in another case, and for
similar reasons, it had made him the lover of Daphne.50
Thus it may be that under many a Hero whose grave was shown in the Temple of a god an
ancient local-god was hidden, whose abode beneath the earth had been converted into a
“grave” now that he himself had sunk from a deity of higher rank to a human chieftain. It
depended upon the circumstances of the case whether his humanization was complete or
whether the memory of his former god-head (preserved in cult) secured for him a second
elevation to the heavenly regions51 among the Olympian gods whose nature was originally quite foreign
to that of the old earth-daimon. Such conceptions, differing widely according to the
circumstances of place and time, are shown most clearly in the different views taken of
Asklepios. For Homer and the poets he is generally a great chieftain, a mortal who
had learnt the art of healing from Cheiron. In religious cult he was generally set on a
level with the upper gods. In reality he, too, is a local earth-dwelling deity from
Thessaly, who from beneath the earth dispenses, like so many earth-spirits, healing from
the ills of the flesh and knowledge of the future52—the two being closely connected in
antiquity. He, too, easily bore the change from god to Hero. Asklepios was struck by Zeus’
lightning which in this, as in many cases, did not destroy life, but translated the person
affected to a higher existence outside the visible world.53 We can now easily understand what it means when even this
ancient earth-deity is said to be “buried”—his grave being shown at different
places.54 Many
peculiarities of the worship paid to him show clearly the original character of Asklepios
as an ancient god living below the earth.55 One essential characteristic indeed of such earth-spirits he
lacks—he is not bound to any one particular place. An enterprising priesthood,
wandering in company with the rest of their tribe, had taken with them this old
established worship of theirs, and spread it far and wide, so that Asklepios himself
became at home in many different places.
Now, in closest relationship, though they remained more faithful to their original
character, with this Zeus Asklepios stood those Boeotian earth-spirits with whom this
discussion began. Trophonios, and Amphiaraos, too, might have been described as an
Asklepios, who had stayed at home in his old cavern dwelling.56 They, too, Amphiaraos and Trophonios, had
become mortal men of a past age in the imagination of a time which could no longer
properly understand such cave-spirits. But we never hear of their “graves”; for the
generation which made them Heroes knew nothing of mortal chieftains who after
dying and being buried yet lived on with undiminished powers. But it was the belief in
their uninterrupted potency that gave those strange cavern deities a secure place in men’s
memory. In the epic and in legends inspired by the epic they are recognized as human
beings that had not died but had been translated, without any division of soul from body,
to everlasting life in the depths of the earth. Ever afterwards—even when they are
not only called immortal, but actually “gods”—they are reckoned as men who have
become immortal or godlike.57 And they have become the patterns of what other mortals too may
rise to. In the Electra of Sophokles (836 ff.) the chorus wishing to justify the
hope of a continued life for the departed, expressly appeal to the example of Amphiaraos,
who still rules below the earth with all his spiritual powers intact. For the same reason
these and other examples offered by ancient legend and poetry of the “translation” of
individual great men to a life below the earth are important for our inquiry too. In them,
as it did (in another sense) in the case of those translated to the Islands of the Blest,
the Epic points beyond its own resigned and gloomy conception of the state after death
towards a higher life after the visible world has been left behind. It took isolated cases
of the once numerous class of cavern deities worshipped in Greek countries, and deprived
them of their god-head, though not of
the superhumanly continued existence and (especially mantic) powers claimed for them by
the belief and cult of their countrymen. Thus reduced to mortal rank, it interwove them in
the fabric of the heroic mythology, and in so doing instituted a class of outstanding
human individuals who had been raised to a godlike existence, far, indeed, from the upper
world, but, at least, not condemned to the common realm of the souls. Instead they were
given a home beneath the earth, each in a definite place in Greek territory, near living
men, and able to help them. The descent from god to mortal Hero resulted, since the
essential point of continued existence was not denied, in a corresponding exaltation of
the mortal and the heroic to the divine. Thus the epic leads us in this instance towards a
range of conceptions which the poems themselves treated as though it never existed, and
which now suddenly comes into view.
CHAPTER IV H EROES — § 1 — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — § 5 — § 6 — § 7 — § 8 — § 9 — § 10 — § 11 — § 12 — NOTES TO CHAPTER IV
When about the year 620 Drakon at Athens for the first time collected and committed to
writing the customary law of his country he also ordained that the gods and the national
Heroes should be honoured together according to ancestral usage.1
We are thus for the first time introduced to Heroes as beings of a higher
kind, mentioned side by side with the gods, and like them to be worshipped with regularly
offered sacrifice. Their cult, like that of the gods, is by implication of long standing:
it does not have to be reorganized, but is merely established in the form ancestral
ordinances had given it. We see at this turning-point of Greek religious development how
defective our knowledge is of the history of religious ideas in primitive Greece. This is
our earliest record, and it has been preserved to us by a mere accident, but it points
backwards and beyond itself to a long previous history in the worship of such guardian
deities of the country—of which, however, we have hardly a scrap of early
evidence.2 We should in
fact, from the meagre remains of the literature that is so important from this point of
view, especially the lyric poetry of the seventh and early sixth centuries, hardly have
derived a suspicion of the existence of this quite un-Homeric element in the religious
life of Greece.3 When at
last the stream of surviving literature begins to flow more broadly, then, indeed, the
Heroes are often referred to. Pindar’s Hymns of Victory and Herodotos’ History cover the
generations that lived through the Persian wars and the following fifty years. From them
we can see with overwhelming distinctness how strong at that time was the belief in the
existence and potency of Heroes even among men of education who had not been too much
influenced by the fashionable enlightenment of the time. In the beliefs of the people, in
the religious customs of countries and cities, the national Heroes have their recognized
place beside the gods. The representatives of states swear by the gods and the Heroes of
the country:4 it is to
the gods and Heroes of Greece that the pious attribute the victory over the Barbarians.5 So well established,
indeed, was the validity of the Greek belief in Heroes that even the Persian magi in the
army of Xerxes made libation by night in the Troad to the Heroes buried there.6
If now we inquire into the nature and essence of this species of higher beings that was
as yet unknown to, or disregarded by, the epic we get little information on the subject
from direct statements as to their nature by writers of antiquity. We can, however, learn
a great deal about them from what we are told of individual Heroes and more particularly
from what we know of the peculiar nature of the religious worship paid to them.7 The Heroes were
worshipped with sacrifice like the gods; but these sacrifices were very different from the
offerings that were made to the Olympians.8 They differ in time, place, and character. Sacrifice was made to
the gods in broad daylight, to Heroes towards evening or at night;9 and not on raised altars, but on low, and
sometimes hollow, sacrificial hearths close to the ground.10 For them were slain animals of black
colour and male sex,11
and in sacrificing, the heads of the animals were not turned upwards towards heaven as
they were when offered to the gods, but were bent down to the ground.12 The blood of these
animals was allowed to run down into the ground or into the sacrificial hearth, that the
Heroes might have their “appeasement of blood”.13 The carcass was completely burnt, for no
living man might taste of it.14 This peculiar mode of worshipping the Heroes was in strict usage
described by a different name from that used of the sacrifices to the gods.15 On special occasions a
sacrificial meal of cooked food was prepared, to which the Hero was invited as a guest.16 They are near by in
the earth itself, and there is no need in their case, as for the Olympians, to send up the
savour of sacrifice in smoke to heaven.
This sacrificial ritual is in those features which distinguish it from that commonly in
use for the gods of Olympos precisely identical with that by which the gods who dwelt
under the earth, and, later, even the souls of dead men, were honoured. This will seem
quite natural if we regard the Heroes as closely related to the chthonic deities on the
one hand, and to the dead on the other. In fact, they are nothing else than the spirits of
dead men who now dwell beneath the earth, immortal like the gods of that underworld, and
almost equal to them in power. Their real nature as the souls of great men of the past,
who have died but have not been deprived of conscious existence, is made plain by another
mode of doing honour to them originally belonging to them and them only—I mean the
yearly repeated celebration of Funeral Games.
Athletic contests for chieftains at the funeral of a prominent one of their number were known to Homer, and we have already
referred to them among other relics in epic poetry of a once powerful cult of souls.17 But Homer knew nothing
of their repetition, and certainly not of an annual recurrence of such funeral
celebrations.18 Games
celebrated afresh after the lapse of a definite period became known to the Greeks only
when the cult of Heroes had reached its maturity. Many of these contests were connected
perpetually with the yearly festivals of individual Heroes, and were intended to honour
their memory.19 Even
in historical times, generally on the command of the Delphic oracle, annual contests were
instituted in honour of Heroes.20 It was the mode of worship proper to Heroes, and men realized
that in holding such contests they were really repeating the funeral ceremonies of a dead
man.21 The cult of
Heroes was the earliest breeding ground of the Agôn, that most characteristic feature of
Greek life and school of the individualism that made the greatness of Greece. It was not
unreasonable that afterwards many of the victors at the great Agônes were themselves
raised by popular superstition to the number of the Heroes. The greatest Games of all, to
which all Greece assembled, the Pythian, Olympian, Nemean, and Isthmian, were during the
historical period, it is true, celebrated in honour of gods; but that they had been
originally instituted as Funeral Games of Heroes and only subsequently transferred to
higher guardianship was, at any rate, the general opinion of antiquity.22
The Heroes are, then, spirits of the dead, and not a species of inferior deities or
“demigods”;23 and
quite distinct again from the “daimones” known to later speculative thought and, indeed,
to popular superstition. These latter are divine spirits of a lower order; but spirits
which have always been exempt from death because they have never entered into the finite
existence of men. The Heroes on the other hand have once been living men; from being men
they have become Heroes, and that only after their death.24 Furthermore, they have now entered upon a
higher stage of existence as a special class of beings who are named by the side
of gods and men.25 In
them we meet with something quite unknown to the Homeric poems—souls which
after their death and separation from the body have a higher imperishable life.
But though the Heroes have once been men, it does not follow that all men become Heroes
after their death. On the contrary, the Heroes, even though their number was not fixed
and limited, but continually admitted
additions, remained an exception, a select minority which for that reason alone
can be contrasted with ordinary humanity. The chief figures, the outstanding
representatives of this heroic company, we may say, were those whose lifetime was fixed by
legend or history in the distant past—who were in fact the ancestors of later
humanity. The worship of Heroes is not, then, a cult of souls, but in a narrower sense a
cult of ancestors. Even their name, as it appears, distinguishes the Heroes as
men of the past. In the Iliad and the Odyssey “Hero” is the honourable title of
chieftains, and also, generally, of all free men.26 Poetry of later centuries, so far as it
touched upon the events of the legendary past, continued to use the word “Hero” in this
sense. But when in post-Homeric times the speaker, whether he is a poet or prose-writer,
regards the matter from the point of view of contemporary life, then by “Hero”, if he is
referring to a man at all, he means a man of those days when, according to the Homeric
poems, this honourable title was still in use among living men—he refers in a word
to men belonging to the legendary past celebrated in poetry.27 In Hesiod’s narrative
of the Five Ages of Men, the use of the word Hero is confined to the Champions of the wars
at Thebes and Troy; they are called, as though by their special name, the “divine race of
Heroes”.28 For Hesiod
the “Heroes” are by no means the transfigured dead of past generations.29 He knows well enough
of such transfigured dead of a still earlier past, but these he calls “Daimones”. And so,
too, when in after times the name of Hero is applied to these favoured individuals who
enjoy a higher life after their death, the name which in itself did not imply the higher
nature of such departed spirits is evidently intended to show that the lifetime
of those who had received this privilege after their death occurred in a legendary past.
As these men of the distant past had been “Heroes” during their life, so, too, they must
be called after their death. But the meaning of the word Hero has undergone a change, and
now contains the additional notion of unending transfigured existence. The worship of the
Heroes reveals itself as something quite new, a form of religious belief and cult, of
which the Homeric poems at least gave no inkling. And, indeed, the conception of such
transfigured ancestral souls living on in a higher state must have been a novel one, if no
special word of ancient coinage could be found to express it, and a long-standing word of
the epic vocabulary had to be pressed into a new sense.
Whence came this new thing? If we try to derive it from a natural process of development in the Homeric view of life
we shall find ourselves in the greatest perplexity when it comes to showing the connecting
links between two such widely different conceptions. It would not avail us much to say
that the prestige of the epic was such that those whom it had honoured in song must have
appeared so glorious and distinguished among mankind that it was natural for later
imagination to transform them to demigods and to worship them as such. The Homeric poems,
so violently opposed to any idea of a conscious or active existence of the soul after
death, could hardly have brought it about that those very champions whom it had
represented as indeed dead and departed to the distant land of Hades should be regarded as
still living and exercising an influence from out their graves. Moreover, it is in the
highest degree improbable that in the process of historical development it should have
been just the champions of the epic from whose worship the cult of Heroes arose; for in
cult, at any rate, with negligible exceptions, those champions played little part. And,
indeed, that any cult at all should have arisen from the mere suggestions of fancy, such
as the epic offered, is in itself unlikely. And it is essentially upon a religious cult
that the belief in Heroes is founded.
In fact after all that has been hitherto shown, what we see most plainly is the
contrast between the belief in Heroes and Homeric conceptions. The fanciful
thought of the translation of individuals to Islands of the Blest or the underground
dwellings did not itself conflict with the implications of Homeric eschatology. The
miraculous preservation in an immortal existence of men whom the gods loved did not
involve the separation of soul from body, nor the consequence of that separation—the
dim borderland existence of the disembodied soul. But the belief in Heroes was a different
matter; that involved the continuation of a conscious mode of being, in the neighbourhood
of the living, after death, and in spite of the separation of soul from body. This
directly contradicts Homeric psychology. We should have to give up the attempt altogether
to bring this new belief into any real relationship with earlier development—if we
could not draw upon what we have learnt from our previous investigations. In the Homeric
poems themselves, in striking contrast with the general conception there prevailing of the
insubstantiality of the disembodied soul, we found vestiges of a once-vigorous cult of
the soul which implied the existence of a corresponding belief in the conscious
after-life of the soul and its lingering in the neighbourhood of the living. From the study of Hesiod’s
picture of the Five Ages of Men, we saw that, in fact, vestiges of an ancient belief in
the continued and enhanced existence of dead men, of which no clear trace remained in
Homer, had been preserved at least in occasional remote corners of the Greek countryside.
But it was only the dead of a legendary past who were regarded by Hesiod as “Daimones”:
the poet could relate no similar marvels from more recent periods, and still less of men
in his own lifetime. Thus, we have in this case traces of ancestor-worship
indeed, but not of a general worship of souls that is elsewhere the normal development of
the worship of ancestors. So, then, in the worship of Heroes, what we have before us is
not a general cult of the soul but a cult of ancestors. We may express the matter in this
way: in the cult of the “Hero” a still burning spark of ancient belief is kindled to
renewed flame—it is not the appearance of something entirely strange and new, but
something long past and half-forgotten is awakened to new life. Those Daimones which arose
from the men of the earlier golden and silver ages—whom the poet of the “Works and
Days” had situated in the dimmest and remotest past—what are they but the “Heroes”
worshipped by later ages under a new name and brought down nearer to the period of
contemporary life?
How it came about that the cult of ancestors was rescued from partial, and more than
partial, oblivion, and rose to a new and lasting importance, that, indeed, we cannot say.
We can give no real explanation indicative of the origin and progress of this important
development in Greek religious life. We know neither the time nor the place of the first
serious revival of this newly awakened primitive worship; nor can we tell the manner or
stages of its diffusion during those obscure years of the eighth and seventh centuries. We
can, however, bring the fact of the revival of ancestor-worship into relation with a
number of other facts which prove that during those years many hitherto buried or
repressed ideas about the life of gods and men came to the surface again out of the depths
of popular faith and out of an older worship of the gods that had never quite died out.
This revival did not, indeed, suppress the Homeric view entirely—that never
occurred—but it did set itself on a level with that view. The great movement with
which we shall be dealing in the next chapter also contributed to
the progress of the belief in Heroes. Many other favouring circumstances may in detail have helped to strengthen that
belief. Even the epic itself had in one point at least approached the ideas that were
receiving a new life in the worship of Heroes. Many of the local gods who had faded before
the new deities of common Hellenic belief had been reduced to the rank of humanity and
joined in heroic adventure. By a sort of compromise effected with the local cult of such
gods the epic poets had been led, in a few cases, to the creation of a remarkable series
of figures in which the divine and the human was wonderfully mixed. These champions and
seers of old time, as they had once been mortal men among other men, so now after their
departure must they live on and have influence eternally like the gods. We can easily see
the close resemblance that exists between such figures as Amphiaraos or Trophonios and the
Heroes of later belief; in fact, both of them, when they were not called gods, were
frequently reckoned among these Heroes. But for all that, they are only
quasi-Heroes; prototypes of the real Heroes they can never have been. They have
been translated during their lifetime, and live on immortally just because they have never
tasted death. They, with those others translated to the Islands of the Blest, represent
the idea of immortality in the only form recognized by the Homeric poetry. The Heroes of
the newly awakening creed, on the contrary, have died unmistakably; and yet they continue
to live on, though relieved of their bodies. They are entirely distinct from the
translated few of the epic tradition. They emerge out of the obscurity of the
half-remembered past as something strange—as something, indeed, opposed to the
circle of ideas influenced by the epic.
It was not from poetic imagination or story that the Heroes took their origin, but from
the remains of an ancient pre-Homeric belief which local worship had preserved alive.
The worship of a Hero is everywhere connected with the site of his grave. That is the
general rule proved in innumerable cases. That is why in the case of a more than
ordinarily revered Hero, his grave as the centre of his worship is set up in some
prominent and honourable place—the market-place of the city, the Prytaneion,30 or, like the grave of
Pelops in the Altis at Olympia, in the very middle of the holy precinct, in the thick of
the festival crowd.31
Or else the Hero who guarded the city and the land might have his grave in the wall of the
city gate or upon the farthest border of its territory.32 Where his grave is, there the Hero is fast
bound; that is his dwelling-place.33 This idea prevails
everywhere, though it may not be given such blunt expression as at Tronis, in the country
of the Phocians, where the blood of the offering made to the Hero was poured down through
an opening immediately into his grave mound.34 It is implied, as a rule, in these cases that the grave contains
the bones of the Hero. The bones—all that is left of his mortality—chain the
Hero to his grave. Hence, when it was thought desirable to attach a Hero and his
protective power to a city his bones (or what were taken for such) on the command of an
oracle were brought from a foreign land and laid to rest in his native country. We possess
many accounts of such transference of relics.35 Most of them occurred in the distant past, but we also read how
in the full light of history in the year 476 enlightened Athens brought over the bones of
Theseus from Skyros;36
and not until they were buried in the Theseion was Theseus properly attached to
Athens.
Since the possession of the corporeal remains37 of the Hero secured the possession of the
Hero himself, the cities often protected themselves against strangers, who might remove
the treasured bones, by keeping the position of the grave a secret.38 A grave is always necessary to fix the
Hero at a definite place, or, at least, an “empty tomb”, which sometimes had to do duty
for a grave.39 In such
cases the Hero was perhaps thought of as bound by a spell to that place.40 As a rule, it is the
remains of his former body that hold him fast. But these remains are a part of the Hero
himself; though dead (and mummified, as we are told in one case),41 he works and acts just the same; his
psyche, his invisible counterpart and double, hovers in the neighbourhood of the body and
the grave.
These are all very primitive conceptions such as have, as a rule, only been preserved
among peoples who have remained at a very undeveloped stage of culture.42 When we find them in
force among Greeks of post-Homeric times, we cannot really believe that they arose then
for the first time, in complete contrast with the clear-sighted freedom of the men of the
Homeric age. They have only re-emerged from the repressive influence of the Homeric
rationalism. It would be natural to think that the same ideas that have been described as
underlying the belief in Heroes were already in the minds of those prehistoric Greeks who
in Mycenae and elsewhere took such care (even it seems going so far as to embalm them)43 to preserve the bodies
of their princes from destruction, and who put ornaments and utensils in their graves for
future use or enjoyment. It has been
explained above how, in the times of which Homer’s poems give us a picture, the alteration
in sentiment as well as the spread of the custom of completely destroying the bodies of
the dead with fire must have weakened the belief in the confinement of the soul to this
world and to the remains of the body. This belief never entirely perished. It was
preserved alive, perhaps for a long time only by a few, in those places where there
remained a cult attached to a grave. Such a cult would not, indeed, extend to
those whose death had occurred within more recent times, but it did not allow the
old-established worship of the great dead of the past to die out entirely. Over the royal
graves on the citadel at Mycenae stood a sacrificial hearth,44 which bears witness to the continuance of
the ancient worship of the kings buried there. The Catalogue of Ships in Homer mentions
the “grave of Aipytos”, an old Arcadian local monarch, as a landmark of the district;45 may not the sanctity
of that grave have been preserved? In many places, at any rate, graves were pointed out
and honoured that belonged to Heroes who owed their existence solely to poetic fancy or
were even mere personifications—abstractions of the names of places and countries
whose ancestors they purported to be. In such cases the Hero-worship had become purely
symbolic, and often perhaps a mere formality. But from such a fictitious ancestor-worship
the cult of the graves of Heroes cannot possibly have arisen; such fictions are themselves
only intelligible as copies of another and more vivid worship, of a cult of real
ancestors. If no such cult had existed in actual fact before men’s eyes, it would be
impossible to understand how men came to imitate ancestor-worship in the shape of such
purely imaginary creatures. A copy implies the existence of a model; a symbol requires the
contemporary or earlier existence of the reality symbolized. We should certainly know more
of the worship of ancestors among the ancient royal families if in nearly all the Greek
states monarchy had not been abolished at an early period and all traces of it suppressed.
Sparta alone provides us with a solitary example of what may once have been the prevailing
custom in all the seats of royal authority. When a Spartan king died his funeral was
celebrated with extreme pomp. His body (which, even when he had died abroad, was embalmed
and brought home to Sparta) was laid beside the other dead of his family, and honour was
paid to him, in Xenophon’s words, not as a man, but as a Hero.46 In this case, which
undoubtedly represents a traditional usage handed down from remote antiquity, we have the rudiments of
Hero-worship as applied to the dead of a royal family. The members of noble families who,
like the Eupatridai of Athens, sometimes traced their descent from a king,47 must also have
retained from ancient times the practice of ancestor-worship. As of all unofficial cults,
we hear little of the cults of the old clans based on blood-relationship and connexion by
marriage (γένη, πάτραι). But just
as out of their combination first the village communities and then the fully organized
Greek Polis grew up, so, too, the religious cults which were paid to the ancestors of
these unions of kinsfolk set a pattern for the manifold social groups out of which the
developed state was built up.48
The “clans” that we meet with at Athens and in other Greek states are, as a rule,
groups for which a demonstrable common kinship is no longer a condition of membership. The
majority of such politically recognized, self-contained clans assemble together for the
common worship of particular gods but many also honour a Hero as well, who generally in
such cases gives his name to the clan. Thus, the Eteoboutadai at Athens paid honour to
Boutes, the Alkmaionidai to Alkmaion, the Bouzygai to Bouzyges, in Sparta and Argos
Talthybios was worshipped by the Talthybiadai, etc. And in these cases, as the name of the
clan itself shows, the Hero of their common worship was regarded as the ancestor
of the clan.49
Further, this ancestor-worship and the name derived from a common, even if fictitious,
ancestor, distinguished the clans from the cult-associations of a different origin which
since the time of Kleisthenes had been put on a footing of legal equality with the clans
in the phratries. The members of these associations (Orgeones) lacked a common name, the
existence of which, therefore, indicated in the case of the members of a clan a closer
bond of union than mere membership of a religious association which had been chosen at
will, and was not decided by the fact of birth.
Everywhere these clans kept up the outward formalities of ancestor-worship; and the
formality must once have had meaning. However the publicly recognized clans may have
developed their own special characteristics, in their origin, at least, they must go back
(like the Roman gentes) to associations of kinsfolk developed from the family
(extended through the male line) and held together by a real bond of kinship. Even the
purely symbolical ancestor-worship of the later “clans”, of which hardly a single one
could have shown the pedigree of its
descent from the reputed common ancestor, must have arisen from the real ancestor-worship
of genuine groups of kinsfolk. The imitation in this case, too, points to the existence at
some time of an original.
In the same way the larger groups into which the Athenian state since the time of
Kleisthenes was divided were unable to dispense with the practice of association for the
cult of a commonly worshipped Hero. The Heroes of the newly organized phylai50 had their temple,
land, priests, statues, and regular cult; and so also had the Heroes of the smaller purely
local divisions, the demes. Here, too, the fiction of ancestor-worship was kept up; the
names of the phylai, always patronymic in form, represent the members of each phyle
as the descendants of the Hero Eponymos or Archegetes of the phyle.51 The demes also in many cases have
patronymic titles which for the most part are also known to us as the names of
aristocratic families.52 It is evident that in such demes the members of individual
aristocratic families had settled down together or near each other. The Archegetes,
whether real or fictitious, of the family must then have been regarded as the Archegetes
of the deme. We thus see how the cult of a family ancestor, taken over by a wider group of
worshippers, might be preserved and extended—little as the cult might benefit in
sincerity by such political enlargement.
The cult of Heroes everywhere has the same features as the cult of ancestors; at least,
the more influential Heroes, those worshipped by the greater communities, were everywhere
regarded as the forefathers and progenitors of the groups of countryfolk, citizens, or
kinsmen who honoured them. The fact that the persons of these prehistoric Heroes owed
their existence almost without exception solely to poetry or fancy allows us to conclude
that at the time when ancestor-worship had its re-birth in Hero-worship, the memory of the
real Archegetai of the country, the ancestors of the ruling families and clans, together
with their cult, had fallen into oblivion. A great or illustrious name was introduced
where the real name was no longer known. More often, even when the real forefather of the
clan was still well known, the name of a great man of the primeval past was placed at the
head of the list in order to throw the origin of the family as far back into the past as
possible and connect it the more closely with a divine source.53 Men thus came to worship a phantom, often
a mere symbol, of an ancestor. But they held fast to the imitation of real
ancestor-worship; the remains of a true cult of ancestors provided the model and were the
real starting-point for the later belief and cult of Heroes.
We can no longer follow in detail the process of development and extension which the
idea of the Hero underwent. The accounts which we possess show us the fully developed
product, not the steps which led up to this result. We first get an idea of the number of
Hero-cults existing in Greece during the greatest period of its history from the enormous
number of graves or cults of Heroes mentioned by Pausanias in the account of his travels
in the age of the Antonines over the most important countries of the Greece that was now
fast falling into decay. Nearly all the legendary figures celebrated in epic poetry were
now worshipped as Heroes, whether in their own homes (as Achilles in Thessaly, Aias at
Salamis, etc.) or in other places that either claimed to possess their graves (as the
Delphians did that of Neoptolemos, the people of Sybaris that of Philoktetes, etc.) or
else, through the genealogical relationship of their leading families with the Heroes,
regarded themselves as closely connected with them (as, for example, the Athenians with
Aias and his sons). In the colonies especially the Hero-cults, like the ingredients of the
population, may have been a motley crew; thus, in Tarentum the Atreidai, the Tydidai, the
Aiakidai, the Laertiadai, and especially the Agamemnonidai were worshipped in a combined
Hero-cult, and Achilles also had a temple of his own.54
There were Heroes with famous names who may yet have owed their subsequent elevation to
that position, during the times of the greatest extent of the cult, in part to their fame
in ancient poetry. Side by side with these were a host of obscurer figures whose memory
had been kept alive by their cult alone, which a small circle of country or city folk had
paid to them from primitive times. These are the real “national Heroes”, of whose worship
Drakon had spoken; as true forebears and real ancestors of their country they, too, are
called “Archegetai”.55
We are told the names of the seven Archegetai of Plataea to whom Aristeides was commanded
by the Delphic oracle to sacrifice before the battle of Plataea; not one of them is ever
heard of again.56 It
might happen that the name of a Hero to whom worship had been paid from time immemorial
might no longer be known even to the dwellers near his grave. In the market at Elis there
stood a little temple whose roof was supported on wooden pillars; men knew that this was
the chapel belonging to a grave, but no one could give the name of the Hero buried
there.57 In the market
at Herakleia on the Black Sea was a monument of a Hero overshadowed by wild olive-trees; it contained the body of
that Hero whom once the Delphian oracle had bidden the founders of Herakleia to placate.
The learned differed as to his name; the inhabitants of Herakleia called him simply “the
local Hero”.58 In the
Hippodrome at Olympia stood a round altar at which the chariot horses used to shy. It was
disputed what Hero lay buried there, but the people called him, after the effect he had on
the horses, simply Taraxippos.59 In the same way many Heroes, instead of being called by their
real names, were more often referred to by adjectives which recalled their nature or their
power or some external detail of their appearance.60 At Athens there was a Hero Physician, a
Hero General, and a Hero Garland-bearer.61 Many a Hero may have been known to the neighbourhood which
worshipped him simply as “the Hero”.62 In such cases it was entirely due to the grave and the cult
attached to the grave that the Hero’s memory had been preserved at all. There might,
indeed, be stories current as to his doings and nature as a “spirit”, but what it was that
had marked him out in his lifetime and caused his elevation to a Hero was totally
forgotten. Undoubtedly these are precisely the oldest Hero-cults. In the instances quoted
from Elis, Herakleia and Olympia, first one and then another of the famous champions of
antiquity were supposed to be buried under that nameless gravestone. But, often enough,
the doubt was suppressed, and by an arbitrary and successful imposition some famous name
out of the heroic legend may have been substituted as occupant of such ownerless or
unclaimed grave sanctuaries.
As a rule there was no difficulty in securing great or famous names when it was
necessary to find a patron-Hero for the city. In particular the founder of the city and
its regular worship of the gods, and the whole divine circle which hedged round the life
of the citizens, was regularly worshipped with high honour as Hero Archegetes.63 Naturally, they were
mostly mythical or even arbitrarily invented figures to whom the greater or lesser cities
of Greece, as well as their offshoots in foreign lands, did honour as their “Founder”.
But from the times when colonies were frequently dispatched and laid out in accordance
with a carefully thought-out plan, under the leadership of a single person (generally
named by an oracle) who was given plenipotentiary powers,64 this real Oikistes was himself
usually promoted after his death to the rank of Hero. Pindar speaks of the sacred grave of
the Hero-founder of Kyrene in the
marketplace of the city;65 the inhabitants of the Thracian Chersonnese made sacrifices to
Miltiades the son of Kypselos as their Oikistes, “as the custom is,” and held games
annually in his honour;66 at Katana, in Sicily, Hieron of Syracuse was buried, and was
worshipped with the honours of a Hero as the Founder of the city.67 At Abdera the Teians on the occasion of
the second founding of the city restored to his position of Hero its original founder
Timesios.68 On the
other hand, the original and real Oikistes of a colony might be deprived of his worship if
the inhabitants quarrelled with the mother country, and another “Founder” chosen after the
event and given the highest honours of a Hero in his place. This was what happened in the
year 422 with Hagnon and Brasidas in Amphipolis.69
In these cases Hero-making leaves the sacred mists of antiquity and enters the light of
the contemporary world: faith and cult become profaned by political motives. The name of
Hero, once applied only to the glorified figures of the far distant past, now that such
Heroizing of the recent dead was possible, must have begun to have the more general
meaning of one who has come to enjoy a higher nature and enlarged capacities after his
death. In fact, any kind of prominence during a man’s lifetime seems at last to have given
him a virtual claim to heroic honours after his death. As Heroes are now regarded, great
kings such as Gelon of Syracuse, law-givers such as Lykourgos of Sparta,70 and even
representatives of poetic genius from Homer down to Aeschylus and Sophokles,71 no less than the most
famous victors in the contests of bodily skill and strength. One of the Olympic victors,
Philippos of Kroton, was reputed to be the most beautiful man in Greece of his time. Over
his grave the people of Egesta, so Herodotos (v, 47) tells us, erected a Hero’s temple and
paid honour to him with sacrifice as to a Hero merely on account of his great personal
beauty.
Still, religious or superstitious motives were not always absent. They were
particularly to the fore in the numerous cases where the extent and importance of the
world of Heroes were added to on the recommendation of the Delphic oracle. Ever since the
Delphic priesthood had risen from its obscure beginnings to a recognized position as the
supreme authority in all questions of spiritual right, the opinion of the oracle had been
sought on all occurrences that seemed to have any connexion with the unseen world.
Especially in the case of prolonged drought or infertility of the soil, or when
pestilential sicknesses had attacked a part of the country, was the oracle requested to state the origin of the
misfortune. In many cases the answer of the oracle would be that the origin of the evil
lay in the anger of a Hero who was to be placated by sacrifice and the foundation of a
permanent worship; or it would command that the plague should be averted by the recovery
of the bones of a Hero from a foreign land, which should then be preserved at home and be
the object of an official cult.72 Innumerable cults had their origin in this way, nor do the
examples all belong to a half-legendary past. When pestilence and dearth broke out in the
island of Cyprus after the death of Kimon, the oracle bade the inhabitants of Kition “not
to slight” Kimon, but to regard him as a “higher” being, i.e. do him honour as a Hero.73 So, too, when some one
possessed by special religious scruples inquired the cause of a strange vision that he had
had, or of the remarkable appearance of the body of one lately dead,74 the oracle would often trace the matter to
the action of a Hero who must forthwith be given an official cult. When a serious
undertaking lay before a state, whether it was the invasion of a foreign land or a
decisive battle in war, the oracle would bid the inquirers first placate the Heroes of the
country that was to be attacked or where the battle was to be fought.75 Sometimes the oracle
of its own accord, without being applied to, commanded the honours of a Hero to be paid to
a dead man.76
A peculiar case is that of Kleomedes of Astypalaia. This man had at the 71st Olympic
festival (486) killed his opponent in the boxing match. He was disqualified by the
Hellanodikai from taking his crown and returned home to Astypalaia full of indignation.
There he tore down the pillar which supported the roof of a boys’ school, and on the
destruction of the boys fled to Athene’s temple where he hid himself in a chest. His
pursuers vainly sought to open the lid of the chest and at last the chest itself had to be
broken into by main force. But Kleomedes was not found inside, either alive or dead. The
envoys sent to inquire of the oracle were informed that Kleomedes had become a Hero, and
that he must be honoured with sacrifice since he was no longer a mortal.77 And so the inhabitants
of Astypalaia paid honour to Kleomedes as a Hero. In this case the simple conception of a
Hero as one raised to divine power after his death is united with the ancient belief,
which had never quite died out since the great days of the epic, in the
translation of individual mortals who without dying disappear from sight to enter
immortal life with body and soul complete. Such a miracle seemed to have occurred once
again in the case of Kleomedes. He had “disappeared” and been “carried away”.78 He could, however, only be called a “Hero”
because there was no common name to describe the effect of translation which made men no
longer mortals nor yet gods. The oracle called Kleomedes “the last of the Heroes”; indeed,
it might well appear time to close at last the already over-lengthy list of “Heroes”. The
Delphic oracle79 had
itself contributed largely to their increase, and with full intent; nor did it observe for
long its own decision to make an end now.80
It is easy to understand the reasons for the universal acceptance among the Greeks of
the unquestioned authority of the oracle in all matters connected with the Heroes. The god
does not invent new Heroes or add to the number of local divinities at his own caprice or
by the exercise of his own authority. He merely sees them where human eyes are not
clear-sighted enough. He, the all-seeing, recognizes them as one spirit does another, and
is able to see them at work when men only feel the results of their activity. Thus, he
enables inquirers to be rid of their difficulties, to understand supernatural occurrences
by the recognition and worship of invisible powers. For the believer he is in this, as in
all other directions of religious life, “the true Expositor”.81 He only points out what already exists; he
does not invent anything new, though the information that he gives may be something quite
new to men. We, indeed, may be permitted to inquire what motive the shrewd Delphic
priesthood may have had in the creation or renewal of so many Hero-cults. There is very
evident method in their promotion of the belief in Heroes, as there is in all the
activities of the oracle in religious and political matters. Was it ecclesiastical policy
that made the priests of Delphi, in this as so many other cases, search out and multiply
to the greatest possible extent the objects of belief and cult? The more widespread and
the more deeply ingrained was the uneasy dread of an invisible all-powerful spirit-world,
the greater became the authority of the oracle that alone could give guidance in this
confused turmoil of ghostly activities. Superstition had achieved a power that the Homeric
age never knew, and it cannot be denied that the oracle encouraged this
deisidaimonia and did its best to increase it. Still, the priests of the oracle
themselves were undoubtedly subject to the beliefs of their age; at any rate, they shared
the belief in Heroes. They would think it quite natural, when faced by anxious inquiries
as to the cause of disease or dearth, to confirm the half-expressed attribution of the
evil to the action of an angry Hero. They had rather to give their sanction to what was already anticipated than
invent something new. They only applied to the particular case (with free scope in the
invention of details) what the popular belief of the times had already settled in
principle. But what it all meant was that the oracle took under its protection everything
that could promote and strengthen the cult of souls: and in so far as it is
possible to speak of a “Theology of Delphi”, the popular belief in the survival of the
soul after death and the cult of the disembodied soul formed two of the most important
articles in its creed. We shall have more to say on this subject hereafter. In any case,
if the priests lived in the atmosphere of such ideas, it was natural for them in times of
need and stress, when strange things happened, to regard as the author of the disturbance
some dead legendary Hero’s ghost or even a powerful spirit of more recent times, and to
direct the faithful accordingly. Thus, the Delphic god became the patron of the cult of
Heroes, just as he was a patron of the Heroes themselves, and invited them every year at
the Theoxenia to a meal in his own temple.82
Thus encouraged on all sides, Hero-worship began to multiply the objects of the cult
beyond all counting. The great wars of freedom against the Persians had aroused the
deepest and most religious feelings of the Greeks, and it did not seem too much when whole
companies of those who had fallen for freedom were raised to the rank of Hero. Thus, even
into a very late period, the solemn procession every year to honour the Greeks who had
been left on the field of Plataea was never omitted; and at the sacrifice the archon of
the city called upon the “brave men who had laid down their lives for Greece” and invited
them to a meal and satisfaction of blood.83 At Marathon, also, those who had once fallen in battle and been
buried there were worshipped as Heroes.84
Out of the enormous multitude of those who had thus become Heroes an aristocracy of
Heroes of a higher rank came to be formed, chiefly composed of those who had been honoured
in legend and poetry from the earliest times and had acquired fame all over Greece.
Examples of these are those whom Pindar85 in one place names together: the descendants of Oineus in
Aetolia, Iolaos in Thebes, Perseus in Argos, the Dioscuri in Sparta, the many-branched
heroic family of the Aiakidai in Aegina, Salamis, and many other places. Indeed, a
brighter lustre seemed to illumine some of the greater Heroes and to distinguish them almost in kind from the rest of their
fellows. Thus, Herakles was now elevated to the gods, though Homer did not even know him
as a “Hero” in the later sense, and though in many places he was still worshipped as a
Hero.86 Asklepios is
sometimes a Hero and sometimes a god, as he had been originally.87 Then many other Heroes began to receive
sacrifice as gods,88
not without the assistance of the Delphic oracle, which in the case of Lykourgos, at
least, seems itself to have given the lead in the elevation of that Hero.89 The boundary line
between the Hero and the god seems to become more and more uncertain; sometimes a Hero of
the narrowest local observance is called a “god”,90 without our having any reason for thinking
of a formal elevation to divine honour in his case or any corresponding alteration of
ritual. The title of Hero seemed already to have lost some of its value, though the time
had not yet come when to name a dead man as Hero hardly distinguished him at all from all
the other dead.
However much the meaning attached to the name of Hero may have widened or even
deteriorated, the belief in the Heroes lost none of its significance and long retained its
hold on the people. The belief in such a class of spirits stood almost on a par with the
belief in gods. If the circle of influence possessed by some particular local-Hero was
narrow and restricted, that only made him seem all the nearer to his worshippers. The
spirits of their ancestors, their own and the country’s peculiar possession and shared
with no one else, seemed more intimately theirs than other invisible powers even of higher
rank. Permanent as the gods themselves, such Heroes were honoured as hardly second to the
gods, “though they cannot equal them in might.”91 “Not equal”—for their efficacy was
confined within bounds; it did not reach beyond the limits of their home and the little
band of their worshippers. They were bound to the soil as the Olympian gods no longer
were—(a Hero who breaks free from local limitations soon achieves divinity). In
particular those Heroes who send up, from beneath the earth where they dwell, relief in
sickness or prevision of the future are certainly bound to one spot. Only at their graves
can such assistance be expected, for that is their dwelling-place. In their case the
relationship between the belief in Heroes and the belief in those subterranean deities, of
whom something was said in the previous chapter, is peculiarly
plain. Indeed, in so far as their influence is limited to a single locality and their powers concerned especially
with iatromantic manifestations, these two classes of spirits essentially
coincide.
Such relief in sickness was expected, not only from Asklepios himself, but from the
Asklepiadai, Machaon—who had a grave and temple at Gerenia on the coast of
Laconia—and Podaleirios. The latter was buried in Apulia, near Mount Garganus. In
his heroön those who sought his aid laid themselves down to sleep on the skin of the ram
that had been previously sacrificed. In sleep they received other revelations from the
Hero besides remedies for the ailments of man and beast.92 Machaon’s son, too, Polemokrates, healed
sicknesses in his temple of Eua in Argolis.93 In Attica there was a Heros Iatros in the city whose
efficacy in curing disease was witnessed to by innumerable silver ex voto facsimiles of
various parts of the body restored to health by him.94 Another Hero Iatros, whose name is given
as Aristomachos, had an oracle of healing at Marathon.95 Healing of disease was rarely attributed
to any other than these Asklepiad Heroes. Dream-revelations of other kinds, however, were
vouchsafed from their graves especially by those Heroes who had been seers also in their
lifetime, such as Mopsos and Amphilochos at Mallos in Cilicia, Amphilochos, again, in
Akarnania, Teiresias at Orchomenos, Kalchas in Apulia near the just-mentioned heroön of
Podaleirios.96 Besides
these Odysseus, too, had a dream-oracle among the Eurytanes in Aetolia,97 Protesilaos one at his
grave-monument at Elaious in the Thracian Chersonnese,98 Sarpedon in Cilicia and another (alleged)
in the Troad,99
Menestheus, the Athenian leader, far away in Spain,100 Autolykos in Sinope,101 and perhaps also
Anios in Delos.102 A
Heroine called Hemithea had a dream-oracle, from which she dispensed cures in sickness, at
Kastabos in Karia;103 Pasiphaë gave prophecies in dreams at Thalamai on the Laconian
coast.104 Since from
none of these Heroes did the epic tradition give any particular grounds in legend for
expecting a display of mantic powers, we must suppose that knowledge of the future and
communication of such knowledge to the living was regarded as belonging naturally to the
spiritual nature of the glorified souls of Heroes. The notices which have come down to us
allow us to hear of a few regular and permanently established Hero-oracles, but there may
have been numbers of them of which we know nothing, and isolated and occasional
manifestations of oracular powers by other Heroes may not have been entirely out of the
question.105
The oracular Heroes are regularly confined to the neighbourhood of their graves. In
addition, what we know of the legends that were told of the appearances or the unseen
activities of these Heroes shows that, like the spirits that haunt ancient castles or
caverns in our own popular mythology, they were confined within the boundaries of their
native country, the neighbourhood of their graves or the site of their cult. They are, as
a rule, artless stories of the anger displayed by a Hero whose rights have been infringed
or whose cult neglected. At Tanagra106 there was a Hero Eunostos, who, having been deprived of his life
through the machinations of a woman, would tolerate no woman in his grove or near his
grave.107 If any of
the hated sex intruded there was danger of an earthquake or drought, or else the Hero was
seen going down to the sea (which washes away all pollutions) to cleanse himself. In
Orchomenos there was a spirit who went about “with a stone” devastating the neighbourhood.
This was Aktaion, whose earthly remains were therefore buried with much ceremony on the
command of an oracle. A bronze statue of him was also set up and fastened with chains to a
rock, and honoured every year in a feast of the dead.108 Herodotos solemnly tells us of the wrath
of Minos with the Cretans, who had not avenged his own violent end, whereas they had gone
to the aid of Menelaos.109 There is a deeper sense in the legend, also related by
Herodotos, of Talthybios who was enraged not for any private grievance but because of a
violation of the moral law and order. He himself as the protector of heralds and
messengers punished the Spartans for their murder of the Persian envoys.110 But the most
awe-inspiring legend of the revenge of a Hero was told of a local-Hero of the Athenian
parish of Anagyros. A countryman had cut down the Hero’s sacred grove.111 The Hero first
caused the death of the man’s wife and then inspired the second wife with a guilty passion
for his son, her stepson. The latter opposed her wishes and when she denounced him to her
husband was blinded by him and banished to a desert island. The father, having become an
object of loathing to all men, hanged himself; the stepmother threw herself into a well.112 This story is
remarkable for the fact that in it the Hero, like the gods themselves, is regarded as able
to affect men’s consciousness, their feelings, and their resolves. Many of the details may
have been improved upon by a taste accustomed to poetry of a higher style.113 But as a rule the
legends of Heroes bear a thoroughly
popular stamp. They are a kind of vulgar mythology, which still put forth fresh shoots in
this way now that the myths of ancient gods and champions have become merely traditional
and have been given over to the never-ending operations of the poets. Such myths were no
longer thrown off naturally by the creative instinct of the people. The gods seemed too
far removed, their visible influence in the affairs of men seemed only credible in the
legends of a far-distant past. The spirits of Heroes hovered nearer to men; in good
fortune and bad men traced their handiwork. In the myths and legends of the people arising
out of the events of the immediate present they now constitute the supernatural element
without which neither life nor stories would offer any attraction or meaning to the
simple-minded.
We can learn what these legends were like from a single example, which happens to have
been preserved to us and which must stand for the numbers of similar stories which once
must have been current. At Temesa, in Lucania, there was a Hero who went about destroying
any of the inhabitants that he could lay his hand on. The Temesians, who had got as far as
thinking of leaving Italy, turned in their distress to the Delphic oracle, and were told
that the ghost was the spirit of a stranger who had once been stoned to death by the
inhabitants of the country for the violation of a maiden.114 A sacred precinct must be dedicated to
him, and a temple built, where every year the most beautiful maiden in Temesa must be
delivered up to him. The citizens of Temesa did as they were told, and the spirit left
them in peace, but every year the awful sacrifice took place. To this place there came in
the 77th Olympiad a famous boxer, Euthymos of Locri, returning with his crown of victory
back to Italy. He heard at Temesa of the sacrifice that was about to take place, and
entered the temple where he saw the chosen maiden waiting for the Hero. Pity and love
filled his heart; and when the Hero arrived the victor of so many single combats dared to
try conclusions with this new foe and finally threw him into the sea and rid the country
of the monster. It is just as in our own fairy tale of the youth who went forth to learn
how to shudder;115
and, of course, now that the land is delivered there is a brilliant wedding and the
“Knight of Good Courage” marries the beautiful maiden he has rescued. He lived on to
extreme old age, and even then he did not die but was translated alive and is now himself
a Hero.116
Such champions of the Pan-Hellenic contests, of whom Euthymos was one, are the favourite figures of popular legend
both in their lifetime and, after their death, as spirits. A story was told also of one of
the contemporaries of Euthymos, Theagenes of Thasos, one of the most famous victors in the
great games, and how after his death one of his opponents went and thrashed his statue by
night till one night the statue fell on him and killed him. The Thasians then threw the
murderous image into the sea, but were thereupon plagued with barrenness as a result of
the Hero’s anger. This went on until, after the several times repeated command of the
Delphic oracle, they fished up the statue from where it had sunk and restored it to its
old position and sacrificed to it “as to a god”.117 The remarkable thing about this story is
the way in which the crude and primitive notion, common to almost all image-worshipping
peoples, that the strength of a “spirit” resides in his effigy, is here more than usually
striking and applied to the belief in Heroes. It lies at the bottom of many stories of the
revenge of dumb statues against those who offend them.118 The statue of Theagenes, indeed, cured
fevers even in later ages,119 as did the statue of another famous boxer, Polydamas of
Skotoussa.120 An
Achæan Olympic victor, Oibotas of Dyme, had for centuries prevented the Achæans from
winning in any contest by a curse.121 When he had been appeased the Achæans, on starting out to take
part in a contest at Olympia, used to do sacrifice to his statue.122
But the belief in Heroes rose to still greater heights. Not merely in peaceful athletic
contests, but in real need, in struggles when they were fighting to defend the highest
possessions of all—the freedom and safety of their country—the Heroes were
found on the side of the Greeks. Nowhere do we see more plainly how real and vivid was the
faith of contemporary Greece in the Heroes than in the stories told of the appeals then
made to them and of their participation in the Persian wars. At Marathon there were many
who saw an apparition of Theseus in full armour fighting in the front of the battle
against the barbarians.123 In the painting of Panainos (the brother of Pheidias) in the
Stoa Poikile at Athens there was shown among the fighters at Marathon a certain Hero,
Echetlos, of whose appearance at the battle a peculiar story was told.124 In the war against
Xerxes Delphi was preserved by two of the local Heroes of the land against a Persian
raid.125 In the
morning before the battle of Salamis the Greeks prayed to the gods, but they called
directly upon the Heroes to give
them practical help: Aias and Telamon were summoned from Salamis, and a ship was sent to
fetch Aiakos and the other Aiakidai from Aegina.126 So little were these Hero spirits mere
symbols or great names to the Greeks. Their actual physical participation in the decisive
hour was confidently expected. And, indeed, they came and helped:127 after the battle had been won a trireme
out of the spoil was dedicated to the Hero Aias as well as to the gods as a
thankoffering.128 A
Salaminian local Hero, Kychreus, had also come to the help of the Greeks, as a snake, in
which form the Heroes, like the earth spirits, frequently appeared.129 After the battle everyone was fully
persuaded that they owed their victory to the gods and Heroes.130 As Xenophon puts it, it was the Heroes
and their aid which “made Greece unconquerable” in the fight against the barbarians.131 Less frequently we
hear of the active participation of national Heroes in the fights of one Greek state
against another.132
Even in the petty details of the life of individuals the Heroes played their part,
helping or hindering, as once in mythical times the gods had done. Everyone will be
reminded of well-known legends of the gods, and will at the same time be able to measure
the difference between the sublime and the merely idyllic, in reading Herodotos’ naive and
circumstantial tale of how Helen once appeared in person to a nurse at Therapne. The nurse
was praying at Helen’s grave for her ill-favoured foster-child, when the Heroine appeared
to her and with a touch of her hand made the child the most beautiful maiden in Sparta.133 So, too, we read
how the Hero Astrabakos, in the likeness of Ariston, king of Sparta, visited in secret the
king’s wife and made her the mother of Demaratos.134 The heroön of this Astrabakos was
situated by the door of Ariston’s house,135 and it was a frequent custom thus to place a Hero’s shrine
before the house-door where he might give a special protection to his neighbour.136
In all the circumstances of human life, in happiness or in need, for individuals or the
city, the Heroes are thus very near to men. It is now often said of the Hero worshipped by
a city (just as it was said of the city’s gods) that he rules it, is its possessor, or is
lord over it;137 he
is its true guardian and protector. It may, indeed, have been the case in many cities, as
it was said to be in some, that the belief in the city-Hero was more deeply held there
than the belief in the gods worshipped by all Greece in common.138 The relation of man to the Heroes is
closer than it is to the majestic gods above: the faith in Heroes gave a different and a more familiar bond
of union between men and the spirit-world above them. The worship of Heroes began as an
ancestor-cult and an ancestor-cult it remained in essence, but it had now been widened to
a cult of certain greater human souls who had raised themselves above their fellows by
peculiar powers exercised in many, and by no means predominantly moral, directions. Many
of them were of later ages or even of the quite recent past, and in this lies the peculiar
importance of their cult. They show that the company of the spirits is not fixed and made
up; individual mortals are still continually being raised to that higher circle after the
completion of their earthly life. Death does not end all conscious existence nor does the
gloom of Hades swallow up all life.
But for that reason the cult of Heroes cannot be the origin of the belief in an
immortality belonging to all human souls by their very nature. Nor can this ever have been
its effect. In the beginning, among the hosts that streamed down to Hades, the special
individuals who had another fate were a small class apart and favoured above all
others—and so it still remained. Though the numbers of the heroic figures might be
increased enormously, yet every individual case of the transition of a human soul into the
ranks of the Heroes was a fresh and special miracle. Such exceptional cases, however
frequently repeated, could never produce a general rule applying without distinction to
all men alike.
The belief in Heroes in its gradual evolution and extension unquestionably led far away
from the course taken by the Homeric belief in the things after death. In fact, it pointed
in the opposite direction. But with the belief in Heroes men had not yet arrived at the
belief in an immortality proper to the human soul by virtue of its own nature, nor yet
(which would be something different again) was a general cult of souls thereby founded. In
order that such beliefs might arise after, but not out of, the cult of Heroes, and
maintain themselves side by side with an undiminished cult of Heroes, a movement was first
necessary that had its origin in different sources.
CHAPTER V T HE C ULT OF S OULS — I C ULT OF THE C HTHONIC D EITIES — § 2 — II F UNERAL C EREMONIES AND W ORSHIP OF THE D EAD — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — § 5 — III T RACES OF THE C ULT OF S OULS IN THE B LOOD-FEUD AND S ATISFACTION FOR M URDER — § 1 — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — NOTES TO CHAPTER V — I — II — III
Greek civilization as we see it reflected in the Homeric poems strikes us as so
variously developed, and yet so complete in itself, that if we had no further sources of
information, we should naturally suppose that the characteristic culture of the Greeks
there reached the highest point attainable under the conditions set by national character
and external circumstance. In reality the Homeric poems stand on the border line between
an older development that has come to complete maturity and a new, and in many ways
differently constituted, order of things. The poems themselves offer an idealized picture
of a past that was on the point of disappearing entirely. The profound upheavals of the
following centuries can be measured by their final results; we can guess the underlying
forces from a study of the individual symptoms. But the fact remains that in the very
imperfect state of our information about this period of transformation, we can do little
more than recognize the existence of all the conditions necessary for a complete
reorganization of Greek life. We can see how the once less-important races in Greece now
come into the foreground of history; how they set up new kingdoms by the right of conquest
on the ruins of the old, and bring into prominence their own special ways of thinking.
Colonization over a wide area meant the expansion of Greek life; while the colonies
themselves, as is so often the case, traversed all the stages of development at a much
faster rate. Commerce and industry developed, calling forth and satisfying new demands.
New elements of the population came to the fore, governments began to fall and the old
rule of the kings gave way to Aristocracy, Tyranny, Democracy. In friendly and (in the
West especially) hostile relationship the Greeks came into contact more than formerly with
foreign peoples in every stage of civilization who influenced them in many directions.
All these great movements must have produced many fresh currents in intellectual life
too. And in fact the attempt to get free from tradition, from the long-standing culture
that seemed, when reflected in the Homeric poems, so permanent and complete in itself, is seen most clearly in
the sphere of poetry. The poets threw off the tyranny of the epic convention. They ceased
to obey its formal verse-rhythm. And with the freedom thus gained from its vocabulary of
stock words, phrases, and images, it was inevitable that the point of view also should
change and gain in width. The poet no longer turns his gaze away from his own time and his
own person. He himself becomes the central figure of his poetry, and to express the
ferment of his own emotions he invents for himself the most natural rhythm, in close
alliance with music which now becomes an important and independent element in Greek life.
It is as though the Greeks had just discovered the full extent of their own capacities and
dared to make free use of them. In every branch of the plastic arts the hand of the artist
wins in the course of the centuries an ever greater capacity to give visible shape to the
imagined world of beauty. Even the ruins of that world reveal to us more plainly and
impressively (because less mixed with conscious reflexion) than any literary achievement,
the thing that is of permanent value in Greek art.
It was impossible that religion, alone unaffected by the general atmosphere of change,
should remain unaltered in the old paths. But here, even more than in other directions, we
must admit that the inward reality of the change remains hidden from us. We can see indeed
many external alterations, but of the directing spirit which called them forth we hardly
catch more than a glimpse. It is easy, by comparing the later condition of religion with
the Homeric, to see how enormously the objects of religious worship have
multiplied. We can see how much more sumptuous and elaborate ceremonial has become and
observe the development in beauty and variety, in conjunction with the fine arts, of the
great religious festivals of the different cities and peoples of Greece. Temples and
sculpture bear unmistakable witness to the increased power and importance of religion.
That an inward and far-reaching change had come over religious thought and belief might
have been already guessed from the fame and importance which belonged to the oracle at
Delphi, now coming into real power; and from the many new developments in Greek religious
life taking their origin from this spiritual centre. At this time there grew up, under the
influence of a deepening moral sense, that new interpretation of religion that we meet
with in its completed form in Aeschylus and Pindar. The age was decidedly more
“religious-minded” than that in which Homer lived. It is as though the Greeks then went
through a period such as most
civilized nations go through at some time or other, and such as the Greeks themselves were
to repeat more than once in after centuries—a period in which the mind after it has
at least half succeeded in winning its freedom from disquieting and oppressive beliefs in
invisible powers shrinks back once more. Under the influence of adversity it feels the
need of some comforting illusions behind which it may take shelter and be relieved in part
of the burden of responsibility.
The obscurity of this period of growth hides also from our sight the origin and
development of beliefs about the soul very different from the Homeric. The results of the
process are however visible enough and we can still discern how a regular cult of the
disembodied soul and eventually a belief in immortality fully worthy of the name were
being built up at this time. These things are the result of phenomena which partly
represent the re-emergence of elements in religious life which had been submerged in the
previous period, and partly the entry of fresh forces which in conjunction with the
resuscitated old give rise between them to a third and new creation.
The chief new feature revealing itself to comparative study in the development of
religion in the post-Homeric period is the worship of chthonic deities, that is,
of deities dwelling in the interior of the earth. And yet it is an undoubted fact that
these divinities are among the oldest possessions of Greek religious faith. Indeed, bound
as they are to the soil of the country, they are the true local deities, the real gods of
home and country. They are also not unknown to Homer; but epic poetry had transferred
them, divested of all local limitation, to a distant subterranean region, inaccessible to
living men, beyond the limits of Okeanos. There Aïdes and the terrible Persephoneia rule
as guardians of the dead. From that distant and unapproachable place they can have no
influence upon the life and doings of men on earth. Religious cult, too, only knows these
deities in connexion with particular localities and particular groups of worshippers. Each
of these worships the deities of the underworld as denizens of their soil and their
countryside alone. They are untroubled by any considerations of a general and uniform
kingdom of the gods such as the epic had set up; nor are they disturbed by similar and
conflicting claims made by neighbouring communities. And only in these local cults are the gods of the
lower world seen in their true nature as they were conceived by the faith of their
worshippers. They are the gods of a settled, agricultural, inland population. Dwelling
beneath the soil they guarantee two things to their worshippers: they bless the
cultivation of the ground and ensure the increase of the fruits of the soil to the living;
they receive the souls of the dead into their underworld.1 In certain places they also send up from the
spirit-world revelations of future events.
The most exalted name we met with among these dwellers below the earth is that of Zeus
Chthonios. This is at once the most general and the most exclusive designation of the god
of the lower world; for the name “Zeus” had in many local cults thus preserved the
generalized meaning of “god” in combination with a particularizing adjective. The Iliad
also once speaks of “Zeus of the lower world”; though by this is meant none other than the
ruler of the distant realm of the dead, Hades. Hades too, in the Hesiodic Theogony is once
called “Zeus the Chthonian”.2 But the agricultural poem of Hesiod bids the Boeotian countryman,
when preparing his fields for sowing, pray for a blessing to the Chthonic Zeus. Zeus
Chthonios was also sacrificed to in Mykonos for the “fruits of the earth”.3
But, more frequently than under this most general and exalted title,4 we meet with the god of
the living and the dead under various disguises. The gods of the underworld were generally
referred to by affectionate or cajoling nicknames that laid stress on the lofty or
beneficent character of their rule and threw a veil over the darkest side of their nature
with conciliatory euphemism.5 Thus Hades had many flattering titles and special names.6 So, too, in many places
Zeus of the underworld was worshipped as Zeus Eubouleus or Bouleus,7 at other places, especially Hermione, as
Klymenos.8 Zeus
Amphiaraos, Zeus Trophonios we have dealt with already in their capacity of Heroes, but
they are really nothing else but such earth deities with honourable titles, who have been
deprived to some extent of their full status as gods9 and have on that account developed all the
more strongly the oracular side of their powers. Hades, the ruler of that distant kingdom
of darkness, is one of this class of manifestations of Zeus Chthonios that vary in name
according to the different localities of their worship. The king of the shadows in Erebos
as he appears in Homer has no altars or sacrifices made to him10; but these things belong to him as the
local god of particular places. In the Peloponnese there were local centres of his worship in Elis and Triphylia,11 sites of a very
ancient civilization; and it is probable enough that tribes and clans having their origin
there contributed by their wanderings to the spread of their native cult of the chthonic
deity in other Greek countries as well.12 Hades, too, was for his Peloponnesian worshippers a god of the
fertility of the earth just as much as a god of the dead.13 And in the same way he was the lord of the
Souls as well, in those places where “in fear of the name of Hades”14 he was called, in honour of his beneficent
powers, Plouton, Plouteus, or Zeus Plouteus.
The welfare of the living and the dead was also the concern of the female deity of the
underworld called by the name of the earth itself Ge or Gaia. At the places where she was
worshipped she was regarded as one who brought fruitfulness to the fields, but she held
sway over the souls of the dead as well, in conjunction with whom prayers and sacrifice
were offered to her.15
Her temples remained in honour, especially at Athens and at the primeval centre of ancient
worship of the gods, Olympia.16 But her personality had never been quite reduced to definite and
intelligible outline from the enormous vagueness natural to primitive deities.
Earth-goddesses of more recent and intelligible form had supplanted her. She retained
longest her mantic powers which she exercised from beneath the earth, the abode of spirits
and souls, at ancient oracular sites—though even here she often had to give way to
oracular gods of another description, such as Zeus and Apollo. A poet indeed mentions her
once side by side with the great ruler of the lower world,17 but in actual worship she was seldom found
among the groups of male and female deities of chthonic nature such as were worshipped
together at many places. Above all, at Hermione there flourished from primitive times a
solemn cult of the lower-world Demeter in conjunction with the lower-world Zeus, under the
name of Klymenos, and with Kore.18 At other places Plouton and these two goddesses were worshipped
together, or Zeus Eubouleus and the same two, etc.19 The names of the underworld god vary
indefinitely, but the names of Demeter and her divine daughter appear every time
unchanged. Either alone or together, and worshipped in connexion with other related
deities, these two goddesses have by far the most important place in the cult of the
underworld. The fame and widespread popularity of their cult in all Greek cities of the
mother-country and in the colonies proves more than anything else that since Homeric times
a change must have taken place in the sphere of religious emotion and service of the gods.
Homer gives no hint of the character or importance of the later cult of Demeter and
Persephone. For him Persephone is simply the grim unapproachable Queen of the dead,
Demeter invariably (and solely) a goddess of the fertility of crops20; she stands apart indeed from the rest of
the Olympians, but no reference to a close association with her daughter is ever made.21 Now, however, both
goddesses appear in various and changing activity, but always closely associated, and it
seems as if they had come to share some of their previously distinct characteristics. Both
are now chthonic deities who together have in their protection the growth of the crops and
the care of the souls of the dead. How in detail the change came about we can no longer
discover. It may be that, in the times of the great migrations, from various centres of
the worship of the two goddesses, such as had existed from great antiquity in the
Peloponnese especially,22 there issued forth this faith that differed so essentially from
the Homeric-Ionic view of things. It must have spread just as in later times the special
variety of the cult of the closely associated goddesses that was practised in Eleusis was
widely propagated by regular missions. It also seems that Demeter, in whose name there was
early a tendency to recognize a second “Mother Earth,” in many places took the place of
Gaia in religious cult, and thereby entered into closer connexion with the realm of the
souls below the earth.
As the numbers of the underworld beings increased, and their cult grew and expanded,
these divinities began to have a very different meaning for the living from what they once
had for the Greeks of the Homeric age. The upper and the lower worlds are drawn closer to
each other; the world of the living borders upon that world after death over which the
chthonic gods hold sway. The ancient belief that the earth-caverns of their own land, on
which men dwelt and worked, were the near and accessible abode of divinity, now reappeared
here and there, and was no longer completely awed into silence by the poetic lustre of the
all-embracing divine world of Olympos. We have spoken in a previous chapter of Amphiaraos at Thebes, Trophonios in the Lebadean cave, and
Zeus in the cave on Mt. Ida; and again of that Zeus who was seen enthroned by those who
descended into a cave in Epirus. These are all vestiges of the same belief which
originally underlay all local cults of underworld deities. The realm of chthonic gods, of spirits and departed
souls, seemed to be close at hand. Ploutonia, i.e. direct inlets to the underworld,
existed at many places,23 as also did Psychopompeia, clefts in the rock through
which the souls can pass out into the upper world. In the middle of the city of Athens, in
a natural chasm on the Areiopagos, underworld beings were reputed to have their home.24 The most striking
denial of the separation between the living and the underworld, such as was demanded by
Homeric theology, was at Hermione. Here, behind the temple of Chthonia lay a sacred
precinct of Plouton or Klymenos with a chasm in the ground through which Herakles had once
brought up Kerberos to the earth—and an “Acherusian Lake”.25 So near did the spirit world seem here,
that the people of Hermione did not give their dead the usual coin to pay the fare of
Charon, the ferryman of the dead:26 for them, in whose own country lay the river Acheron, no
tract of water lay between the land of the living and the dead.
More important than these cases of contact between the dark underworld and the world of
the living—for the localization of the underworld still remained for the most part
matter of fancy—is the fact that the creatures of that world are again drawing
closer to the senses of men. The thoughts of men turn more frequently to the other world
at so many festivals and anniversaries; the gods who rule below desire and repay the
veneration of mankind, both of the individual and the city. And in the train of the
chthonic gods the souls of the dead, always closely bound to them, receive a cult which in
many particulars goes beyond anything customary in the Homeric Age.
The first duty that the survivors owe to their dead is to bury the body in the
customary manner. This age takes the matter more seriously than the Homeric people had
done. Whereas in Homer denial of burial to enemies fallen in war is often mentioned, it is
now regarded as a religious duty that is seldom neglected to give back the bodies of the
fallen foe for burial. To deny the honour of burial to members of one’s own city is an
outrage of the most extreme kind; everyone knows what terrible vengeance for such a
neglect of duty was taken, by the excited populace at Athens, on the generals after
Arginousai. Nothing can release a son from the duty of burying his father and offering him
the regular gifts at his grave.27 And if the relations,
in spite of everything, neglect their task the law at Athens requires the Demarch to see
to the burial of his fellow demesman.28 Religious requirements, however, go beyond the law. At the solemn
agricultural festival of Demeter the Bouzyges at Athens invoked a curse on all who should
leave a corpse unburied.29 This matter, which the chthonic deities take under their
protection, is no mere sanitary police regulation. It is not any such consideration, but
solely the “unwritten laws” of religion which are obeyed by Antigone when she covers the
dead body of her brother with a little dust: even such symbolical burial is enough to
avert the “abomination” (ἄγος). Motives of pure
piety may have played their part, but the really fundamental idea underlying all such
practices was the one already met with in the Iliad:30 that the soul of the unburied person can
find no rest in the hereafter. The ghost haunts the neighbourhood, its rage afflicts the
land in which it is detained against its will; and the withholding of burial “is worse for
the withholder than for
him to whom burial is refused”.31 Condemned criminals, indeed, are thrown by the state, unburied,
into a pit;32 the
sacrilegious and traitors to their country are denied burial in the ground of that
country.33 This is a
formidable punishment, for even though the outlaw is buried in a foreign country,34 his soul cannot be
permanently tended there. Only the family of the dead in their own home can give their
departed kinsman the honour due to him in the cult of the souls, and only they at the spot
where his remains lie buried.35
What we know of the details of the funeral ceremonies, differs very little in essence
from what had survived into the Homeric age as customs no longer fully explained by
contemporary belief. The new features that we meet with may also, for the most part, be
very primitive usage restored to currency. Some of the particular details make the
solemnity of the act more apparent.
After the eyes and mouth have been closed by the next of kin the body is washed and
anointed by women of the family, and clothed in clean garments. It is then laid out upon a
bier in the interior of the house for the ceremonial lying-in-state. In Athens marjoram
was strewn under the body, for superstitious reasons,36 and also four broken-off vine branches; in
the grave, also, the corpse lay on vine branches.37 Underneath the bier were placed ointment
vessels of the peculiar slim shape that the graves have restored to us again in such
numbers. At the door of the room, for the benefit of those leaving the house who had
incurred religious defilement by coming in contact with the corpse, was placed a bowl full of pure water brought
in from another house.38 Cypress branches fixed upon the house door outside warned the
scrupulous that a corpse was in the house.39 The head of the dead person was generally decked with garlands
and fillets, in a manner unknown to the Homeric age, as a sign, it appears, of respect for
the higher sanctity of the departed.40
The lying-in-state of the dead, lasting the whole of one day, was certainly not
intended originally to serve the purpose of a public “notification of death”, such as
later writers attribute to it.41 The funeral dirge was sung at the bier of the dead man, and to
give opportunity for this ceremony was its real purpose. The habit of the old Attic
government of the Eupatridai had increased the pomp of funeral ceremonies in every
direction, and had encouraged an extravagant cult of the souls of the departed. Solon’s
legislation had to restrain and limit such exaggeration in many ways, and in particular,
the tendency to increase unduly the lamentation sung over the dead body required to be
kept within bounds. Only the women of the immediate family of the dead might take part in
it, for to them alone the cult of the departed belonged as a duty.42 The violent expression of grief, the
tearing of the cheeks, beating the breast and head, was forbidden,43 as also was the singing of “poems”,44 i.e. in all
probability regular funeral dirges specially written for the purpose such as Homer made
the women sing round Hektor’s bier. To extend the subject of the funeral dirge to apply to
others beside the person then being buried had to be made absolutely illegal.45 This prohibition must
also have been applied already to the gathering at the graveside. But to sacrifice animals
before the procession to the grave was a very ancient custom, and it seems as if Solon
forbade this too.46 In other states, also,
legislation was necessary to put a curb on the tendency to overdo the violence of the
expressions of grief for the dead47 which were common in the antiquity of the Greeks as among many of
the “uncivilized” tribes who carry them to the point of exhaustion. It was not simple
piety or natural human grief (never particularly given to violent or excessive
demonstration) that caused these things. It was rather the ancient belief that the soul of
the dead was still invisibly present, and would be pleased at the most violent expressions
of grief for its loss.48 The dirge, carried to this extreme, belongs in fact to the
cult of the departed spirit. The restraints placed upon the traditional
lamentation may in their turn—in so far as they were effective—have been
derived not from considerations of good sense (which rarely have much influence in such matters) but
from religious or superstitious reasons.49
The lying-in-state of the body seems invariably to have lasted for one day only.50 In the early morning
of the third day51
after death the corpse, together with the bier on which it lay, was borne out of the
house. Legislation was in some places necessary to check excessive ostentation at the
funeral procession.52
What pomp and ceremony was customary in the time of the old aristocratic rule at this part
of the cult of the dead, we may gather (if it corresponded at all to reality) from the
picture of a funeral procession represented on a very archaic “Dipylon vase”.53 There the body is
carried on high on a wagon drawn by two horses: men carrying swords surround it, and a
whole company of women, making lamentation and beating their heads, follow the procession.
At Athens the attendance in the procession was confined, in the case of women at least, to
those of the immediate kinsfolk (for three generations). The men, who had their place in
front of the women seem to have been admitted without such restriction.54 The admission of hired
companies of Karian women and men, singing the national dirges, seems at Athens not to
have been forbidden.55
At Keos and elsewhere, the laws ordered processions to the grave to be conducted in
silence.56 On the
whole, the discipline of respectable city life reduced the “excessive and barbaric”,57 which must once have
been the rule in the display of mourning, to a discreet symbolism.
On the details of the burial procedure our information is incomplete. Occasional
expressions used by Greek authors allow us to conclude—and this is confirmed by the
excavation of graves in Greek countries—that besides the custom, exclusively
prevailing in Homeric times, of cremation, the more ancient practice of burying the body
unburnt was still kept up.58 The body was not intended to be completely destroyed. Out of the
ashes of the funeral pyre the son carefully gathers the remains of his father’s bones59 in order to bury them,
enclosed in an urn or a box. If on the other hand the body remains unburnt, it is either
enclosed in a coffin made of baked clay, or wood60—a custom clearly betraying its
foreign origin, or else—and this must have been certainly the older and more purely
native Greek usage—it is let down into the earth without a coffin, and laid upon a
bed of leaves;61 at
other times, if the nature of the ground allows, it may rest unburied in a rock-chamber,
upon a bed of stonework.62
The soul, though now set free, keeps up some connexion with the body it once inhabited.
It is for its use and pleasure that
an ample provision of household implements and vessels is laid beside the corpse (though
no longer the whole of the dead man’s possessions as once was usual); and graves since
opened have restored such things in large numbers to our gaze.63 But the Greeks never seriously believed
that such a phantasmal existence could be prolonged to eternity. Elaborate expedients for
the perpetual preservation of the corpse (by embalmment and other means, such as were
employed in the case of bodies buried in the Mycenæan shaft-graves)64 were unknown in these later
times—except as a peculiar archaism in the burial of Spartan kings.
Once the body is buried, the soul of the dead enters the invisible company of the
“Better and Superior”.65 This belief, which Aristotle regarded as of primeval antiquity in
Greece, emerges very clearly in the cult-observance of these post-Homeric centuries from
the obscurity which the Homeric age had imposed upon it. The soul of the dead has its
special cult-group composed naturally enough of the descendants and family of the dead,
and of them only. There even survived a dim memory of the time when the body of the dead
was buried inside the house, which thus became the immediate centre of his cult.66 That must quite
certainly have been during an age which knew little or nothing of the almost painful
sensitiveness to the idea of ritual “purification” such as prevailed in later times. At
least, we have no reason for supposing that the Greeks (like many so-called “savage”
peoples among whom the custom prevails of burying the corpse within the dead man’s own
hut) deserted the house that had now become haunted, and left it to the undisturbed
possession of the ghost of the dead man buried there.67 To bury the dead within the walls of the
city, at least, was considered unobjectionable in later times by certain Dorian
states.68 Even where
religious scruples and the practical convenience of city life combined to fix the place
for burials outside the city walls, families kept their graves together often in a single
extensive plot with a wall built round it.69 Where a country estate belonged to a family, this generally also
included the graves of its ancestors.70
Wherever it was situated, the grave was holy, as being the place where later
generations tended and worshipped the souls of departed members of their family. Grave
columns indicated the holiness of the spot;71 trees and sometimes a complete grove surrounded the grave, as they did so often the altars
and temples of the gods.72 These were intended to serve as pleasant retreats for the souls
of the beloved dead.73
Sacrificial offerings began for the most part at the actual time of the funeral. The
custom of pouring libations of wine, oil, and honey at the grave was probably in general
use.74 Even the
sacrifice of animals, such as was made at the funeral pyre of Patroklos and even of
Achilles, cannot have been unusual at an earlier period. Solon expressly forbade the
sacrifice of an ox at the grave.75 At Keos, permission is just as expressly given for a “preliminary
sacrifice to be offered at the funeral in accordance with ancestral custom”.76 When the funeral
ceremony is over, the members of the family, after a solemn rite of religious
purification,77 put on
garlands (they had previously avoided this78) and begin the funeral feast.79 This also was a part of the cult of the
dead. The soul of the dead man was regarded as being present—even as playing the
part of host.80 It was
awe felt for the invisible presence that originally inspired the custom of speaking only
praise of the dead at the funeral feast.81 This feast was an entertainment given in the house of the dead
man to the surviving members of his family. The dead man had a meal to himself alone,
which was offered at the grave82 on the third and on the ninth day after the funeral.83 On the ninth day it
appears that ancient usage brought the period of mourning to an end.84 Where it was extended to a longer period
the earlier series of offerings to the dead was prolonged proportionally. Sparta had a
period of mourning lasting eleven days.85 At Athens, in addition to the sacrifice on the third and ninth
days, another funeral feast which might be repeated several times,86 was held on the thirteenth day.87
Even after the ceremonies attached to the funeral itself were at last over, the
relations of the dead were by no means released from the duty of tending not merely the
grave, but the soul of the deceased member of their family. In particular the son and heir
had no more sacred duty to perform than the offering of “the customary things” (τὰ νόμιμα) to the soul of his father. These
consisted above all of libations to be made to the dead on certain fixed and recurrent
festivals. On the 30th of the month there was a traditional feast of the dead.88 Besides this, every
year at the “Genesia”, when the birthday of the dead came round, the occasion was
regularly celebrated with sacrifice.89 The day on which he first entered this life is still of
importance to the psyche of the dead man. It is plain that no impassable gulf was fixed
between life and death: it almost
seems as though life went on quite uninterrupted by death.
Besides these variable feasts of the Genesia, celebrated as they occurred by the
individual families, there was at Athens a festival, also called the Genesia, at which the
whole citizen body did honour to the souls of their dead relatives on the 5th
Boëdromion.90 We hear
also of the Nemesia as a feast of the dead in Athens91 (probably intended for the averting of the
anger of the dead—always a subject of apprehension), and of various festivals of the
dead in other Greek States.92 At Athens the chief festival of all the dead occurred at the
close of the Dionysiac feast of the Anthesteria, in the spring, of which it formed the
concluding day. This was the time when the dead swarmed up into the world of the living,
as they did in Rome on the days when the “mundus patet”, and so still in the belief of our
own (German) country people at “Twelfth-tide”. The days belonged to the souls (and their
master Dionysos): they were days of “uncleanness”93 unsuited to the business of city life. The
temples of the gods were closed during that period.94 As protection against the ghosts invisibly
present, the citizens employed various old and tried precautionary measures; they chewed
hawthorn leaves on their morning walk, and smeared their doorposts with pitch. In this way
the ghosts were kept at arms length.95 Each family made offering to its own dead, and the offerings they
made have remained for the most part the appropriate gifts of the dead on their feast-days
in many lands down to modern times. A special offering was made to the dead96 on the last day of the
feast, the Chytrai, which was sacred to none of the Olympians, but to Hermes the leader of
the dead. To this god—but “for the dead”—were offered cooked vegetables and
seeds in pots (which gave their name to this day of the festival).97 It seems probable that as a sacrifice to
the dead honey-cakes were thrown into a cleft of the earth in the Temne of Ge Olympia.98 Indoors, too, the
swarming ghosts entered and were entertained. They were not, however, permanently welcome
guests, and finally they were driven out of the house in a manner parallelled at the close
of festivals of the dead among many nations of old and modern times.99 “Begone ye Keres, Anthesteria is over”
were the words used in sending away the souls, and it is remarkable that in this formula
they were given their primeval name—a name whose original sense had been forgotten
by Homer, but not by the language of the common people of Attica.100
Individuals may have found still further opportunities of bringing gifts to their own dead and showing their reverence
for them. The cult paid by the family to the spirits of their ancestors is hardly
distinguished, except by the greater limitation of the circle of worshippers, from the
worship of underworld deities and Heroes. In the case of the souls, however, nature itself
united the sacrificers and worshippers (and no one else) with the object of their
devotion. If we wish to form some idea of the way in which (under the influence of a
civilization that tended to reduce all primitive grandeur to mere idyll) the worship of
the dead altered its character in the direction of piety and intimacy—we need only
look at the pictures representing such worship (though rarely before the fourth century)
on the oilflasks which were used at funerals in Attica and then laid by the side of the
dead in the grave. These slight sketches breathe a spirit of simple kindliness; we see the
mourners decking the grave monument with wreaths and ribbons; worshippers approaching with
gestures of adoration, bringing with them many objects of daily use—mirrors, fans,
swords, etc., for the entertainment of the dead.101 Sometimes the living seek to give
pleasure to the spirit of the dead by the performance of music.102 Gifts, too, of cakes, fruit, and wine
are being made—but the blood of the sacrificial animals is never spilt.103 There was a time
when more solemn—and less comfortable—thoughts prevailed;104 and of these we
learn something from the much older sculptured reliefs, found on sepulchral monuments in
Sparta, which give the dead a more awe-inspiring attitude. The ancestral pair sit in state
and are approached by members of the family (represented as much smaller figures) offering
their worship. These bring with them flowers, pomegranates, and sometimes even animals for
sacrifice, a cock, a pig, or a ram. Other and later types of such “banquets of the dead”
show the dead person standing up (not infrequently by the side of a horse) or lying upon a
couch and accepting the drink-offering made to him by the survivors.105 These reliefs allow
us to see at what a distance the departed spirits are supposed to stand from the living:
the dead do, indeed, seem now to be “better and stronger” beings; they are well on the
road to becoming “Heroes”. Drink offerings such as those we see offered on these
reliefs—a mixture of honey-water, milk, and wine, and other liquids, offered in
accordance with precise ritual—always formed a regular part of sacrifices made to
the dead.106 Besides
these, animals, too, were slain, especially sheep (less often oxen) of black colour. These
must be completely burnt, as being intended for the sole enjoyment of the dead—a
custom observed at all sacrifices
made to the spirits of the underworld.107
The whole of this very material cult depended upon the assumption—which was
sometimes distinctly expressed—that the soul of the dead is capable of receiving,
and is in need of, a physical satisfaction from the gifts made to it.108 It is consequently,
not thought of as deprived of the power of sense-perception. Even in the grave it can feel
what is going on in its neighbourhood.109 It is not a good thing to attract its attention; it is best to
pass by the graves of the dead in silence.110 The common people thought of the dead, according to a famous
phrase of Plato’s, as “hovering” suspended over their graves, the site of their cult.111 The pictures on the
Attic oilflasks illustrate this belief, for they represent the souls of the dead flying
above the grave-monument, and the diminutive size of these winged figures is evidently
intended to represent their somewhat contradictory immaterial materiality, and to express
their invisibility for mortal eyes.112 Sometimes, indeed, the souls become visible, and then, like the
underworld gods and the Heroes, they prefer the shape of a snake.113 Nor are they absolutely bound to the
immediate neighbourhood of the grave; they sometimes revisit their old habitations among
the living, and not only on those days of the dead in the month Anthesterion. The Greeks,
like other people, were acquainted with the custom of allowing what fell to the ground to
lie there undisturbed for the spirits that hovered about the house to carry away if they
liked.114 The dead
man’s spirit, being thus invisibly present, can overhear if anyone speaks ill of it:
either with the idea of defending the helpless, or, on the contrary, to avoid incurring
the wrath of invisible but potent spirits, a Solonian law forbade abusive language to be
addressed to a dead man. That is the real meaning of the old warning de mortuis nil
nisi bene, as popular belief understood it. The descendants of a dead man were bound
to prosecute anyone who slandered their ancestor:115 this also is among the religious duties
owed by the living to the soul of the dead.
Like all other cults, the cult of the dead had more to do with the relations of the
daimon to the living than with his nature and essence considered abstractly, and in
itself: a dogmatic account of this nature was neither offered nor required by his worship.
Still, the cult was founded upon a general conception, merely evading more exact definition, of the
nature of the departed spirit. Men sacrificed to the souls of the dead, as to the gods116 and Heroes, because
they regarded them as invisible Powers,117 a special class of “Blessed Ones”, as the dead were beginning to
be called even in the fifth century. They attempted to propitiate them,118 or at least to
avert their easily awakened displeasure.119 Their help was also sought in all times of need; but most
especially, like the chthonic gods into whose realm they have entered, they can prosper
the fruits of the earth120 and lend assistance at the entry of a new soul into life. For
this reason libation is made to the souls of ancestors at a marriage.121 The Tritopatores
also, who were invoked at wedding celebrations in Attica that the marriage might prove
fruitful,122 were
nothing else than the souls of the ancestors.123 We know them also to have been referred
to as wind-spirits,124 and in this there appears, plainly or obscurely, an isolated
fragment of the most ancient belief of the people: the departed spirits of the dead become
spirits of the air; the ghosts that travel on the winds are the liberated souls of the
dead.
Though it is good and profitable in one’s own interest to enlist the sympathy and
retain the goodwill of these invisible spirit powers by sacrifice, yet their worship is to
a much greater degree conditioned by a sentiment of piety which no longer seeks its own
advantage, but the greater honour and welfare of the dead. Such piety certainly takes on a
curious form, but it is this which gives its special character to the cult of the souls,
and the ideas which lie behind that cult. The souls of the dead are dependent upon the
cult paid to them by the members of their family who still live on in this world; their
fate is determined by the nature of this cult.125 The beliefs which nourished the cult of
the dead are totally distinct from the mode of thought prevailing in the Homeric poems
according to which the souls are banished into the distant realm of Hades and cut off
eternally from all attention or care that the living might pay them. It differs again from
the beliefs which the mysteries implanted in the minds of their worshippers; for in this
case it was not their merit—whether religious or moral—which secured
to the disembodied souls their position in the future life. These two streams of religious
belief flowed side by side, but never met. The nearest analogue to the cult of the souls
and its appropriate beliefs was undoubtedly the cult of Heroes, but even here the difference is profound. It is no
longer a special privilege miraculously bestowed upon a few favoured individuals; every
soul has a right to the attentive care of its own family, and in each case its fate is
settled, not by the character displayed or deeds done during its lifetime, but by the
relation to itself of those who survive. As a consequence everybody on the approach of
death thinks of the “future state” of his soul, and that means the cult which he would
like to make sure will be offered to his departed spirit. Sometimes for this purpose he
makes a special foundation, or bequest, which is provided for in his will.126 Of course, if he
leaves a son behind him, the care of his spirit will be amply provided for; until that son
comes of age, a guardian will offer the appropriate gifts.127 Even slaves to whom he has given their
freedom will be sure to take part in the permanent and regular cult of their former
master.128 One who
has no son to leave behind him will make haste to take a son from another family into his
own house, who, together with his property will inherit also the duty of offering a
regular and enduring cult to his adopted father, and his new ancestors, and of caring for
the needs of their souls. This is the real and original meaning of all adoption; and how
seriously such provision for the proper care of the souls of the departed was taken, can
best and most clearly be seen from the testamentary speeches of Isaeus, in which with a
completeness of art that almost conceals itself expression is given to the genuine and
simple feelings of the homely Athenian bourgeoisie whom no enlightenment had ever
disturbed in the beliefs of their fathers.129
All cult, all prospect of a full life and future well-being—for so we may express
the naive conception—of the soul on its separation from the body, depends upon the
holding together of the family. To the family itself the souls of its former ancestors
are, in a limited sense, of course, gods—its gods.130 It can hardly be doubted that here we
have the root of all belief in the future life of the soul, and we shall be tempted to
subscribe to the belief—as a guess tending in the right direction—of those who
see in such family worship of the dead one of the most primitive roots of all religious
belief—older than the worship of the higher gods of the state and the community as a
whole; older even than the worship of Heroes, and of the ancestors of large national
groups. The family is older than the state,131 and among all peoples that have not passed beyond
family-organization and formed states, we find this type of belief about the soul
invariably present. Among the Greeks,
who in the course of their history learnt so much that was new without ever quite
discarding the old, this belief lived on in the shadow of the great gods and their cults,
even in the midst of the tremendous increase in the power and organized influence of the
state. But these larger and wider organizations cramped and hindered its development. Left
to itself, and given more freedom to grow, such belief might possibly have elevated the
souls of the family ancestors to the position of all-powerful spirits of the house under
whose hearth they had once been laid to rest. The Greeks, however, never had anything to
correspond exactly with the Italian Lar familiaris.132 The nearest equivalent to it would be
the Good Daimon which the Greek household honoured. Careful examination shows this Daimon
to have been originally the soul of an ancestor who has become the good spirit of his
house—but the Greeks themselves had forgotten this.133
We cannot at this late date trace the reawakening of the cult of souls in post-Homeric
times or the varying stages it may have gone through in its development. Still, some of
the facts are plain. Indications have already been noticed that point to the view that the
cult of the dead was carried on in the days when the aristocratic regime still held sway
in Greece with greater pomp and seriousness than in the centuries—the fifth and
sixth—beyond which our knowledge hardly extends. In these earlier times, we are
forced to conclude, there must also have been a livelier belief in the power and
importance of the souls corresponding with the greater vigour of religious cult. It seems
as if at this time ancient usage and belief broke violently through the suppression and
neglect under which they lay in the times that speak to us in the Homeric poems. There is
no reason to suppose that any one member of the Greek peoples was specially responsible
for the change. At the same time, different districts in accordance with their varying
natural proclivities and civilization differed in the cult they paid their dead. In
Attica, with the spread of democracy, the ideas at the bottom of such practice tended more
and more in the direction of mere affectionate piety. In Laconia and Boeotia134 and in other places
where primitive life and customs maintained themselves for a long time, more serious
notions of the nature and reality of the disembodied spirits remained in force and a more
serious cult was paid to them. Elsewhere, as in Locris and on the island of Keos,135 the cult of the dead seems to have maintained
itself only in a very much weakened form. When advancing culture made individuals less
dependent on the traditional beliefs of their own country many temperamental variations
and gradations in belief and conception made their appearance. Homeric ideas on the
subject, universally familiar from poetry, may have entered into the question and added to
the confusion; even where the cult of the dead was practised with the greatest fervour,
ideas radically incompatible with that cult—as that the souls of the worshipped dead
are “in Hades”136—are sometimes revealed unintentionally. At quite an early
period we find expressions of the view, which goes beyond anything said in Homer, that
nothing at all survives after death. Attic orators, for example, are allowed to speak to
their audience in a tone of hesitation and doubt about hopes commonly cherished of
continued consciousness and sensation after death. Such doubts, however, only affect the
theoretic consideration of the soul’s future life; the cult of the souls was
still carried on inside the family. Even an unbeliever, if he were in other respects a
true son of his city and deeply rooted in its ancient customs, might in his last will and
testament provide seriously for the perpetual cult of his own soul and those of his near
relatives—as Epicurus did in his will, to the astonishment of after ages.137 Thus, even unbelief
still clung to cult as to other old established customs, and in many an
individual the cult still tended to awaken the beliefs which alone could justify
it.
In the renewal and development of the cult offered to the dead, an important part was
again played by that priestly association which exercised such a decisive influence on the
public worship of invisible powers in the Greek states—the priesthood of the Delphic
oracle. On the occurrence of disturbing portents in the sky recourse was had to the god,
who gave orders that in addition to the gods and Heroes “sacrifice should be made to the
dead also on the appointed days, in accordance with custom and tradition, by their
relatives.”138
Individuals in doubt as to what the sacred law required in the observance due to a departed soul applied at
Athens to one of the “Exegetai”—probably one of that college of Exegetai that had
been founded under the influence of Delphi.139 The god protected the rights of the dead, too; the fact that his
decisions confirmed the sanctity of the cult of the dead must have contributed a good deal
to the consideration and awe in which that cult was held by the living.140
The decrees of Delphi were even more influential where they concerned a cult to be
offered not to one who had died in peace, but to a person who had been robbed of his life
through an act of violence. The treatment of such cases shows with striking distinctness
the change which had come over the beliefs about the dead since the Homeric period.
In Homer, when a free man has been killed, the State takes no share whatever in the
pursuit and punishment of the murderer. It is the duty of the nearest relatives or the
friends of the murdered man141 to carry on the blood-feud against the assailant. As a rule the
latter puts himself out of reach of reprisals by flight. He withdraws to a foreign country
which is unconcerned in his action. We hear nothing of any distinction between
premeditated murder and unintentional or even justifiable homicide;142 and it seems probable that at that time,
when no regular inquiry was made into the nature of the individual case, the relatives of
the murdered man took no account of the different varieties of killing. If the guilty man
can escape by flight from those whose duty it is to avenge his deed, they on their part
may forgo the full toll of vengeance, which would have required the death of the murderer,
and may be satisfied with the payment of compensation, after which the doer of the deed is
allowed to remain in his own country undisturbed.143 The requirements of vengeance are thus
in essence fulfilled, but the retaliatory murder of the murderer can be bought off. This
decided relaxing of the ancient notion of vengeance can only be accounted for by an
equally decided weakening of the belief in the continued consciousness, power, and rights
of the murdered man, upon which the requirement of vengeance was founded. The soul of the
dead is powerless; its claims can be easily satisfied by the payment of “weregild” to the
living. In such a satisfaction as this, the departed soul is in reality not concerned at
all; it remains a simple business transaction between living people.144 In the midst of the
general declension of the beliefs about the dead—amounting almost to complete
extinction—which is found throughout the Homeric poems, this weakening of belief in
one particular point is not very surprising. But in this case, as in the general study of Homeric beliefs about
the dead, it is clear that the conception of the soul as powerless, shadowlike, and feeble
is not the primitive or original one; it has foisted itself gradually in the course of
years upon a more ancient mode of conception in which the dead had undiminished
sensibility and could influence the condition of the living. Of this older conception we
have emphatic witness in the duty—not forgotten even in Homeric Greece—of
prosecuting the blood-feud.
In later times the pursuit and punishment of homicide was organized in accordance with
quite different principles. The State recognized its interest in the reprisals
made for such a breach of the peace: we may take it as certain that in Greek cities
generally the state took a share in the regular investigation and punishment of murder in
its courts of justice,145 though here, too, it is only in the case of Athenian law that we
have precise information. At Athens, in accordance with the ancient code dealing with the
legal prosecution of murder (which never fell into disuse after Drakon had established it
by his penal legislation), the exclusive right—and the unavoidable duty—of
prosecuting the murderer belonged to the next of kin of the murdered man. (In special
cases only it was extended to include the more distant relatives, and even the members of
the phratria to which he had belonged.) It is clear that this duty of making an
accusation which fell upon the next of kin, preserves a relic of the ancient duty of the
blood-feud which has been transformed by the requirements of the public welfare. It is the
same narrow circle of relationship, extending to the third generation, united by a strict
religious bond, to which alone belonged the right to inherit property and the duty of
performing the cult of the dead. This circle of relatives is here again called upon to
“succour” the unfortunate who has been violently done to death.146 The reason for this duty—a duty
evidently derived from the ancient blood-feud—is easy to understand: it, too, is a
department of the cult of the dead which was binding as a duty upon exactly that circle of
relatives. It was no mere abstract “right”, but a quite definite personal claim, made by
the dead man himself, that the surviving relatives were required to satisfy. At Athens
even in the fourth and fifth centuries the belief still survived in undiminished vigour
that the soul of one violently done to death, until the wrong done to him was avenged upon
the doer of it, would wander about finding no rest,147 full of rage at the violent act, and
wrathful, too, against the relatives
who should have avenged him, if they did not fulfil their duty. He himself would become an
“avenging spirit”; and the force of his anger might be felt throughout whole
generations.148
Implacable revenge is the sacred duty of those—his representatives and
executors—who are specially called upon to fulfil the needs of the dead soul. The
state forbids them to take the law into their own hands; but it commands them to seek
redress at the tribunals of justice. It will take over the duties of judge and executioner
itself; but a decided consideration will be shown to the relatives of the murdered man at
the hearing of the case. In duly conducted criminal procedure the courts specially
appointed for this purpose will decide whether the deed is to be considered one of wilful
murder, unintentional manslaughter, or justifiable homicide. In making these distinctions
the state has struck a blow at that older code of the blood-feud in which the right of
vengeance belonged entirely to the family of the murdered man. According to that code, as
we cannot but conclude from Homer, nothing but the fact of the violent death of a relative
was considered, not the character or motive of the deed itself. Now, however, the murderer
is liable to a death penalty which he can avoid before the verdict is given by going into
voluntary and perpetual exile. He disappears and leaves the country—at the
boundaries of the country the state’s authority ceases, and so does the power of the
indignant spirit of the dead, which is bound to its native soil—like that of all
local deities, whose influence is confined to the place where they are worshipped. If, by
such flight over the frontier, “the doer of the deed withdraws himself from the person
injured by him—i.e. the angry soul of the dead man”149—his life is thereby saved, even if
he himself is not justified. This alone is meant by the permission of such voluntary
exile. Involuntary homicide150 is punished by banishment for a limited period, after the
expiration of which the relations of the dead man are to grant a pardon to the murderer on
his return to his native land.151 If they voted for it unanimously152 they could even do this before he went
into banishment, in which case this would not take place at all. There can be no doubt
that this pardon had to be granted by them in the name of the dead man as well, of whose
rights they were the representatives; indeed, the man himself lying mortally wounded could
before his death, even in the case of wilful murder, pardon his assailant and thereby
excuse his relatives the duty of prosecution;153 to such an extent was the injured soul’s
wish for vengeance the only point at issue, even in the legal procedure of a constitutionally governed
state, and not in the least the lawless act of the murderer as such. When there is no
desire for vengeance on the part of the victim requiring to be satisfied, the murderer
goes unpunished. When he suffers punishment, he suffers it for the satisfaction of the
soul of the murdered man. He is no longer slain as a sacrifice to his victim; but when the
relations of the dead exact vengeance from him by legally constituted processes, that,
too, is a part of the cult offered to the soul of the dead.
It is true that the state directs the blood-feud required of the relatives of the dead
man along constitutional channels that shall not contravene the laws of the community; but
it does not in the least intend to abolish the fundamental idea of the ancient family
vendetta. It reasserts the original claim to vengeance of the victim violently done to
death—a claim closely bound up with the cult of the dead—by forbidding the old
custom, common in Homeric times, of buying off the blood-guiltiness of the murderer by a
compensatory payment made to the relatives of the dead man.154 It does not destroy the religious
character of the whole transaction; it uses its own processes to secure the fulfilment of
the requirements of religion. That is why the head of all criminal jurisdiction is the
King Archon, the constitutional Administrator of all the religious functions of
the ancient royal government. The religious basis of the oldest Athenian criminal
jurisdiction is particularly evident. It has its seat on the Areiopagos, the hill of the
Curse-Goddesses, over the sacred chasm in which they themselves, the “Venerable Ones”,
have their dwelling. The judicial office is closely bound up with the service of the
goddesses.155 At the
commencement of the proceedings both parties take an oath in the name of the Erinyes.156 Each of the three
days at the end of the month, upon which legal proceedings in these courts took place,157 was sacred to one
of the three goddesses.158 To them sacrifice was made by those who were acquitted in those
courts;159 for it is
the goddesses who have given them absolution just as it is the goddesses who demand the
punishment of the guilty. They still do it, as once they had done in the typical case of
Orestes, in which they themselves had been the accusers.160 In this Athenian worship the Erinyes had
not vet entirely lost their true and original character. They had not become the mere
guardians of law in general, as which they were sometimes represented by poets and philosophers who thus extended and
weakened immeasurably their once much narrower significance. They are formidable daimones,
dwelling in the depths of the earth from which they are conjured up by the curses and
maledictions of those who have no earthly avenger left. Hence they are more particularly
the avengers of murder committed within the family itself; they punish the man who has
slain the very person whom he would have been called upon to avenge, if that person had
fallen at the hand of another murderer than himself. When the son has slain his father or
mother, who shall then carry out the blood-feud incumbent upon the nearest relation of the
dead? This nearest relation is the murderer himself. It is the Erinys of the father or the
mother who sees to it that the dead shall still receive due satisfaction. She breaks out
from the kingdom of the dead to seize the murderer. She is ever at his heels in pursuit,
leaving him no rest night or day. Vampire-like she sucks his blood:161 he is her destined victim.162 Even in the
judicial procedure of the fully organized state it is the Erinyes who demand revenge for
murder at the courts of law. Their absolute power extends in widening circle to all
murder, even when it is committed outside the limits of the family; though it was only the
imagination of the poetically or philosophically minded that ever transformed them
completely to champions of justice of all kinds, in heaven and upon earth. In the cult and
beliefs proper to individual cities they remained the auxiliaries attached to the souls of
murdered men. These gruesome daimones had their origin in the worship of the dead, and
they lived on in connexion with the undying worship of which they were a part. Indeed, if
we examine closely the sources of information at our disposal, we can see even through
their inadequacy and obscurity that the Erinys was nothing else but the soul itself of the
murdered man, indignant at its fate and seizing its revenge for itself—till later
ages substituted for this the conception of the ghost from hell taking over to itself the
rage of the dead man’s soul.163
Thus, the whole procedure at murder trials was directed rather to the satisfaction of
invisible powers—the injured souls of the dead and the daimones that represent
them—than of the state and its living members. In essence it was a religious act. As
a result all was not at an end when the human verdict on the case had been given. On his
return from exile the man guilty of involuntary homicide, besides receiving the pardon of the relatives of the dead man,
had still a double duty to perform; he had to be purified and to offer propitiatory
sacrifice.164
Purification from the blood of the slain was necessary even in the case of the unpunished
agent of what the state regarded as justifiable homicide;165 it restored the man, hitherto regarded
as “unclean”, to participation in the religious gatherings of state and family which could
not have been approached by an unpurified person without suffering defilement. The Homeric
poems know nothing of any such religious purification of those who have incurred the stain
of blood.166
Analogous occurrences in the religious usage of allied peoples make it, however, almost
impossible to doubt that the notion of religious uncleanness belonging to a man who has
had any dealings with uncanny powers was of primeval antiquity among the Greeks, too. It
can only have been suppressed in the Homeric view of the matter; just as that view also
suppressed the usages of expiation. These were intended to propitiate the indignant soul
of the dead and the gods who protected it, by means of solemn sacrifice; but in the
Homeric picture of the world they never appear, for the ideas on which they were based had
themselves been swept away.
The details of purification and expiation—the former serving the interests of the
state and its religious needs, the latter intended as a final appeasement of the injured
powers of the unseen world—were closely united in practice and are often confused in
the accounts which have come down to us. A hard and fast distinction between them cannot
be drawn. So much at all events is clear; the expiatory rites indispensable when murder
had been committed had the closest possible similarity with the ritual of sacrifice to the
gods of the underworld.167 And, in fact, the deities invoked at such rites of
expiation—Zeus Meilichios, Zeus Apotropaios, and the rest—belong to the
underworld circle of gods.168 To them, instead of the murderer himself, a victim was offered
to appease the anger felt by them as the patrons of the departed soul. The Erinyes, too,
have sacrifice made to them at expiations169—everything in these matters is connected with the kingdom
of the dead and its inhabitants.
But it was the Delphic Oracle that saw to the details of purification and expiation
after murder. The necessity of such rights was impressed on men by the example set in the
story of Apollo’s own flight and purification after the slaying of the earth-spirit at
Pytho. These events were symbolically enacted over again regularly every eight years.170 At Delphi, too, according to Aeschylus, Apollo himself
purified Orestes the matricide from the pollution of his crime.171 At Athens one of the oldest propitiatory
sites was called after one of Apollo’s titles, the Delphinion.172 The Oracle must often have directed its
inquirers to placate not merely the Heroes, but also the angry souls of murdered (and not
heroized) men by means of expiatory sacrifices: as it bade the murderers of Archilochos
and the Spartan king Pausanias.173 Propitiatory sacrifice in this sense does not belong to the
Apolline cult as an exclusive possession; it belongs, also, to other, mostly lower-world,
deities; but it was the Oracle of Apollo that set the seal on its sanctity. At Athens the
Exegetai founded under the influence of the Delphic Oracle were the official
administrators of this expiatory ritual.174 Plato was certainly following the customs of Greek cities when
in the “Laws” he declares that his state shall take its regulations for purification and
propitiation from Delphi.175
The Oracle, then, of the omniscient God sanctified and recommended these rites of
expiation; the state regulated its judicial procedure in murder cases on the lines of the
old family blood-feud. It was natural, then, that the ideas on which these religious and
political institutions were based—the conviction of a continued existence enjoyed by
the murdered man’s soul and of his consciousness and knowledge of what occurred among the
living who survived, his anger and his powers—that these ideas should attain to
something like the position of an article of faith. The confidence with which these
beliefs were held still manifests itself to us in the speeches at murder trials in which
Antiphon, suiting his language to his real or imagined public, tries to arouse terror and
awe, as at the presence of indubitable realities, by calling upon the angry soul of the
dead man and the spirits that avenge the dead.176 About the souls of murdered men indeed,
regarded as more than other spirits unable to find rest, a strange and ghostly mythology
grew up, of which we shall have some specimens later on. How primitive such beliefs could
be we may gather with startling clearness from occasional records of purely savage
customs177 which are
derived from them—customs which cannot possibly have been freshly invented in the
Greece of this enlightened period, and must be either primitive Greek savagery come to
light again, or else barbarisms only too easily welcomed from less civilized neighbours.
In any case they imply the most materialistic view of the survival of the murdered man, and of the revenge
that might be taken by his soul.
It is evident that what men believed about the souls of murdered men must have had an
important influence upon the general belief in a future life as it took shape in the mind
of the people. But the extent of such an influence can be more exactly measured in the
story which Xenophon tells about the dying Kyros; as the strongest grounds for the hope
that an after-life will be the portion of all souls after their separation from
the body, the dying king points to the unquestioned facts which, as all admit, prove a
special after-life for the souls “of those who have suffered injustice”. In addition to
this he lays stress on the argument that the worship of the dead would not have been
preserved intact to his own time if their souls had been entirely deprived of all active
power.178 Thus we
see how the cult of the souls of the dead was the chief source of the
belief in a continued life after death.
CHAPTER VI T HE E LEUSINIAN M YSTERIES — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — § 5 — NOTES TO CHAPTER VI
The cult of the dead, thus pursued in unhampered freedom, preserved and encouraged
certain ideas of the life of the soul after death; of the soul as a conscious and powerful
being which though separated from the body has not been parted for ever from the scene of
its earthly existence. To the Greeks such ideas had become strange and
unfamiliar—strange, at least, to the Ionian Greeks of the Homeric age.
But from such a cult no dogmatic or distinctly outlined picture of the life of the
departed soul could have been deduced, nor ever was deduced. Everything in this connexion
dealt with the relation of the dead to the living. Families by means of sacrifice and
religious acts sought to nourish the souls of their own dead. But the cult was in itself
chiefly precautionary (apotropaic) in character, and as a consequence men preferred rather
to avoid investigation into the nature and condition of the dead themselves, except in so
far as they came into the life of the living.
This is the point at which the cult of the souls and belief in the existence of souls
stopped short among many of the so-called “savage” peoples who have no history. Nor can
there be much doubt that it had reached this stage of development in Greece, too, before
the time of Homer; though temporarily overshadowed, it continued to exist for it was
rooted firmly in the united life of the family and its traditional practices.
Such traditional beliefs, however, left the nature of the disembodied soul vague and
undefined; they viewed it purely from the standpoint of the living and almost entirely in
its relations with this world; and resting on such foundations it is not very surprising
if they yielded unresistingly and sank into insignificance once the feeling of the
influence exercised by the dead upon the living began to weaken, or if anything happened
to cause the decline or discredit of the cult of the dead. When the living withdrew their
support and reverence from the departed soul the latter ceased to present any clear
picture to the minds of men—it became a mere evanescent
shadow—unsubstantial—little more than nothing. This is what happened in the period of Ionic culture, in
which Homer lived.
The poetry of that period, however, had of its own accord given rise to aspirations
after a fuller and more definite picture of the long, unbounded future in the life to
come. These aspirations had been given shape in the pictures of the translation
of individual mortals to Elysium and the Islands of the Blest.
Such things, however, were, and continued to be, matters of poetry, not of religious
faith. Even the poetical fancy dealt with the marvellous past and with exceptional heroes
chosen out long ago by the special favour of the gods; such favour was not extended to
include the living generations of men. The desire, once it was awakened, for a more
hopeful prospect of the life to come beyond the grave and for something more than the mere
negative existence of the ancestors worshipped in family cults, must look to other sources
for its satisfaction. Such desires began to be felt by many, but their originating source
and the secret forces that set them going must remain for us hidden behind the obscurity
that lies over the most important period of Greek development, the eighth and seventh
centuries. Nor does it help us very much when historians try to stop the gaps of our
knowledge with platitudes or the barren offspring of their own imagination. The existence
of such desires and their growing strength is shown by the fact that they were able to
create for themselves a means of satisfaction (a peculiarly limited satisfaction it is
true) in a direction that immediately occurs to everyone as soon as the subject of future
blessedness or belief in immortality among the Greeks is mentioned—the Eleusinian
Mysteries.
Wherever the cult of the gods of the earth and the lower world, and particularly of
Demeter and her daughter, was at its height it was not difficult for hopes of a better
fate in the kingdom of souls below the earth, where those deities ruled, to become
attached to participation in their cult. The tendency to connect closely such hopes with
the worship of these gods may have existed in many different localities. In Eleusis alone,
however (and in the cults, mostly of later origin, affiliated to Eleusis), we see this
connexion carried out as a fully organized institution. We can follow at least in general
outline the gradual advance of the Eleusinian religious organization. The Homeric Hymn
to Demeter tells us the origin of
the cult according to the national legends of Eleusis. In the country of the Eleusinians
the divine daughter of Demeter, after being carried down to the lower world by Aïdoneus,
came up once more to the light of day, and was restored to her mother. Before ascending to
Olympos and the company of the other immortals, in accordance with the wish of Zeus,
Demeter fulfilled her promise, and when the Eleusinians had erected a temple to her
outside the city, over the spring Kallichoros, she founded the sacred worship whereby men
should do honour to her in the future. She herself instructed the princes of the land “in
the performance of the cult and taught them her sacred Orgia”, which respect for
the goddess does not allow them to communicate to others.1 This primitive Eleusinian cult of Demeter,
then, is the religious service of a close corporation. Knowledge of the holy ritual,
carrying with it the priesthood of the two goddesses is confined to the descendants of the
four Eleusinian princes to whom Demeter once gave her ordinances as an inheritance. The
cult is therefore a “secret” one: not more so, indeed, than a great many cult-societies of
Greece, participation in which was strictly forbidden to all unauthorized persons.2 It differs from them,
however, in the solemn promise which is made to the participants in its worship. “Blessed
is the man who has beheld these holy acts; but he that is uninitiated and has no share in
the holy ceremonies shall not enjoy a like fate after his death, in the gloomy darkness of
Hades.” To those who share in the Eleusinian worship a privileged fate is promised after
death; but even in his lifetime, we read further on,3 he is highly blessed whom the two goddesses
love: they send him Ploutos, the giver of good things, to be a beloved partner of his
hearth and home. On the other hand, whosoever honours not Korê, the queen of the lower
world, with gifts and sacrifice, shall do penance everlastingly (368 ff.).
The narrow circle of those to whom such a tremendous promise was made began to be
extended after the time when Eleusis was united with Athens (which may have taken place
some time in the seventh century), and when the Eleusinian worship was raised to the
position of an official cult of the Athenian state. Nor was it Attica alone, but the whole
of Greece which became interested in the Eleusinian festival, when Athens became the chief
centre of Greek life. A solemn “truce of God” was proclaimed which assured the peaceful
and undisturbed performance of the sacred ritual, and distinguished the Eleusinia, like
the great games and Fairs of Olympia, the Isthmus, etc., as a Pan-Hellenic festival. At
the height of Athenian power (about
440)4 a decree of the
people was passed which required the yearly offering of first fruits of the fields to the
Eleusinian temple from Athenian citizens and allies, and invited similar offerings from
all Greek states. The decree could appeal in so doing to ancient and ancestral
custom, and to an utterance of the Delphic god who had authorized these things.5 The inner history of the
development of the Eleusinian festival is a matter of some obscurity. The holy rites
continued to be performed at Eleusis; Eleusinian noble families still took part6 in the worship of the
goddesses, which was yet directed by the Athenian government. On the other hand, a good
deal must have been altered in the course of time. The popular decree mentioned above
acquaints us with the names of two triads, each composed of two divine personages and a
Hero, who were worshipped at Eleusis at that time. Demeter and Korê occur together with
Triptolemos, and also “the god, the goddess, and Eubouleus”.7 The Homeric hymn gives no hint of the very
important position here (and in innumerable other accounts, as well as pictorial
representations) attributed to Triptolemos, nor of the other addition to the Eleusinian
group of divinities. It is evident that in the course of years many different local
figures and modes of worship have been added to and fused with the old cult of the two
goddesses; and that in these local figures we have always the one type of chthonic godhead
expressing itself anew in ever varied and differentiated forms. Their number is not
exhausted by the six already mentioned.8 The most important addition to the Eleusinian circle of deities
was Iakchos, the son of Zeus (Chthonios) and Persephone. This god was himself an
underworld deity, quite distinct from that Dionysos, with whom other Athenian cults
confused him, and with whom he was in fact commonly identified.9 It is a very probable supposition that this
god, who soon came to be regarded as the central figure of the group of deities worshipped
at Eleusis,10 was the
contribution of Athens to that circle: his temple was situated in Athens not Eleusis;11 in the Athenian suburb
Agrai the “Little Mysteries” were celebrated in his honour in the spring as a sort of
prelude to the greater festival. At the Eleusinia itself, the sacred procession, in which
the picture of the youthful god was borne from Athens to Eleusis, formed the link between
the part of the festival already performed at Athens and that still to take place at
Eleusis. The introduction of Iakchos into the festival of Eleusis did not merely make an
external addition to the group of divinities that already shared in it; it added an act12 to the sacred story, the representation of
which was the goal and summit of the festival; and thereby in all probability enriched it
internally in meaning and substance. It is, indeed, quite impossible for us even to hazard
a guess as to the exact meaning and essence of the change which came over the festival
thus enlarged in the course of time. We can, however, be sure of this much; there is no
ground at all for entertaining the commonly held view that it was the private mysteries of
Orphic conventicles which exercised such a transforming influence on the public mysteries
of the Athenian state. Those who are not content with solemn and mysterious jargon about
“Orphics” and the like, but keep clearly in mind the well-known and quite distinctive
features of the Orphic doctrine about gods and the souls of men, will easily recognize
that everything points to the unlikelihood of even a single one of these having entered
the circle of ideas current at Eleusis.13 They could only have shattered such ideas to
pieces.
If the festival, then, grew of its own accord in inward meaning and outward
circumstance, the circle of those who came to take part in it grew as well. Originally
this festival, so rich in promised blessings, admitted only the citizens of Eleusis,
perhaps only the members of certain noble Eleusinian families—and may have appeared
to its members an even greater privilege through this very exclusiveness. In this respect
it changed completely, admission to it was thrown open to all Greeks—not merely
Athenians, but every Greek without distinction of race or country, whether man or woman,
was welcomed at Eleusis (and even hetairai, who were still excluded, e.g. from the
Demeter-festival of the Athenian women; to say nothing of children and slaves).14 The generosity of
Athens—such was the glorious boast—wished the unexampled salvation which this
festival promised to its worshippers to be made accessible to all Greeks.15 What contrast to the
exclusive cult-unions into which a man had to be born in order, as citizen of a state,
member of a phratria, clan, or family, to participate in the advantages they
offered! The society of the Eleusinian mystery-festival, once just as exclusive as the
rest, had thrown open its doors so widely that this almost unconditional freedom of access
became its principle and distinguishing characteristic. The attraction of membership was
even heightened by the fact that just by his own unhampered free will and choice the
individual could enter the great society through the mediation of one of the two families
to whom the highest priesthood of the festival was committed.16 The only condition made was ritual purity, and murderers, for
whom this was an impossibility—as it was even for those who were only accused of the
shedding of blood—were as such excluded from the mysteries: as, indeed, they were
from all the religious ceremonies of the state.17
Religious purification of the worshippers preceded and accompanied the holding of the
festival; to many of the believers it may have appeared that the whole festival itself was
principally a great purification and religious dedication of unusual solemnity, by which
the members (“the Pure”18 as they called themselves) were made worthy of the favour of the
goddesses.
As to the actual details of what went on at the long-drawn-out festival itself our
knowledge hardly extends beyond the most external circumstances, and is even so most
incomplete. A few notices in late and often untrustworthy writers give us a very
inadequate picture of what took place inside the great temple of initiation and of the
essential Mystery. The secret which was committed19 to the Mystai and Epoptai has been well
kept. Considering the enormous number of worshippers indiscriminately admitted to the
festival, this would, indeed, have been a real miracle, if the secret to be kept had taken
the form of dogma expressed in concept and words and capable of being communicated
verbally to others. Since the labours of Lobeck, however, drastically reducing to order
the confusion of opinions on this subject, no reasonable person believes that this was the
case. It was difficult to let out the “secret” for there was essentially no secret to let
out. Profanation could only come through actions, through “the Mysteries being acted”,20 as they were in the
year 415 in the house of Poulytion. The Mystery was a dramatic performance, or, more
strictly, a religious Pantomime, accompanied by sacred songs21 and formal speeches; a representation, as
Christian authors let us see, of the Rape of Korê, the wanderings of Demeter, and the
final reunion of the goddesses. This in itself would not have made the mysteries
remarkable; a similar dramatic reproduction of the circumstances attending the life of a
god, which had led to the foundation of the festival in question, was a very widespread
cult-practice in Greece; it was part of the festivals of Zeus, Here, Apollo, Artemis,
Dionysos, and, above all, of other festivals in honour of Demeter herself. But the
Eleusinia was distinguished from all other such festivals, even from the equally secret
festivals of Demeter known as the Thesmophoria and the Haloa, by reason of the hopes which it inspired in the minds
of the initiated. The Hymn to Demeter tells us that the pious worshipper of the Goddess at
Eleusis might hope for riches upon earth and a better fate after death. Later authorities
also speak of the success in this life which initiation at Eleusis gave good ground for
expecting. But far more emphatic are the statements, made by innumerable witnesses from
Pindar and Sophokles onwards, that only they who have been initiated into these mysteries
may entertain a joyful expectation of the life to come. To them only is it granted to have
real “life” in Hades; nothing but evil awaits others in that place.22
It was these promises of a blessed immortality that for centuries drew so many
worshippers to the Eleusinian festival. Nowhere else could such promises be obtained with
such distinctness and assurance. The injunction commanding secrecy must obviously have
referred to quite other matters; it cannot have applied to this, the greatest boon
anticipated from initiation at Eleusis. Everyone speaks out aloud and without restraint
about it. At the same time, all our information is so completely at one on the point and
so free from doubt or uncertainty that we must perforce believe that the performances that
were to be preserved so secret were, in reality, for the believers the source of an
assurance which was not held as the mere probable conjecture of individuals, but as fixed
and certain truth beyond question or need of interpretation.
How this was brought about certainly remains obscure. Since the discrediting of
“symbolism” in the sense made familiar by Creuzer or Schelling, many of our modern
mythologists and historians of religion have been all the more eager to assert that the
performances at the Eleusinian mysteries were in reality the true and mystic celebration
of the Greek “Religion of Nature” as discovered by themselves. Demeter, in this view,
would be the earth; Korê-Persephone, her daughter, the seed of corn; the Rape and Return
of Korê would mean the sowing of the seed in the earth and the rise of the young grain
from beneath the soil; or, in a more general sense, “the yearly decay and renewal of
vegetation.” In some way or other the Mystai must have had revealed to them the real
meaning of the “nature-symbolism” hidden in the mystical performances. Witnessing these
performances they are supposed to have learnt that the fate of the seed of corn,
represented by Persephone, its disappearance beneath the earth and eventual rebirth, is an
image of the fate of the human soul, which also disappears that it may live again. This, then, must be the real
content of the holy Mystery.
It remains, however, first and foremost, to be proved that the Greeks23 themselves would have
regarded such symbolistic mummery, in which the phenomena and processes of nature appear
under the guise of anthropomorphic gods, as religious at all, or would have recognized
their own religion in such things. Still further—admitting for the sake of argument
the possibility of such an interpretation—the identification of Korê with the seed
of corn and its fate leads at once, if we try to get beyond the vaguest generalities, to
intolerable absurdity. It is difficult to see, however (and this would be the main point
at issue), how such an analogy between the soul and the grain of seed could have led to a
faith in immortality that was not to be had, it would seem, in a more direct fashion. What
possible effect could have been produced by such a far-fetched and arbitrary parallel
between the phenomena of two such wholely different provinces of existence? If a reasonably plausible
deduction was to be made from the visible and unmistakable (the condition of the grain) to
the invisible and unknown (the condition of the soul) surely the first and simplest
requisite would be that a real causal connexion between the two should be plainly
demonstrated. These may seem dull and pedantic considerations where the sublimest
forebodings of the heart are concerned; but I should not have supposed that it would have
been so easy to tempt the Greeks with vague surmises from the path of logic and lucidity,
or that such surmises would have afforded them such extremity of “bliss”.
Lastly, the analogy, even if it proved anything, is false. It would only hold if the
soul, like the grain, after a temporary disappearance below the earth, were promised a new
life upon the earth—if a palingenesia in fact were promised. That this,
however, was not a belief supported by the officially conducted mysteries of Athens, is
admitted on all hands.
Equally untenable is the view that the dramatic presentation at the mysteries of the
Rape and Return of Korê (regarded this time as a divine personage, not as the personified
grain of corn) was intended to inspire hopes of an analogous fate for the human soul, by
virtue of a mystic unification of the life of man with the life of the godhead to whom he
swears allegiance.24
Even so the hope based upon the typical fate of Korê could only have led to a hope for the
palingenesia of mankind in general, not (what was and always remained the real belief of
Eleusis) to the hope of a specially
favoured after-life for the Mystai in the kingdom below the world. Indeed, we must not
look to the Eleusinian mysteries for the ecstatic exaltation of the soul to the
recognition of its own godhead—though such exaltation was the motive force and the
essential core of Greek mysticism, as of all mysticism and mystic religion. From
the mysteries of Eleusis, however, it remained far removed; the belief there fostered,
with its absolute division and distinction between the divine and the human, never
transgressed the bounds of popular Greek religion, over whose portals stood the
universally prescriptive words: ἓν ἀνδρῶν, ἓν θεῶν γένος—“the race of men is one, and
the race of gods is another.” Nor was Eleusis any exception to this rule; the mysteries
did not point the way to mysticism.
Inquiry is on the wrong track when a deeper meaning is sought for in the mimic
presentation of the sacred myth at Eleusis whereby the human soul was to obtain the
blessed hope of immortality. The conviction that the human soul was immortal in its own
right, by reason of its own nature, was not a conviction that was obtained at Eleusis.
That is why we may dismiss such fanciful analogies as those between the human soul and the
seed of corn or the goddess of the earth’s life. Such analogies, if they proved anything,
would prove at most the complete indestructibility, in spite of all vicissitude, of the
life of the human soul—of every human soul. But this was not Eleusinian doctrine.
The continued conscious existence of the soul after its separation from the body was not a
doctrine but a presupposition of Eleusis; and it could be thus presupposed because it was
the basic idea of the popular and widespread cult offered to the souls of the departed.25 The advantage obtained
by the initiated at Eleusis was that a livelier and fuller content was given to
the bare existence of the disembodied soul, which was all that the current worship of the
souls essentially contemplated. We are assured that only the initiated at Eleusis will
have a real “life” after death; that evil will be the fate of “the others”.26 Not that the
soul, relieved of the presence of the body, will live hereafter, but how it will
live was what Eleusis taught men. With the calm assurance common to all close and confined
religious associations, the Eleusinian society divided mankind into two classes: the
“Pure”, that is those who had been initiated at Eleusis, and the innumerable multitude of
the uninitiated. Only for the members in communion with the mystery of Eleusis was salvation assured.
Salvation was theirs as a reversionary right, but salvation such as theirs was a privilege
and could only be obtained by participation in the bounteous festival of the Athenian
State and in its ceremonial. Centuries of large-minded tolerance in admitting to the
mysteries extended this privilege to an immense number of Greeks (and of Romans, too, in
later times). But the prospect of a blessed hereafter never became a matter of course; not
as man, not even as a virtuous and pious man did such a privilege come to anyone. It was
granted solely to the member of the Eleusinian religious society and the participator in
the divine service of the goddesses.27
What were the means employed to impress this hope—this certain expectation
rather—of a blessed hereafter in Hades upon the Mystai? We must frankly admit that
we cannot, unfortunately, say anything definite in answer to this question. Only to the
suggestion that these hopes were grounded upon symbolic representations of any
kind may we give a decided denial. And yet this is the generally accepted opinion.
“Symbols” there may have been, as an assistance to the dramatic or pantomimic
representation of the Rape and Return of Korê;28 but hardly in any other sense than that of
typical condensations—the part being put for the whole, or the whole
understood in the part—of scenes impossible to represent in their entirety. It is
true that with the lapse of centuries, and in the absence of any official written
interpretation of the inner meaning and intention of the ritual many of these symbols
became unintelligible—a disadvantage which belonged to all other departments of
Greek religion as well. As soon as independent reflexion on matters of religion began to
arise, many sorts of allegorical or symbolical interpretations began to be applied to the
details of the performances at the mysteries. Does it follow from this that the mysteries
of the Earth divinities, as some are inclined to believe, bore a symbolical or allegorical
character from the outset, and differed in this respect from all other Greek worship of
the gods?29 Similar
interpretations were applied by philosophers or would-be philosophers to the fables of the
gods in Homeric or popular mythology; the mysteries did not by any means hold a peculiar
position in the minds of connoisseurs of myth-interpretation in antiquity. If a “deeper
meaning” was attached by preference to the performances at Eleusis, that only shows that
much in these performances was no longer understood, or in its real meaning no longer
satisfied the spirit of the philosophic centuries. But it shows also that for this festival of unexampled splendour, where
night and the injunction of secrecy awakened awed expectancy,30 performed according to an archaic ritual
of ever-increasing perfection and attended by the whole of Greece, an unusual sympathy was
felt. It offered something to the eye and the ear which was attractive to all men, and
they exerted themselves to find a satisfactory meaning in its sights and sounds. Finally,
it is likely enough that the “meaning” which they themselves had arbitrarily bestowed upon
them was what made the mysteries specially attractive to many. To this extent it is
legitimate to say that symbolism was a real and historical factor in the constitution of
the mysteries.
Even supposing, however, that much in the presentation of this mystic festival was
consciously ordered and disposed by the founders of it with a view to symbolic
interpretation, and consequently to the possibility of an ever-increasing idealization of
its significance, yet this cannot have extended to the hopes of a blessed immortality
revealed to the Mystai. Symbolist or allegorizing modes of interpretation must always have
been the private concern of individuals and therefore liable to much uncertainty and
variety.31 Our
authorities, however, from the most diverse periods, speak with far too great distinctness
and unanimity about the blessed hereafter vouchsafed to the initiated in the mysteries,
for it to be credible that this can have been the outcome of any interpretation of
complexities, or of any metaphorical application of the hopes derived from events in the
life of the gods to a quite different province, the life of the human soul. What every
witness speaks of in the plainest and simplest language without any special
“mystery”—the hope of future blessedness—must have been offered to the
participants in the mysteries in the most unequivocal fashion. It is natural, above all,
to suppose that the exhibition of the “mystic drama” included particularly the final scene
as it is sketched in the 2nd Homeric Hymn: the foundation of the Eleusinian festival by
the goddess herself—what had once been revealed to the little city-community must
have been proclaimed to the great company of those admitted to the common festival of
Eleusis:32 the highest
reward of participation in this unparalleled act of worship is what the Homeric Hymn
distinctly puts forth as such—the peculiar favour of the gods of the lower world and
a future life of blessedness within their kingdom. The statues of the goddesses were seen
radiantly illuminated;33 at this festival of grace in remembrance of their trials, their
happiness, and their beneficent acts, they themselves—as it seemed to the faithful
believer—were invisibly present. What further need of warrant was there for the
promises of future blessedness?
In spite of many extravagant statements from antiquity, we have no means of estimating
how widely participation in the Eleusinian mysteries (whether of those celebrated at
Eleusis itself or in the numerous associated festivals) was extended in Greece. Still, it
is probable that large numbers, not from Athens alone but from the whole of Greece, sought
eagerly to enter the state of grace vouchsafed to the worshippers at Eleusis. In this way
the more lively conception of the state of the soul in the hereafter may have gradually
become the common property of Greek imagination.
On the whole, we must be on our guard against attributing too great an importance to
these mysteries. There can hardly have been any question of moral influence—the
ancients themselves in their most exaggerated eulogies of the mysteries and their
greatness, say almost nothing of this.34 Nor is it easy to see what part of the mysteries could have
served as a vehicle of moral influence.35 Distinct dogma in the religious sense was never provided by the
mysteries any more than by other worships of the gods in Greece. Nor was there anything
exclusive about the cult of the mysteries; side by side with that cult and after it the
Mystai took part in other worships of the gods, according to the usages prevailing in
their own homes. The great festival when it was over left no sting behind in the hearts of
the initiated. No requirement of a new manner of life, no new and peculiar condition of
conscience was theirs on its account; no strange revaluation of values, contradicting the
general opinions of the time, was learnt there. There was a total absence of that which
(if we rightly understand the word) gives to the doctrines of sectarian religion their
force and persuasiveness—paradox. Even the prospect of future bliss opened
to the initiated did not divert them from the normal tenor of their existence. It was a
genial prospect; not a compelling demand drawing all things to itself and turning men away
from ordinary life. The light that fell from beyond was not so blinding that it made all
things on this earth seem dark and mean. If in the decadence of Greek culture—and
even among the people of Homer—ideas hostile to this life made their appearance and
in many places acquired weight and influence; if some men began to think death superior
to life, and this life, of which
alone we can be assured, as merely a preparation, a land of passage to a higher life in
the world invisible—for all this the mysteries were not responsible. It was not
they, nor the feelings and surmises awakened by their pictures and performances, that
dulled the beauty of this earth for the enthusiasts “intoxicated with other-worldliness”,
or made them strangers to the instincts of life and sanity prevailing in older and
unspoiled ages of Greek life.
CHAPTER VII I DEAS OF THE F UTURE L IFE — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — NOTES TO CHAPTER VII
Certain allusions in Plutarch and Lucian1 would lead us to suppose that the “mystery-drama” of Eleusis
included also a visual exhibition of the underworld and its blest, or unblest,
inhabitants. But these contemporaries of a final and luxuriant flowering of
mystery-religions of every kind can serve as reliable witnesses only for their own period.
In their day the Eleusinian festival, in competition it may be with other secret worships
which were invading the Greco-Roman world in ever-increasing numbers, seems to have
undergone a considerable alteration and extension of its primitive and traditional shape.
We may doubt whether in earlier, classical times the Eleusinia can have attempted to bind
the imagination with what were always petty details, or confine within formal limits what
lay beyond all human experience. Still the solemn promise of future blessedness made in
the mystic festival may, at any rate, have stimulated the imagination of its worshippers
and given a more definite turn to their own natural efforts to picture the life to come.
The ideas cultivated at Eleusis unmistakably contributed to the process by which the
picture of Hades acquired colour and distinctness. Even without such stimulus, the natural
instinct of the Greeks at all periods to give form even to what was essentially formless,
worked in the same direction. The limits set by Homeric beliefs about the future world had
made the Odyssean description of a descent to Hades seem a risky experiment only to be
undertaken with the greatest caution. Now, however, since the re-establishment of the
belief in a conscious after-life of the disembodied soul, such imaginative bodyings-forth
of the invisible realm of shadows had become apparently the most natural and innocent
employment of poetic fancy.
The story of Odysseus’ journey to Hades and its expansion in conformity with the
gradually increasing distinctness with which the life after death was conceived, was
followed at an early period in the development of Epic poetry by further accounts of such
journeys undertaken by other heroes. A Hesiodic poem described the descent of Theseus and
Peirithoös to the underworld.2 A Nekyia, the details of which are unknown, occurred in the poem
of the Return of the heroes
from Troy. The epic which went by the name of the “Minyas” seems to have given
considerable space to a descent to Hades.3 The ancient fable of Herakles’ descent to Hades and conflicts in
the underworld received embellishment at more than one poet’s hand.4 As a result of such repeated and rival
interpretations of the story the stock of characters and events associated with Hades was
gradually and continually being enlarged. Accident has preserved to us the fact about the
little-known Minyas that it, too, added to the details of the picture. To what
extent popular imagination and mythology, on the one hand, and poetic inventiveness, on
the other, may have been responsible for all this we can hardly say. It seems probable
that here, as in the development of so many Greek myths, on the whole the balance of
invention lay on the side of the poets. Purely poetic visions or pictures like that of the
translation of individual heroes to Elysium may have gradually won their way to
popular acceptance. “Dearest Harmodios,” said the Athenian Skolion, “thou art not dead
indeed, but livest yet, men say, in the Islands of the Blest.” Not that there was anything
fixed or dogmatic on the point. In a funeral oration Hyperides represents Leosthenes and
his companions in battle as meeting in Hades, among the illustrious dead, the
Tyrannicides, Harmodios and Aristogeiton.5
Much that may have been the invention of poets for the filling up or furnishing of the
desert region so stamped itself upon the general mind that it almost seemed the natural
growth of authentic popular belief. Everyone was familiar with the guardian of the gate of
Plouton, the malignant hound of Hades who admits everyone but lets no one out again. He is
the same creature, long known from the adventure of Herakles, which is already named
Kerberos by Hesiod.6
Like the gate and the gate-keeper, the waters that divide Erebos from the world of the
living are already known to Homer. Now they have a Ferryman added to them, the churlish
old man Charon, who, like a second Kerberos, safely transports everyone across the water,
but lets no one return.7
The Minyas is the first to mention him: that he became a real figure of popular
belief (as he is still in Greece to this day, though with altered significance) is shown
by pictures on the Attic vases that were put into the graves with the dead. These
represent the soul as it stands upon the sedgy bank and meets the ferryman who will carry
it over to the other side whence no man returns.8 The custom of burying the dead with a small
coin fixed between the teeth was also explained as provision for the passage-money that
would have to be paid to Charon.9
The soul, then, being safely arrived on the other bank and Kerberos passed
by—what awaited it there? Those who had been initiated into the mysteries now
counted upon enjoying the glad future that their hopes had formerly pictured. In reality
this blessed future, vouchsafed by the grace of the deities who rule below, was not very
hard to obtain. So many were initiated and recommended to divine favour that the picture
of Hades, once so gloomy, began to assume a more genial aspect. Quite early we meet with
the general name of “Blessedness” as applied to the future life; while the dead without
much distinction are called the “Blessed”.10
Of course, anyone who had been so foolish as to neglect or despise initiation has “not
the same fate below”, as the Hymn to Demeter discreetly puts it. Only the initiated
have life, says Sophokles: the uninitiated, with whom it goes ill in the land below, can
hardly have been thought of otherwise than as floating in the glimmering half-life of the
shadows in the Homeric Erebos. Well-meaning modern efforts to read a moral meaning into
things Greek have sought to prove that the Greeks, too, had a genuine popular belief in a
future judgment and recompense for the past deeds and character of the dead. Homer makes
hardly the most distant allusion to such a belief. The perjurer alone suffers in Homer the
punishment at the hands of the gods of the underworld which he had invoked upon himself in
his oath. Even the “Sinners” and their punishment which later imitation added to the story
of Odysseus’ Journey to Hades, considered without prejudice, do not support the opinion
that Homeric poetry knew of a belief in retribution hereafter. Later poets were only
following this model when they made other enemies of the gods endure eternal punishment in
Hades—Thamyris, for example, or Amphion (as the Minyas related), and later
Ixion in particular.11
All this does not, even in the slightest degree, suggest a general belief in future
rewards and punishment. Of course, there is the judgment that is given in Hades by “One”
according to Pindar (Ol. ii, 65), but this occurs in connexion with a description
of the “last things” which the poet has borrowed from the teachings of mystic separatists.
Aeschylus12 knows of a
judgment pronounced by Hades himself; but his thoughts about divine retribution both on
earth and hereafter are derived from his own religious temperament which was entirely
opposed to the popular beliefs of his day and more inclined to accept the speculative
doctrines of the theologians. The
first precise account of the three judges in Hades, Minos, Rhadamanthys, and Aiakos, who
judge the deeds of men done in their lifetime upon earth occurs in Plato in a description
of the other world which reproduces anything rather than the popular beliefs of the
time.13 Later on, the
picture of the judges in Hades (to whom Triptolemos was also added),14 like many other details of the Platonic
eschatological myths, became a real part of popular fancy, as allusions in later
literature and even, perhaps, pictures of the underworld on vase-paintings from Southern
Italy, bear witness. But the idea that in the supreme period of Greek culture the belief
in a judgment and judges in Hades, who passed sentence on the deeds of men done on earth,
had really any root in popular belief, is quite unproved and can be shown to be erroneous
from the argument ex silentio. And where there are no judges no judgment can take
place.
We often see it asserted that the belief in a future state of compensation for the good
and evil deeds of this world was obtained by the Greeks from the Eleusinian mysteries. In
reality the opposite is true; if and in so far as the Greeks ever received or entertained
such a belief in future rewards and punishments the mysteries of Eleusis had nothing
whatever to do with the matter. We have only to remember the simple fact that the
Eleusinian mysteries admitted to initiation, with the single exception of those stained by
the crime of murder, Greeks of all sorts without any inquiry into their past life and
actions, or even their character. The initiated were promised a blessed life hereafter; a
gloomy fate awaited the uninitiated. The difference was not made by goodness or badness;
“Pataikion the thief will have a better fate after his death because he has been initiated
at Eleusis than Agesilaos or Epameinondas” sneered Diogenes the Cynic. Not political or
moral worth but “spiritual” merit alone is decisive. Nor will anyone be very surprised at
that. It is so in most religions. But in any case, the idea of a sentence passed on virtue
or vice in Hades had been forestalled by the system of rewards and punishments in the
lower world which the mysteries had already formulated from quite a different point of
view. Where the mysteries were seriously and conscientiously taken they would rather have
thrown their weight into the scales against any such idea, if it began to make itself
felt, of compensation for good and evil deeds in Hades; they certainly contained nothing
that fostered such a belief.
No doubt in the long run, among a spiritually alert people, the morality inculcated by religion allied itself freely and
without reluctance to the morality of the citizen in its independent development. Only in
this way could the former maintain its ascendancy. Thus, in the minds of many of the
Greeks the idea of religious justification (through the mysteries) may have lent its
support to the idea of civic just dealing; and, at the same time, the company of the
unblest who had neglected the sacred mysteries and their future salvation as well, was
increased by the not unimportant body of those who receive the wages of sin in Hades and
expiate their crimes against the gods, the family, and the civil society of men. Those who
have taken a false oath, parricides, violators of the laws of hospitality are made by
Aristophanes (in the Frogs) to “lie in the mud”—a form of penalty originally
anticipated for the uninitiated in some Orphic private mysteries, but now transferred by
him to those guilty of moral misdemeanours.15 The inconsistency with the promises made in the mysteries
themselves involved in such conceptions may have been the less observed just because the
idea of a future system of compensation in accordance with the requirements of morality
was never seriously or fully developed, but remained merely a matter of vague suggestion.
In circumstances of real need that ideal never satisfied anyone in Greece. Men expected to
see the retributive power of the gods visibly active upon earth; those in whom experience
weakened this belief would not have derived much comfort from the idea of compensation
hereafter. Everyone knows the typical case of Diagoras, the “Atheist”.16
The picturing of the future life, however seriously it might be carried on by adherents
of certain mystical sects, remained for the poets and the public at Athens in the fifth
century little more than an amusement of idle fancy in which a man might indulge his own
whim with perfect freedom. The comic poets from Pherekrates onwards regarded a Descent
into the Unknown country as a suitable framework for a burlesque play.17 According to their
fancy a Paradise, like that of the golden age on earth when Kronos still ruled, awaited
the “Blessed” in the world below;18 a “City of Delight”19 such as men hoped to meet with at the ends of the world, or even
somewhere upon the real world. It is from a comedy, the Frogs of Aristophanes, in
connexion with the Descent to Hades of a typical commonplace Athenian citizen, who for the
time being plays the part of Dionysos, that we get a clearer outline of the geography of
the lower regions. Beyond the
Acherousian Sea with its cross-grained ferryman dwell snakes and monsters of all kinds.
Having passed by the darkness and putrescence of the slough in which wallow perjurers and
those who have committed crimes against father or stranger, the way leads to the palace of
Plouton, near which lives the chorus of those who have been initiated into the mysteries.
For them even in Hades the sun dispenses a brilliant light; they dance in myrtle groves
and sing to the sound of the flute hymns of praise to the gods of the underworld.20 A separation of the
inhabitants of the lower regions into two classes as taught by the mysteries, is here also
carried through: at least clear consciousness is implied in the case of the Mystai which
in itself marks clearly the change which has taken place since the Nekyia of the Odyssey.
Then there are other regions in Hades besides the places where the initiated and the
impious dwell. There is a reference to the plain of Lethe,21 and to the place where Oknos is plaiting
the rope which his she-ass gnaws to pieces as fast as he plaits it. This is a parody, half
humorous, half pathetic, of the Homeric figures of Sisyphos and Tantalos; a sort of
bourgeois counterpart of that Homeric aristocracy of the enemies of heaven, whose
punishment, as Goethe remarked, is a type of ever-unrewarded labour. But, we may ask, what
had honest Oknos done to deserve this fate of eternally fruitless toil? He is only a man
like other men, but he “typifies all human endeavour.” That anyone could have introduced
such quaint inventions of innocent humour into the realm of Hades shows how far all this
was from theological seriousness.
We ought to be able to observe the change which had come over the conception of the
future life since the days of Homer from a consideration of the picture of the Underworld
which Polygnotos of Thasos painted on one of the walls of the Hall of the Knidians at
Delphi. The details of this picture are precisely known to us from the account given by
Pausanias. The first impression that we get from it is the extraordinary vagueness and
undeveloped state of the mythology of the underworld at this period, about the middle of
the fifth century. On the wall was represented the questioning of Teiresias by Odysseus;
the companies of heroes, the men and women of poetry, occupied the greater part of the
space. The divine judgment of heaven was illustrated by the figures of the Homeric
“Sinners”, Tityos, Tantalos, and Sisyphos. Outside the ranks of the Heroic company is
Oknos and his she-ass. But where is
the reward of virtue, the punishment of wickedness? In expiation of the worst excesses,
those committed against gods and parents, a temple-robber receives a cup of poison from a
sorceress,22 and an
undutiful son is being choked by his own father.23 Apart from these evil-doers are the
“uninitiated”, those who have made light of the Eleusinian mysteries. Because they have
missed the “completion” of the initiation they are now forced, men and women, to pour
water from broken pitchers into a (perforated) jar in ever-unavailing endeavour.24 There is no sign
anywhere of a judge who should separate the souls into two classes; and of the monsters of
the underworld there only appears the corpse-devouring daimon Eurynomos who must have been
known to the artist from some local legend.25 Of the reward of the “virtuous” there is not a trace, and even
the hopes of the initiated in the mysteries are only vaguely alluded to in the casket
which Kleoboia, as she crosses the river in Charon’s boat with Tellis, is holding on her
knee.26 This is a
symbol of the sacred mysteries of Demeter which Kleoboia once brought from Paros to
Thasos, the home of Polygnotos.
With this series of pictures, hardly altered at all from Homer,27 contrast for a moment the scenes of
torment represented in Etruscan pictures of the Underworld, or the pedantic details of the
trial of the dead on the day of judgment as the Egyptians elaborated them in picture and
writing. From such gloomy severity, from the rigid and overpowering dogmatism that a
people without imagination had constructed for itself out of religious speculations and
visions won by much labour and thought, the Greeks were fortunately preserved by their own
genius. Their fancy is a winged god whose nature it is to pass lightly over
things—not to fall heavily to earth and there remain ponderously prostrate. Nor were
they very susceptible during their best centuries to the infectious malady of a “sick
conscience”. What had they to do with pictures of an underworld of purgatory and torment
in expiation of all imaginary types and degrees of sin, as in Dante’s ghastly Hell? It is
true that even such dark fancies of the Christian Hell are in part derived from Greek
sources. But it was only the misguided fancy of particular isolated sects that could call
forth such pictures as these, and recommend itself to a philosophic speculation which in
its worst excesses violently contradicted all the most fundamental principles of Greek
culture. The people and the religion of Greece, the mysteries which her cities organized
and deemed holy, may be freely acquitted of all such aberrations.
PART II CHAPTER VIII O RIGINS OF THE B ELIEF IN I MMORTALITY T HE T HRACIAN W ORSHIP OF D IONYSOS — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — § 5 — NOTES TO CHAPTER VIII
The popular conception of the continued existence of the souls of the dead, resting
upon the cult of the dead, grew up and coalesced with a view of the soul derived from
Homeric teaching on the subject, which was in essential, though unrecognized,
contradiction with the cult of souls. The popular conception, unchanged in all essentials,
remained in force throughout the coming centuries of Greek life. It did not contain within
itself the seeds of further development; it did not make any demand for better and deeper
ideas of the character and condition of the soul in its independent life after its
separation from the body. Still more, it had nothing in it that could have led beyond the
belief in the independent future life of those souls to the conception of an everlasting,
indestructible, immortal life. The continued life of the soul, such as was implied in and
guaranteed by the cult of souls, was entirely bound up with the remembrance of the
survivors upon earth, and upon the care, the cult, which they might offer to the soul of
their departed ancestor. If that memory dies out, if the venerating thoughtfulness of the
living ceases, the soul of the departed is at once deprived of the sole element in which
it still maintained its shadow of an existence.
It was impossible, then, that the cult of the souls should produce out of itself the
idea of a true immortality of the soul or of the independent life of the soul
indestructible by its very nature. Greek religion as it existed among the people of Homer
could not shape such a belief of its own accord, and even if it were offered from outside
could not have accepted it. It would have meant giving up its own essential character.
If the soul is immortal, it must be in its essential nature like God; it must itself be
a creature of the realm of Gods. When a Greek says “immortal” he says “God”: they are
interchangeable ideas. But the real first principle of the religion of the Greek people is
this—that in the divine ordering of the world, humanity and divinity are absolutely
divided in place and nature, and so they must ever remain. A deep gulf is fixed between the worlds of mortality and divinity.
The relations between man and God promoted by religion depend entirely upon this
distinction. The ethical ideas of the Greek popular conscience were rooted in the frank
admission of the limitations proper to human capacity which was conditioned by an
existence and a fate so different from that enjoyed by the gods; in the renunciation of
all human claims to happiness and independence. Poetic fancies about the “Translation” of
individual mortals to an unending life enjoyed by the soul still united to the body might
make their appeal to popular belief; but such things remained miracles in which
divine omnipotence had broken down the barriers of the natural order on a special
occasion. It was but a miracle, too, if the souls of certain mortals were raised to the
rank of Heroes, and so promoted to everlasting life. The gulf between the human and the
divine was not made any narrower on that account; it remained unbridged, abysmal. The bare
idea that the gulf did not in reality exist, that actually in the order of nature the
inner man, the “Soul” of man belonged to the realm of gods; that as a divine being it had
everlasting life—such an idea would involve further consequences about which no one
can be in much doubt: it would have contradicted every single idea of Greek popular
religion. It never could have become widely held and believed in by the Greek
populace.
Nevertheless, at a certain period in Greek history, and nowhere earlier or more
unmistakably than in Greece, appeared the idea of the divinity, and the immortality
implicit in the divinity, of the human soul. That idea belonged entirely to
mysticism—a second order of religion which, though little remarked by the
religion of the people and by orthodox believers, gained a footing in isolated sects and
influenced certain philosophical schools. Thence it has affected all subsequent ages and
has transmitted to East and West the elementary principles of all true mysticism: the
essential unity of the divine and the human spirit; their unification as the aim of
religion; the divine nature of the human soul and its immortality.
The theory and doctrine of mysticism grew up in the soil of an older cult-practice.
Greece received from abroad a deeply emotional religious cult, accompanied by practices
that stimulated mysterious and extraordinary imaginings. The sparks of momentary
illumination struck out by this faith were fed and fanned by mysticism till they became a
vivid and enduring flame. For the first time, clearly discernible through its mystical wrappings, we meet with the
belief in the indestructibility and eternal life of the soul: we meet it in the doctrines
of a mystical sect which united in the worship of Dionysos. The worship of Dionysos must
have sown the first seed of the belief in an immortal life of the soul. To explain how
this may have happened; to make clear to the mind of the reader how the essence and inner
reality of that worship was bound to stir up the belief in an immortal life—such is
our next task.
In the spiritual life of men and nations, it is not by any means the extravagant or, in
one sense or another, the abnormal that is most difficult for our sympathetic
understanding to grasp. By clinging to a traditional and too narrow formula for the Greek
spirit we make difficulties for ourselves; but it is not really a matter of serious
perplexity, if we reflect upon it, to understand how Greek religion at the height of its
development regarded “madness” (μανία) as a
religious phenomenon of wide-reaching importance. Madness, in this sense, is a temporary
destruction of physical balance, a condition in which the self-conscious spirit is
overwhelmed, “possessed” by a foreign power, as our authorities explain it to us. This
madness “which comes not from mortal weakness or disease, but from a divine banishment of
the commonplace”1 found
effective application in the mantic and telestic arts. Its effects were so
common and well recognized that the truth and importance of such religious madness
(entirely distinguishable from bodily disease) was treated as a fact of experience not
merely by philosophers, but by the doctors themselves.2 For us it only remains obscure how such
“divine mania” was fitted into the regular working order of the religious life; the
sensations and experiences themselves belonging to this condition are made intelligible
enough by a whole host of analogies. In fact if the truth were told we should rather have
to admit that it is easier for us to sympathize with such overflowing of sensation and all
that goes with it than with the opposite pole of Greek religious life, the calm and
measured composure with which man lifted up heart and eye to the gods, as the patterns of
all life and the patrons of a serenity as brilliant and unmoved as that of the clear
heavens themselves.
But how came it that in the character of a single people such extravagance of emotion
was combined with a fast-bound and regulated equilibrium of temper and behaviour? The
answer is that these opposing features sprang from two different sources. They were not originally combined in
Greece. The Homeric poems hardly give any hint of that overflowing of religious emotion
which later Greek peoples knew and honoured as a heaven-sent madness. It spread among the
Greeks themselves in the train of a religious agitation, we might almost say revolution,
of which Homer records, at most, only the first faint essays. It had its origin in the
religion of Dionysos, and in company with this religion enters as something new and
strange into Greek life.
The Homeric poems do not recognize Dionysos as belonging to the gods of Olympos, but
they are aware of his existence. It is true they nowhere plainly3 refer to him as the wine-god honoured in
joyful festivals, but we read (in the narrative of Glaukos’ meeting with Diomedes) of the
“frenzied” Dionysos and his “Nurses” who were attacked by the Thracian Lykourgos.4 The Mainas, the
frenzied woman of the Dionysos-cult, was such a well-known phenomenon, so familiar in
men’s minds, that the word could be used in a simile to explain the meaning of something
else.5 In this form the
worship of the god first came to the notice of the Greeks; this was the origin of all the
other festivals of Dionysos that later Greece developed in so many different directions.6 They learnt to know
Dionysos Bakcheios, “who makes men frenzied,”7 as he was worshipped in his own country.
That the original home of Dionysos-worship was in Thrace, that his cult, popular among
many of the Thracian peoples,8 was particularly honoured among the southernmost of the Thracian
stocks who were best known to the Greeks and lived on the coast between the mouths of the
rivers Hebros and Axios and in the mountainous country behind—to all this the Greeks
themselves bore frequent and manifold witness.9 The god whose name the Greeks knew in its Greek form “Dionysos”
had, it appears, among the numerous and divided Thracian peoples various appellations of
which those most familiar to the Greeks were Sabos and Sabazios.10 The Greeks must have known and remarked on
the nature and worship of the god at an early period of their history. They may have met
with him in Thrace itself. At all periods they had an extensive and varied intercourse
with this country and must in the early days of their wanderings have passed through it on
their way to their future home. They may have had further opportunities of knowing it from
the Thracian races or tribes who, according to a few isolated legends, had dwelt in
primitive times in certain localities of Central Greece. The ethnographical material of
these legends was regarded as founded
on fact by the great historians of the fifth and fourth centuries.11
The cult of this Thracian divinity differed in every particular from anything that we
know of from Homer as Greek worship of the gods. On the other hand, it was closely related
to the cult paid by the Phrygians, a people almost identical with the Thracians, to their
mountain-mother Kybele. It was thoroughly orgiastic in character. The festival was held on
the mountain tops in the darkness of night amid the flickering and uncertain light of
torches. The loud and troubled sound of music was heard; the clash of bronze cymbals; the
dull thunderous roar of kettledrums; and through them all penetrated the “maddening
unison” of the deep-toned flute,12 whose soul Phrygian aulêtai had first waked to life.
Excited by this wild music, the chorus of worshippers dance with shrill crying and
jubilation.13 We hear
nothing about singing:14 the violence of the dance left no breath for regular songs. These
dances were something very different from the measured movement of the dance-step in which
Homer’s Greeks advanced and turned about in the Paian. It was in frantic, whirling,
headlong eddies and dance-circles15 that these inspired companies danced over the mountain slopes.
They were mostly women who whirled round in these circular dances till the point of
exhaustion was reached;16 they were strangely dressed; they wore bassarai, long
flowing garments, as it seems, stitched together out of fox-skins;17 over these were doeskins,18 and they even had
horns fixed to their heads.19 Their hair was allowed to float in the wind;20 they carried snakes
sacred to Sabazios21
in their hands and brandished daggers or else thyrsos-wands, the spear-points of which
were concealed in ivy-leaves.22 In this fashion they raged wildly until every sense was wrought
to the highest pitch of excitement, and in the “sacred frenzy” they fell upon the beast
selected as their victim23 and tore their captured prey limb from limb. Then with their
teeth they seized the bleeding flesh and devoured it raw.
It is easy enough, by following poets’ descriptions and plastic representations of such
scenes, to elaborate still further the picture of this nocturnal festival of fanatic
enthusiasm. But, we must ask, what was the meaning of it all? We shall get
nearest to the truth if we will exclude as far as possible all theories imported from
unrelated provinces of thought and fix our attention solely on what, for the participants,
was the result of it all—the result anticipated and consciously proposed by them,
and therefore the recognized object, or, at least, one of the recognized objects of these strange proceedings. The
participators in these dance-festivals induced intentionally in themselves a sort of
mania, an extraordinary exaltation of their being. A strange rapture came over them in
which they seemed to themselves and others “frenzied”, “possessed”.24 This excessive stimulation of the senses,
going even as far as hallucination,25 was brought about, in those who were susceptible to their
influence, by the delirious whirl of the dance, the music and the darkness, and all the
other circumstances of this tumultuous worship.26 This extreme pitch of excitement was the
result intended. The violently induced exaltation of the senses had a religious purpose,
in that such enlargement and extension of his being was man’s only way, as it seemed, of
entering into union and relationship with the god and his spiritual attendants. The god is
invisibly present among his inspired worshippers. At any rate, he is close at hand, and
the tumult of the festival is to bring him completely into their midst.27 There are various
legends about the disappearance of the god into another world and his return thence to
mankind.28 Every
second year his return is celebrated, and it is just this Appearance, this “Epiphany” of
the god, that gives the reason and the motive of the festival. The Bull-God, in the most
ancient and primitive form of the belief, appeared in person among the dancers,29 or else the imitated
roaring of a bull produced by hidden “Mimes of Terror” served to suggest the invisible
Presence.30 The
worshippers, too, in furious exaltation and divine inspiration, strive after the god; they
seek communion with him. They burst the physical barriers of their soul. A magic power
takes hold of them; they feel themselves raised high above the level of their everyday
existence; they seem to become those spiritual beings who wildly dance in the
train of the god.31
Nay, more, they have a share in the life of the god himself; nothing less can be the
meaning of the fact that the enraptured servants of the god call themselves by the name of
the god. The worshipper who in his exaltation has become one with the god, is himself now
called Sabos, Sabazios.32 The superhuman and the infra-human are mingled in his person;
like the frenzied god33 he throws himself upon the sacrificial animal to devour it raw.
To make this transformation of their nature outwardly manifest, the participants in the
dance-festival wear strange dress: they resemble in their appearance the members of the
wild thiasos of the god;34 the horns they set on their heads recall the horned, bull-shaped
god himself, etc.35
The whole might be called a religious drama, since everything is carefully arranged so as to suggest to the
imagination the actual presence of the mysterious figures from the spirit world. At the
same time, it is something more than mere drama, for it can hardly be doubted that the
players themselves were possessed by the illusion of living the life of a strange person.
The awe-inspiring darkness of night, the music, especially that of the Phrygian flute, to
which the Greeks attributed the power of making its hearers “full of the god”,36 the vertiginous whirl
of the dance—all these may very well, in suitably disposed natures,37 have really led to a
state of visionary exaltation in which the inspired person saw all external objects in
accordance with his fancy and imagination. Intoxicating drinks, to which the Thracians
were addicted, may have increased the excitement;38 perhaps they even used the fumes derived
from certain seeds, with which the Scythians and Massagetai knew how to intoxicate
themselves.39 We all
know how even to day in the East the smoke of hashish may make men visionaries and excite
religious raptures40
in which the whole of nature is transformed for the enthralled dreamer. “Only when thus
possessed did the Bakchai drink milk and honey out of the rivers; their power ceased when
they came to themselves again,” says Plato.41 For them the earth flowed with milk and honey, and the air was
filled with the sweet odours of Syria.42 Hallucination was accompanied by a state of feeling in which pain
itself was only an added stimulus to sensation or in which the visionary became completely
insensible to pain, as is not unusual in such states of exaltation.43
Every detail confirms the picture of a condition of wild excitement in which the
limitations of ordinary life seemed to be abolished. These extraordinary phenomena
transcending all normal experience were explained by saying that the soul of a person thus
“possessed”44 was no
longer “at home”45 but
“abroad”, having left its body behind. This was the literal and primitive meaning
understood by the Greek when he spoke of the “ekstasis” of the soul in such orgiastic
conditions of excitement.46 This ekstasis is “a brief madness”, just as madness is a
prolonged ekstasis.47
But the ekstasis, the temporary alienatio mentis of the Dionysiac cult was not
thought of as a vain purposeless wandering in a region of pure delusion, but as a
hieromania,48 a
sacred madness in which the soul, leaving the body, winged its way to union with the
god.49 It is now with
and in the god, in the condition of enthousiasmos; those who are possessed by this
are ἔνθεοι; they live and have their being in
the god.50 While still
retaining the finite Ego, they feel
and enjoy to the full the infinite powers of all life.
In ekstasis the soul is liberated from the cramping prison of the body; it
communes with the god and develops powers of which, in the ordinary life of everyday,
thwarted by the body, it knew nothing. Being now a spirit holding communion with spirits
it is able to free itself from Time and see what only the spiritual eye
beholds—things separated from it in time and space. The enthusiastic worship of the
Thracian servants of Dionysos gave birth to the inspiration mantikê,51 a form of prophecy
which did not (like prophecy as it invariably appears in Homer) have to wait for
accidental, ambiguous and external signs of the god’s will, but on the contrary entered
immediately into communion with the world of gods and spirits and in this heightened
spiritual condition beheld and proclaimed the future. This power belonged to men only in
ekstasis, in religious madness, when “the God enters into men”. The Mainads
are the official exponents of this mantikê of inspiration.52 It is simple and intelligible enough that
the Thracian cult of Dionysos, which was throughout a means of stimulating men to a
condition of extreme exaltation that they might enter into direct communion with the
spirit-world, also encouraged the prophesying of inspired seers, who in their rapt
exaltation and frenzy became clairvoyant. Among the Thracian Satrai there was a tribe
called the Bessoi who produced prophêtai, and these were in charge of an oracle of
Dionysos situated on the top of a high mountain. The prophetess of this temple was a woman
who gave prophecies like the Pythia at Delphi, that is to say, in a state of rapt ecstasy.
This, at least, is what Herodotos says,53 and we have many other accounts of Thracian mantikê and
its close connexion with the orgiastic cult of Dionysos.54
The Greek type of religion, perhaps from its very origin, certainly at the earliest
period of its development in which it becomes accessible to our observation—the
period to which the Homeric poems belong—had no leaning to anything resembling an
excited emotional worship like that practised by the Thracians in their orgiastic cult of
Dionysos. The whole movement wherever it came to their notice must have struck the Greeks
of Homer as something strange and barbaric, attractive only through the interest ever
attached to the unknown. And yet—the fact is certain—the thrilling tones of this “enthusiastic” worship awoke an
answering chord deep in the hearts of many Greeks; in spite of all that was strange they
must have recognized a familiar accent in it—something that, however outlandishly
expressed, could appeal to the common nature of mankind.
This enthusiastic Thracian cult was in fact only a special expression, conforming to
their peculiar national characteristics, of a religious impulse that is to be found all
over the earth, and which breaks out in every stage of civilization. It must, indeed,
answer to an instinctive need of human nature, and be rooted in the physical and psychical
constitution of man. In moments of supreme exaltation man felt the presence above him and
around him of mighty powers that seemed to express themselves even in his own personal
life. These he was no longer to confront in pious and fearful awe, passively confined
within the limits of his own separate personality: he was to break down every barrier and
clasp them to his heart, making them his own in unconditional surrender. Mankind needed
not to wait for that strange product of poetry and thought, Pantheism, before it could
experience this instinctive need to lose its own private existence, for a moment, in the
divine. There are whole races of men, not otherwise among the most distinguished members
of the human family, who have a special tendency and gift for such expansion of the human
consciousness into the supra-personal. They have an urgent impulse to such rapt and
visionary states, and they regard the enticing or horrifying visions that visit them in
those states as actual experiences of another world into which their “souls” have for a
brief while been transported. In every part of the world there are peoples who regard such
ecstatic exaltation as the only true religious act, the only way of intercourse with the
spirit-world available to man, and base their religious performances principally upon such
ceremonial as experience has shown to be most capable of inducing the ecstasies and
visions. The means most commonly adopted by such peoples to produce the desired intensity
and stimulation of feeling is a violently excited dance prolonged to the point of
exhaustion, in the darkness of night, to the accompaniment of tumultuous music. Sometimes
whole companies of the people induce in themselves a state of religious excitement by wild
and furious dancing.55
More often selected individuals, specially susceptible to such impressions, suffer their
“souls” to be drawn out by music and dancing and every other sort of stimulating
influence, and made to visit the world of spirits and gods.56 Such “magicians” and priests who can place
themselves in immediate contact of
soul with the spirit world, are to be found all over the globe. The shamans of Asia, the
“medicine men” of North America, the Angekoks of Greenland, the Butios of the Antilles,
the Piajes of the Caribbees are merely special cases of a universal type, essentially the
same in all its different manifestations. Africa, Australia, and the island world of the
Pacific are equally familiar with them. Both their performances and the range of ideas
that lie behind them belong to a type of religious experience that occurs with the
regularity of a natural phenomenon, and must therefore not be regarded as abnormal. Even
among Christian peoples of long standing, the smouldering fires of this primitive and
emotional type of religion are ever ready to burst out again in renewed flames, and those
who feel their warmth are kindled to a more than human sense of life and vigour.57 Conventionality and
traditionalism, even the substitution of a cold and spurious mimicry for real feeling, are
of course quite compatible with a form of religion which consists so much in the display
of emotion. But even so, the most cautious observers58 have declared that by such violent
stimulation of every sense the “magicians” are thrown into a state of quite unfeigned
exaltation. In accordance with the character and content of their normal modes of thought,
the hallucinations to which the magicians are subject differ in different cases; but as a
general rule their frenzy opens to them a way of immediate intercourse, frequently of
complete communion of being, with the gods. This is the only explanation which will
account for the fact that, like the inspired Bakchantes of Thrace, the magicians and
priests of so many peoples are called by the name of the divinity to whom their
“enthusiastic” worship elevates them.59 The impulse to union with God, the extinction of the individual
in the divine—these are what form the fundamental points of contact between the
mysticism of the most highly cultivated and talented people and the emotional religion of
primitive “savages”. Even the external machinery of excitement and stimulation are not
always dispensed with by the mystics:60 they are always the same as those with which we are already
familiar in the orgiastic religion of primitive peoples—music, the giddy whirl of
the dance, narcotic stimulants. Thus (to take the most striking example out of many that
might be given) the dervishes of the Orient whirl round in their violent dances to the
rattle of drums, and the sound of flutes till the last stages of excitement and exhaustion
are reached. The purpose of it all is vividly expressed by the most fearless of all the mystics, Jelaleddin Rumi, in the
words: “He that knows the power of the dance dwells in God; for he has learnt that Love
can slay.61 Allah hu!
. . .”
Wherever a cultus of this kind, making its aim and object the evocation of ecstatic
raptures, has taken root—whether in whole races of men or in religious
communities—there we find in close alliance with it, whether as cause or effect or
both, a peculiarly vital belief in the life and power of the soul of man after its
separation from the body. Our comparative glance over the analogous phenomena of other
lands has shown us that the exalted worship offered to “Dionysos” among the Thracians was
only a single variety of a method, familiar to more than half the human race, of getting
into touch with the divine by a religious “enthousiasmos”. We therefore expect to find
among the Thracians a specially strong and well-developed belief in the life of the
“soul”. And in fact we find Herodotos telling us of a Thracian tribe, the Getai, whose
belief “made men immortal”.62 They had only one god, Zalmoxis by name.63 To this god, who dwelt in a cavernous
mountain, all the dead of their race, they believed, would one day be gathered and have
immortal life.64 The
same belief was held by other Thracian tribes, too.65 This creed seems to have had in view the
“transplantation”66 of
the dead to a blessed life in the hereafter. But, it would seem, this transplantation was
not perhaps for ever. We hear of the belief that the dead would “return”67 from the other
world; and that this idea existed among the Getai is implied (though the narrator does not
clearly understand this) by the absurd pragmatizing fable which Herodotos got from the
Greek settlers on the Hellespont and the Pontos.68 In this story (as often in later accounts
too) Zalmoxis is actually a slave and pupil of Pythagoras of Samos. Whoever invented this
fairy-tale was led to it by observing the close relationship between the Pythagorean
doctrine of the soul and the Thracian belief. In the same way later observers of the same
fact reversed the positions and made Pythagoras the pupil of the Thracian.69 In any case the fact
cannot to be doubted that in Thrace people thought they had found again the special
doctrine of Pythagoras as to the transmigration of souls. The belief in the
“return” of the soul must be interpreted as meaning that the souls of the dead return to
life in new bodies and resume their life on earth, to this extent being “immortal”. Only so interpreted could it
have been held for a moment without coming into conflict with obvious appearances. An
allusion in Euripides seems to regard as Thracian such a belief in a recurrent incarnation
of the soul.70
We should be justified in expecting to find an inner connexion between this Thracian
belief in immortality, which seems to have made such an impression on our Greek
informants, and the religion and “enthousiastic” worship of the same people. Nor are
traces lacking of a close association of the Thracian worship of Dionysos and Thracian
cult of the Souls.71
But if we ask why the religion of the Thracian Dionysos was attended by a belief in the
independent, indestructible life of the soul, a life not confined to the period of its
sojourn in the body which at present envelopes it, the answer must be sought not in the
nature of the god to whom the cult was offered (that nature being, in fact, insufficiently
known to us) but in the nature of the cult itself. The object of that cult—we might
almost say its special task—was to exalt its worshippers to a state of “ekstasis” in
which their “souls” should be forcibly delivered from the normal circle of their human and
circumscribed being, and raised as pure spirits to communion with the god and his company
of spirits. The true “Bakchai”72—those who were really cast into a state of religious
madness—found in the rapture of these orgies a new province of experience open
before them: they experience things of which they could give no account in the fully
conscious light of ordinary day. There can be no doubt that the experiences and visions
that their “ekstasis” gave them were regarded by them as the plainest and most literally
real of facts.73 The
belief in the existence and life of a second self distinct from the body and separable
from it was already encouraged by the “experiences” of the separate existence and
independent behaviour of that self in dreams and fainting fits.74 How much more strongly and vividly must
this belief have been confirmed for those who in the intoxication of those delirious
dances had “experienced” for themselves how the soul, freed from the body, could
participate in the joys and terrors of the divine existence; not indeed the whole man,
body and soul together, but the soul by itself and in separation from the body—the
spiritual being invisibly living within the man. The sense of its own divinity, its
eternity, which had been blindingly revealed to it in “ekstasis”, might be developed by
the soul into a lasting persuasion that it was indeed of a divine nature, and called to a
divine life which it would enjoy for ever as soon as it was freed from the body, just as it had then enjoyed it for a
moment. No mere intellectual arguments could give such powerful support to a spiritualism
of this kind as the personal experience itself which, even in this life supplied a
foretaste of what the individual was one day to enjoy as his own for ever.
In some such way as this, the persuasion of an independent, continued existence of the
soul after the death of its body was developed into a belief in the divinity and
immortality of the soul. In all such cases it was almost inevitable that the naive
distinction between “body” and “soul”, natural to simple-minded peoples and individuals,
should harden into an opposition between the two. The descent from the heights
where the ecstatic and emancipated soul enjoyed its thrilling delights was too sudden; the
body could not but seem a burden and a hindrance, almost an enemy of the heaven-born soul.
Disparagement of the ordinary existence of every day, a turning aside from this
life—these are the natural results of such an advanced spiritualism, even though it
may have no speculative basis, when it influences so profoundly the religious temperament
of a people as yet untroubled by the subtleties of a scientific culture. A trace of such a
depreciation of the earthly life of mankind in comparison with the joys of a free
spirit-existence is to be found in what Herodotos and other narrators tell of certain
Thracian tribes75 who receive the new-born among their kinsfolk with mourning, and bury
their dead with joyful acclamation, for the latter are now beyond the reach of all pain,
and are living “in perfect happiness”.76 The cheerfulness with which the Thracians faced death in battle77 was explained by the
persuasion which they held that death was only an entrance into a higher life for the
soul. They were even credited with a real desire for death, for to them “dying seemed so
fair”.78
Further than this the Thracians—who never quite outgrew a sort of semi-animated
torpor of the intellect—could not go on the way marked out for them. The seed of a
mystical form of religion that existed in the ecstatic dance-orgies of Dionysos-worship
never came to fruition. We never feel with them that we are being taken beyond the region
of vague unconscious emotion; it is but a passing illumination that for a moment of wild
excitement reveals the near presence of overwhelming spirit-forces.
Not until the flames of such ecstatic worship were fed and nourished by a people of
more independent and developed spiritual life, could fitful suggestions be welded into
deep and enduring thought. Reflexion
upon the nature of the world and of God, the changing and deceptive flow of appearance
with the indestructible One Reality behind it; the conception of a divinity that is One, a
single light that, divided into a thousand rays and reflected from everything that is,
achieves its unity again in the soul of man; such thoughts as these, allied to the dim
half-conscious impulse of an enthusiastic dance-worship, might allow the pure waters of
the stream of mysticism to run clear at last, freed from the turbid and unsatisfying
enthusiasm of popular religious practices.
Thus, for example, among the stern and rigid-minded peoples of Islam, with their stiff,
uncompromising Monotheism, there arose, no one knows whence, the inspired dance-orgies of
the Dervishes, which then spread far and wide carrying with them the mystical doctrine of
the Sûfis, that child of the profound mind of India. Man is God; God is All: such was the
pronouncement of the inspired poetry—the special contribution in particular of
Persia to this religion of mystic ecstasy—now in the most transparent simplicity, now in the most
gorgeous magnificence of imagery. In the ecstatic dance, which in this case remained in
organic connexion with the mystical doctrine (as the soil of the maternal earth with the
flowers which she puts forth) new strength was ever being added to the spiritual
superstructure. Mystical theory was invigorated by the practical experience, in heightened
consciousness, of an internal and unquenchable source of undying power and might. The veil
of the world was torn aside for the inspired worshipper; the All-One became sensible and
intelligible for him; it poured into his own being; the “deification” of the Mystai was
realized in him. “Who knows the power of the Dance dwells in God”. . .
Many years before all this, a process of development was completed on Greek soil which
has no closer parallel than the special phase of Oriental religion just referred to. Greek
religion never indeed (so long at least as the independence of Greek life lasted) went to
the extravagant lengths of Oriental mysticism. Even the sense of the infinite had to be
expressed by the Greek imagination in plastic form. But for all that, on Greek soil, in
the ecstatic Cult of Dionysos, under the influence of Greek reflexion upon God, the world
and mankind, the seeds which previously lay undeveloped in the womb of that cult were
unfolded in a mystical doctrine, whose guiding principle was the divinity of the human
soul and the infiniteness of its life in God. It was from this source that Greek
philosophy found the courage to advance a doctrine of the immortality of the soul.
CHAPTER IX D IONYSIAC R ELIGION IN G REECE I TS A MALGAMATION WITH A POLLINE R ELIGION. E CSTATIC P ROPHECY. R ITUAL P URIFICATION AND E XORCISM. A SCETICISM — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — § 5 — § 6 — § 7 — NOTES TO CHAPTER IX
The Greeks received from the Thracians and assimilated to their own purposes the
worship of Dionysos, just as, in all probability, they received the personality and
worship of Ares and the Muses. Of this assimilation we cannot give any further
particulars; it took place in a period lying before the beginnings of historical
tradition. In this period a multiplicity of separate tendencies and conceptions, freely
mingled with features borrowed from foreign creeds, were welded together to form the
religion of Greece.
Homer is already acquainted with the fanatical worship of Dionysos; the god is called
by the name under which Greek worshippers made themselves familiar with the stranger.1 But in Homer, Dionysos
appears only once or twice for a moment in the background. He is not the bountiful giver
of wine; he does not belong to the Round Table of the great gods assembled on Olympos.
Nowhere in the story told in either of the Homeric poems does he influence the life and
destiny of human beings. There is no need to seek far for the reason of Dionysos’
subordinate position in the Iliad and the Odyssey. Homer’s silence makes it quite plain
that at that time the Thracian god had not yet emerged from a position of insignificance
or merely local importance in the life and faith of Greece. Nor is this hard to
understand; the cult of Dionysos only gradually won recognition in Greece. Many legends
tell of the battles that had to be fought by the new worship and of the opposition that
met the invader. We hear how the Dionysiac frenzy and the ekstasis of the Dionysiac
dance-festival took possession of the whole female population of many districts of Central
Greece and the Peloponnese.2 Sometimes a few women would venture to join the wandering choruses
of wild Bacchants who danced upon the mountain tops; here and there the king of the land
would oppose the progress of this tumultuous worship. Such stories are told of the
daughters of Minyas in Orchomenos, of Proitos in Tiryns, of King Pentheus at Thebes, and
Perseus at Argos;3 their
opposition to the Dionysiac form of worship, occurring in reality at no precise date, assumed a deceptive distinctness
in the artificial systems of the mythologists and developed the character of historical
events. In reality what we are told of these individuals—how the opponents of
Dionysos themselves fell into even wilder frenzy and in Bacchic delirium slew and tore in
pieces their own children instead of the victim-animal, or (as in the case of Pentheus)
became themselves the victim slain and torn in pieces by the raging women—all this
belongs to the class of ætiological myth. They are legends in which special
features of worship (for example, the existing or dimly remembered sacrifice of human
beings at the feasts of Dionysos) are provided with a mythical prototype in the supposed
historical past of mythology, and thus receive their justification.4 Still, there remains a substratum of
historical fact underlying such stories. They all presuppose that the cult of Dionysos
arrived from abroad and entered into Greece as something foreign. This presupposition
notoriously corresponds to the actual facts of the case, and we are bound to assume that
the account which they immediately proceed to give of the violent opposition which this
cult, and only this cult, met with in many parts of Greece, is not pure fiction.5 We are obliged to
recognize that such stories preserved a trace of real historical memory expressed in the
one form which was invariably assumed by the earliest Greek tradition, namely mythology,
in which all the accidents and varieties of earthly experience were condensed into types
of universal applicability.
It was then not without opposition, it appears, that the worship of Dionysos,
descending from the north into Boeotia, spread from thence to the Peloponnese and at an
early period invaded even some of the islands as well. In truth, even if we had no
evidence at all on the point, we should have expected the Greeks to feel a profound
repugnance to this disorderly and tumultuous Thracian worship; a deep-seated instinct must
in their case have resisted such extravagance of emotional excitement and refused to lose
itself in the limitless abyss of mere feeling. This unchecked roaming over the mountain
sides in nocturnal revelry might be suitable enough for Thracian women-folk, but
respectable Greek citizens could not give themselves up to such things without a
struggle-—without, indeed, a break with all inherited propriety and decorum.6 It seems to have been the
women who were the first to give in to the invading worship,7 carried away in a real frenzy of inspired
enthusiasm, and the new cult may really have owed its first success chiefly to them. What
we are told of the irresistible progress and widespread success8 of the Bacchic dance-worship and its exaltation reminds us of the
phenomena which have attended similar religious epidemics such as have in more recent
times occasionally burst out and overflowed whole countries. We may in particular recall
to mind the accounts which we have of the violent and widespread dance-madness which, soon
after the severe mental and physical shock suffered by Europe in the Black Death of the
fourteenth century, broke out on the Rhine and for centuries could not be entirely stamped
out. Those who were attacked by the fever were driven by an irresistible impulse to dance.
The bystanders, in convulsions of sympathetic and imitative fury joined in the whirling
dance themselves. Thus the malady was spread by contagion, and soon whole companies of
men, women, and girls, wandered dancing through the country. In spite of the insufficiency
of the surviving records, the religious character of this dance-enthusiasm is unmistakably
apparent. The Church regarded it as a “heresy”. The dancers called upon the name of St.
John or of “certain demons”; hallucinations and visions of a religious nature accompanied
their ecstasies.9 Can it
have been another such popular religious malady which attacked Greece—perhaps in the
train of the disturbance of spiritual equilibrium caused by the destructive migrations
which take their name from the Dorians? The circumstances of the time must have
predisposed men’s minds in that direction and made them ready to accept the Thracian
Dionysos and his enthusiastic dance-worship. In any case this invasion did not, like its
mediæval counterpart, break down by coming into conflict with a well-established religion
and an exclusive ecclesiastical organization of a very different temper from its own. In
the deceptive twilight of myth we can only dimly discern the arrival and progress of the
Dionysiac religion in Greece. But so much at least is evident: the Bacchic cult, though it
had to overcome many obstacles, at last established itself in Greece and triumphantly
overran both mainland and islands, until in the course of time it obtained a profound and
far-reaching importance in Greek life of which Homer could scarcely give a hint.
It was no longer simply the old Thracian Dionysos who now took his place beside the
other great gods of the Greek Olympos as one of themselves. He had become Hellenized and
humanized in the meantime. Cities and states celebrated him in yearly festivals as the
giver of the vine’s inspiring fruit, as the daimonic patron of vegetation, and the whole of Nature’s
rich and flourishing growth. He was worshipped as the incarnation of all natural life and
vigour in the fullest and widest sense: as the typical exponent of the most eager
enjoyment of life. Even Art, the highest expression of the courage and pride of life, drew
much of its inspiration and its aspiration towards the infinite from the worship of
Dionysos; and the drama, that supreme achievement of Greek poetry, arose out of the
choruses of the Dionysiac festival.
Now the art of the actor consists in entering into a strange personality, and in
speaking and acting out of a character not his own. At bottom it retains a profound and
ultimate connexion with its most primitive source—that strange power of transfusing
the self into another being which the really inspired participator in the Dionysiac revels
achieved in his ekstasis. The essential features of the god as he first arrived in
Greece from foreign lands, in spite of much alteration and transformation of the primitive
type, were thus not entirely lost. There remained also, in addition to the cheerful
festivity of the daylight worship of Dionysos, as it was celebrated more particularly in
Athens, certain vestiges of the old ecstatic worship which drove men and women over the
mountains in nocturnal revelry. In many places there were still celebrated the
trieteric festivals10 in which at recurrent intervals the “Epiphany” of Dionysos, his
appearance in the world of men and ascent from the underworld, was solemnized by night. The
primitive character of Dionysos the Lord of Spirits and of the Souls of the dead—a
very different figure indeed from the tender and delicate Wine-God of later
times—was still obscurely present in many features of the Dionysiac festivals, in
those of Delphi especially, but even to some extent at Athens too.11 The ecstasy and the violence, even the
dark savagery of the ancient cult did not quite die out in the midst of all the
refinements of Greek civilization; recognizable traces of such things were preserved in
the Nuktelia and Agrionia and in the various trieteric festivals that were
offered to the god in many different localities.12 In Greece the awful god received the blood
of human victims.13
Nor did the outward signs of delirious frenzy, such as the eating of raw flesh, the
killing and tearing in pieces of snakes, entirely disappear.14 So little indeed, did the Bacchic frenzy
that could exalt and lift the worshipper to communion with the god and his train,
disappear before the gentler attractions of the gracious wine-god and his festival, that
the raving and “possession” which characterized the cult of Dionysos were now actually regarded by foreign peoples as
the essentially Hellenic form of the worship of the god.15
Thus, a sympathetic understanding of the orgiastic cult and its tremendous capabilities
lived on. The “Bacchants” of Euripides still preserves for us a breath of its magic, a
trace of the enthusiasm and exaltation that overwhelmed the senses and enthralled the will
and consciousness of those who gave themselves up to the powerful Dionysiac influence.
Like an irresistible current that overwhelms a swimmer or like the mysterious helplessness
that frustrates the dreamer, the magic power emanating from the neighbourhood of the god
took complete possession of the worshipper and drove him whither it willed. Everything in
the world was transformed for him; he himself was altered. Every character in the play
falls under the spell as soon as he enters into the magic circle. Even the modern reader
who turns over the pages of Euripides’ poem feels something of that strange power to
subdue the soul wielded by the Dionysiac mysteries and experiences in his own person a
faint reflexion of these extraordinary states of mind.
Probably as a result of this profound Dionysiac fever which had once raged through
Greece like an epidemic and was liable to periodic returns in the nocturnal festivals of
the god, there remained in the constitution of the Greek people a certain morbid weakness,
a susceptibility to suddenly appearing and as suddenly disappearing crises in which the
normal powers of perceiving and feeling were temporarily overthrown. A few stray accounts
have come down to us in which we read how such brief attacks of passing insanity ran
through whole cities like an infectious disease.16 The Korybantic form of the malady, which
was religious in character17 and took its name from the daimonic companions of the Phrygian
Mountain Mother, was a phenomenon quite well-known to doctors and psychologists. Those
affected by such fevers saw strange figures that corresponded to no objective reality, and
heard the sound of invisible flutes, until at last they were excited to the highest pitch
of frenzy and were seized with a violent desire to dance.18 The initiation festivals of the Phrygian
deities were specially directed to the discharge and so eventually to the cure and
“purgation” of such emotional states; the means employed being principally dance and
music—more especially the music composed for the flute by the old Phrygian masters;
music that could fill the soul with inspiration in suitably disposed natures.19 By such methods the
ecstatic element was not simply suppressed or expelled, it was taken up as a special disciplinary process by the
physician-priesthood who recognized in it a vital movement and added it to the regular
worship of the god.
In a similar fashion Greece in its most enlightened period accepted and practised the
“enthusiastic” cult of Dionysos. Even the tumultuous night-festivals of the Thracian
god—festivals closely related to those of Phrygia from which they had borrowed and
to which they had given so many features—were made to serve the “purgation” of the
ecstatically exalted soul. The worshipper in such festivals “initiated his soul into the
company of the god in holy purifications, while he raged over the mountains in Bacchic
frenzy”.20 The
purification consisted in this case, too, of violent excitement in which the soul was
stimulated to the highest pitch of religious ecstasy. Dionysos as “Bakcheus” awoke the
holy madness which he himself again, after it had reached its highest point of intensity,
stilled and tranquillized as Lysios and Meilichios.21 The old Thracian cult of ecstasy has here
been modified in a fashion that belonged only to Greek soil and to Greek modes of thought.
Legend, allegorizing the facts, threw back this final development of the Dionysiac worship
into the remotest antiquity. Even Hesiodic poems22 related how the daughters of King Proitos
of Tiryns wandered in the holy frenzy of Dionysos23 over the mountain of Peloponnesus, until
at last they and all the multitude of women who had joined them were healed and “purified” by
Melampous the Seer of Pylos famed in legend.24 The cure was effected through the intensification of the
Dionysiac frenzy “with loud crying and inspired dancing,”25 and, further, by the use of certain
special purificatory devices.26 Melampous did not put an end to the Dionysiac cult and its
“enthusiasm”; he rather regulated and developed it. For this reason Herodotus can even
call him the “Founder” of the Dionysiac cult in Greece.27 Legend, however, always recognized in this
“founder” of the Dionysiac festival an adherent of the specifically Apolline form
of religion. “Apollo had favoured him especially,” and bestowed upon him the Seership
which became ancestral in his family.28 Legend used him as a type in which the reconciliation between the
Apolline and the Dionysiac was figuratively expressed. The reconciliation is an historical
fact, but it did not happen in the primitive past of legend.
It is a fact, however, that Apollo did at last, doubtless after prolonged resistance,
enter into the closest alliance with this remarkable divine brother of his, the Hellenized
Dionysos. The covenant must have been
made at Delphi. There at least on the heights of Parnasos, in the Korykian Cave, the
trieteric festival of Dionysos was held every second year in the close neighbourhood of
Apollo the Lord of Delphi. Nay, more, in Apollo’s own temple the “grave” of Dionysos was
shown,29 and at this
grave, while the Thyiades of the god rushed over the mountain heights, the priests of
Apollo celebrated a secret festival of their own.30 The festal year of Delphi was divided,
though unequally it is true, between Apollo and Dionysos.31 To such an extent had Dionysos taken root
at Delphi,32 so
closely were the two gods related, that while the front pediment of the temple showed the
form of Apollo, the back pediment represented Dionysos—and the Dionysos of the
nocturnal ecstatic revels. Apollo, too, shared in the trieteric festival of Dionysos,33 while Dionysos in
later times at the penteteric festival of the Pythia, received, as well as Apollo, his
share of sacrifice and the contests of cyclic choruses.34 The two divinities have many of their
titles and attributes in common; in the end the distinction between them seems to
disappear entirely.35
Antiquity never forgot that at Delphi, the radiating centre of his cult, Apollo was an
intruder. Among the older deities whom he supplanted there, the name of Dionysos also
occurred;36 but the
Delphic priesthood thought it wise to tolerate the Thracian god and his ecstatic cult that
at first seemed so opposed to that of their own deity. Dionysos may have been too vigorous
a spirit to allow his worship to be suppressed like that of the Earth divinity who sent
the prophetic dreams. Apollo is the “Lord of Delphi”; but the priesthood of the Delphic
Apollo, following in this the tendency to religious syncretism which is so recognizable in
them, took the worship of Dionysos under their protection. The Delphic Oracle in fact
introduced Dionysos into localities where he had hitherto been a stranger, and nowhere so
successfully or with such momentous consequences as at Athens.37 It was this promoting of the Dionysiac
form of religion by the great corporation which had the leadership in Greece in all
matters of religion, that did more than anything else to secure for the god and his
worship that profound, wide-reaching influence on Greek religion that Homer, who knows
little even of the Delphic Oracle, completely ignores.
But it was a gentler and more civilized Dionysos whom Delphi popularized and even
helped to re-shape; the extravagance of his ecstatic abandonment was pruned and moderated
to suit the more sober temper of
ordinary city-life, and the brighter, daylight festivals of urban and countryside worship.
Hardly a trace of the old Thracian worship of ecstasy and exaltation is discoverable in
the Dionysiac worship of Athens. In other places, and especially in the districts ruled
over by the Delphic Apollo himself, Dionysiac worship preserved more of its primitive
nocturnal wildness. Even Athens, in obedience to an oracular command, sent a religious
embassy of elected women to the Delphic Trieteria. It is plain enough however, that in all
this there was nothing but a dim counterpart of the former tumultuous mountain-worship of
the god, and its profound soul-stirring ceremonies; the worship of Athens and Delphi had
reduced all that to a vague ritual traditionalism.38
But in spite of all attempts to moderate and civilize it outwardly, the cult of
Dionysos retained as its most enduring feature a tendency to the ecstatic and the
extravagant that was continually breaking out in threatening or alluring guise. So strong
indeed was the ecstatic element in Dionysiac worship, that when the Apolline and Dionysiac
forms of religion became united, as at Delphi, it was the Apolline worship—once so
hostile to anything in the nature of ecstasy—that had to accept this entirely novel
feature.
The “prophecy of inspiration”, deriving its knowledge of the unseen from an elevation
of the human soul to the divine, was not always a part of Greek religion. Homer, of
course, knows of the prophetic art in which specially instructed seers explained
such signs of the gods’ will as occurred accidentally or were purposely sought out by men,
and by this means claimed to discover the will of heaven both at the moment and for the
future. This is, in fact, the sort of prophecy that Apollo bestowed upon his seers.39 But the prophecy of
which there was no “art” and which “no man could be taught”40 (for it came in a moment by
“inspiration”)—of this Homer shows no trace.41 In addition to professional and
independently working prophets the Odyssey, and even the Iliad, too, are aware of the
enclosed oracular institutions belonging to the temple of Zeus at Dodona and that of
Apollo at Pytho.42
Both these used the names of the gods with whose service they were concerned to increase
the effect and the credit of their utterances. In the Odyssey (but not the Iliad) there is
a reference to the influence wielded by the oracle of Apollo in the more important
circumstances of a people’s life. But
whether at that time it was an inspired prophetess who gave replies at Delphi we cannot be
sure from the poet’s words. There must have been oracles of sortilege43 at that place from an
early period under the protection of the god and it is these we should naturally expect a
poet to mean who nowhere44 shows any knowledge of the striking phenomena of ecstatic
mantikê.45
In any case this new mantikê of inspired prophets, which subsequently enjoyed
such enormous development and gave the Delphic oracle such peculiar power, was a
late-coming innovation in the Apolline cult. Over the chasm in the rock at Pytho, out of
which arose a strange and potent vapour from the depths of the earth, there had once
existed an oracle of Gaia at which perhaps inquirers had received their instruction
through the means of premonitory dreams by night.46 The earth-goddess was displaced by Apollo
here as at many other oracular sites.47 The accuracy of this tradition is confirmed by the Delphic temple
legend which speaks of the overthrow of the oracular earth-spirit Python by Apollo.48 The change may have
been gradually brought about; in any case, where once the earth-divinity had spoken
directly in dreams to the souls of men, there Apollo now prophesied—no longer
indirectly through the intervening medium of signs and omens, but directly answering those
who, in open-eyed wakefulness, inquired of him, and speaking to them out of the mouth of
his ecstatically inspired prophetess.
This Delphic prophecy of inspiration is as far removed from the old Apolline art of
interpreting omens as it is closely allied to the mantikê which we found attached
from the earliest times to the Thracian cult of Dionysos.49 It appears that in Greece Dionysos but
rarely obtained an official priesthood that could have organized or maintained a permanent
oracular institute attached to a particular place or temple. In the one Dionysiac oracle
in Greece, however, of which we have certain knowledge a priest gave prophecies in a state
of “enthusiasm” and “possession” by the god.50 Enthusiasm and ecstasy are invariably the means of the Dionysiac
prophecy just as they were the means of all Dionysiac religious experience. When we find
Apollo in Delphi itself—the place where he most closely allied himself with
Dionysos—deserting his old omen-interpretation and turning to the prophecy of
ekstasis, we cannot have much doubt as to whence Apollo got this new thing.51
With the mantic ekstasis, Apollo received a Dionysiac element into his own
religion. Henceforward, he, the cold,
aloof, sober deity of former times, can be addressed by titles that imply Bacchic
excitement and self-abandonment. He is now the “enthusiastic”, the Bacchic god: Aeschylus
strikingly calls him “ivy-crowned Apollo, the Bacchic-frenzied prophet” (fr. 341).
It is now Apollo, who more than any other god, calls forth in men’s souls the madness52 that makes them
clairvoyant and enables them to know hidden things. At not a few places there are founded
oracular sites at which priests or priestesses in frenzied ecstasy utter what Apollo puts
into their mouths. But the Pythian oracle remained the pattern of them all. There,
prophecy was uttered by the Pythia, the youthful priestess who sat upon the tripod over
the earth-chasm and was inspired by the intoxicating vapour that arose from it, until she
was filled with the god, and with his spirit.53 The god, so ran the belief, entered into the earthly body; or
else the soul of the priestess, “released” from her body, received the heavenly revelation
with spiritual sense.54 What she then “with frenzied mouth” proclaimed, that the god
spoke out of her; when she said “I”, Apollo was speaking of himself and of what concerned
him.55 It is the god
who lives, thinks, and speaks in her so long as the madness lasts.
A profound and compelling tendency of the human mind must have been the source of the
great religious movement that could succeed in establishing, with the ecstatic prophecy of
the Delphic priestess, a seed of mysticism in the very heart of Greek religion. The
introduction of ekstasis into the ordered stability of the Delphic mode of religion
was only a symptom of that religious movement and not its cause. But now, confirmed by the
god himself, and by the experience which the mantic practice seemed to make so evident,
the new belief, so long familiar to Dionysiac religion and worship, must have at last
invaded the older and original type of Greek religion, and taken hold of it in spite of
that religion’s natural antipathy to anything of the kind. And this belief was that a
highly exalted state of feeling could raise man above the normal level of his limited,
everyday consciousness, and could elevate him to heights of vision and knowledge
unlimited; that, further, to the human soul it was not denied, in very truth and not in
vain fancy, to live for a moment the life of divinity. This belief is the fountain-head of
all mysticism, and tradition still records a few traces of the way in which it grew and
spread at that time.
It is true that the formal and official worship of the gods in Greece (where their
cults were not obviously affected by foreign influence) remained as fast-bound as ever
within the confines of order and lucidity. We hear very little of the entrance of ecstatic
exaltation into the constitution of the older cults.56 The irresistible religious impulse to such
things found an outlet through other channels. Men and women began to appear who on their
own initiative began to act as intermediaries between the gods and the needs of individual
men. They were natures, we must suppose, of unusual susceptibility to “enthusiastic”
exaltation; having a strange capacity for projecting themselves into the infinite. Nothing
in the organization of Greek religion prevented such men and women, if they could not
obtain authority from any religious community of the state itself, from acquiring a real
influence in religious matters simply from their own experience of divine favour,57 their own inward
communion with divine powers.
In the darkness and ferment of this period of growth, from the eighth to the sixth
centuries, we can vaguely discern many such shadowy figures; they look uncommonly like
those strange products of the earliest infancy of Christianity when prophets, ascetics,
and exorcists wandered from land to land, called to their work by nothing but the
immediate grace of god (χάρισμα), and not
attached to any permanent religious community. It is true that what we hear of Sibyls and
Bakides—men and women who wandered from land to land prophesying the future,
independently of and uncommissioned by any particular oracular institute—is mostly
legend; but these are the sort of legends that preserve real historical tradition
condensed into single types and pictures. The nomenclature itself tells us much: Sibyls
and Bakides are not individual names, but titles belonging to various types58 of ecstatic prophet,
and we are entitled to suppose that the types so named once existed. The appearance in
many places of Greek Asia Minor and the old mainland of Greece of such divinely inspired
prophets is among the distinguishing marks of a clearly defined period in Greek history;
the age of promise that came immediately before the philosophic period of Greece. The
later age, entirely given up as it was to the pursuit of philosophic enlightenment, made
so little claim to the inheritance in their own time of the divine favour that had once
enabled the Sibyls and Bakides to see their visions and utter their wisdom, that there
actually began to appear in large numbers prophets at second-hand, who were satisfied
with preserving the traditional
wisdom of the inspired prophets of the past, and with the judicious interpretation of
their treasures.59 The
age of enthusiastic prophets was evidently a thing of the past. The very
literature of Sibylline and Bakid oracles, which began to appear just at that time and
showed itself capable of an almost indefinite extension, was itself largely responsible
for the veil of myth and legend which completely enveloped the original bearers of the
prophetic title. Earlier and earlier became the historic events of the past which they had
foretold; further and further into the mythical past, before the time of the
events prophesied, receded the imaginary period of the great prophets.60 In spite of which the
scientific chronologists of antiquity, who were far from being imposed upon by the
delusive anticipations of prophetic poems, found reason for fixing the date of particular
Sibyls—which means for our purpose the whole prophetic age of Greece—in the
fully historical period of the eighth and seventh centuries.61
We may recognize, in what we hear of these prophets, the shadowy representatives of a
once real and living past; they are reminiscences of a striking and therefore never quite
forgotten phase of Greek religious life. The Bakids and Sibyls were independent
agents—though not entirely without connexion with the regular worship of the gods,
they were not attached to any particular temple—who wandered from land to land
according to the needs of those who sought their counsel. In this respect, at least, they
resembled the Homeric omen-interpreters,62 and continued their work; but they differed from them profoundly
in the mode of their prophesying. They were “seized by the god” and in ecstatic
clairvoyance saw and proclaimed unseen things. It was no academic skill that they
possessed, enabling them to interpret the meaning of signs and omens that anyone could
see—they saw what was visible only to God and to the soul of man filled with God.63 In hoarse tones and
wild words64 the Sibyl
gave utterance to what the divine impelling power within her and not her own arbitrary
fancy suggested; possessed by the god, she spoke in a divine distraction. An echo of such
daimonic possession, and of the horrible reality and terror that it had for the possessed,
can still be heard in the cries and convulsions which Aeschylus in the Agamemnon
gives to his Kassandra—a true picture of the primitive Sibyl, and a type that the
poets of that prophetic generation had reflected backwards into the earlier past of
legend.65
The activity of the seer was not confined to foreseeing and foretelling the future. We
hear of a “Bakis” who “purified” and delivered the women of Sparta from an attack of
madness that had spread like an epidemic among them.66 The prophetic age of Greece must have seen
the origin of what later became part of the regular duties of the “seer”: the cure of
diseases, especially those of the mind;67 the averting of evil of every kind by various strange means, and
particularly the supply of help and counsel by “purifications” of a religious nature.68 The gift or art of
prophecy, the purification of “the unclean”, the healing of disease, all seem to be
derived from one source. Nor can we be long in doubt as to what the single source of this
threefold capacity must have been. The world of invisible spirits surrounding man, which
ordinary folk know only by its effects, is familiar and accessible to the ecstatic
prophet, the Mantis, the spirit-seer. As exorcist he undertakes to heal disease;69 the Kathartic
process is also essentially and originally an exorcism of the baleful influences of the
spirit-world.
The wide popularity and elaboration given to the notion—hardly hinted70 at as yet in
Homer—of the universally present menace of “pollution”, which is only to be averted
or got rid of by means of a religious process of purification—this is one of the
chief distinguishing features of the over-anxious piety that marked the post-Homeric age
when men could no longer be content with the means of salvation handed down to them by
their fathers. If we confined our attention to the fact that now we find purification
required for such actions as murder and the spilling of blood which seem to imply a moral
stain to the doer of them,71 we might be tempted to see in the development of Kathartic
practices a fresh step in the history of Greek ethics, and to suppose that the new
practices arose out of a refinement and deepening of the “conscience” which now desired to
be free from the taint of “sin” by the help of religion. But such an interpretation of
Katharsis (favourite as it is) is disposed of by a consideration of the real essence and
meaning of the thing. In later times the methods of Katharsis were nearly always in
competition and conflict (rarely in friendly alliance) with “conscience”, with the
independently developed ethical thought that based itself upon the unchanging requirements
of a moral law transcending all personal will and feeling, and even the will of daimonic
powers. In its origin and essence Katharsis had nothing whatever to do with morality or with what we
should call the voice of conscience. On the contrary, it usurped the place which in a more
advanced and morally developed people would have belonged to a true morality based on an
inner feeling for what is right. Nor did it fail to hinder the free and unfettered
development of such a morality. Kathartic practices required and implied no feeling of
offence, of personal guilt, of personal responsibility. All that we know of these
practices serves to bring this out and set the matter in a clearer light.
Ceremonies of “purification” accompany every step of a man’s life from the cradle to
the grave. The woman with child is “unclean” and so is anyone who touches her; the
new-born child is unclean;72 marriage is fenced about with a series of purificatory rites; the
dead, and everything that approaches them, are unclean. Now, in these instances of the
common and almost daily occurrence of purification ceremonies, there can be no moral stain
involved that requires to be washed off, not even a symbolical one. Equally little can
there be any when ritual purifications are employed after a bad dream,73 the occurrence of a
prodigy,74 recovery
from illness, or when a person has touched an offering made to deities of the lower world
or the graves of the dead; or when it is found necessary to purify house and hearth,75 and even fire and
water76 for sacred or
profane purposes. The purification of those who have shed blood stands on exactly the same
footing. It was necessary even for those who had killed a man with just cause, or had
committed homicide unknowingly or unwillingly; the moral aspect of such cases, the guilt
or innocence of the doer, is ignored or unperceived. Even in the case of premeditated
murder, the remorse of the criminal or his “will to amend”77 is quite superfluous to the efficacy of
purification.
It could not be otherwise. The “stain” which is wiped out by these mysterious and
religious means is not “within the heart of man”. It clings to a man as something hostile,
and from without, and that can be spread from him to others like an infectious disease.78 Hence, the
purification is effected by religious processes directed to the external removal
of the evil thing; it may be washed off (as by water from a running spring or from the
sea), it may be violently effaced and obliterated (as by fire or even smoke alone), it may
be absorbed (by wool, fleece of animals, eggs),79 etc.
It must be something hostile and dangerous to men that is thus removed; since this
something can only be attacked by
religious means, it must belong to the daimonic world to which alone Religion and its
means of salvation have reference. There exists a population of spirits whose
neighbourhood or contact with men renders then “unclean”, for it gives them over to the
power of the unholy.80
Anyone who touches their places of abode, or the offerings made to them, falls under their
spell; they may send him sickness, insanity, evils of every kind. The priest with his
purifications is an “exorcist” who sets free those who have fallen victims to the
surrounding powers of darkness. He certainly fulfils this function when he disperses
diseases, i.e. the spirits who send the diseases, by his ministrations;81 when he employs in his
purificatory ritual hymns and incantatory formulæ which regularly imply an invisibly
listening being to whom they are addressed;82 when he uses the clang of bronze instruments whose well-known
property it is to drive away ghosts.83 Where human blood has been shed and requires “purification” the
Kathartic priest accomplishes this “by driving out murder with murder”,84 i.e. he lets the blood
of a sacrificed animal fall over the hands of the polluted person. Here, the purification
is plainly in the nature of a substitution-sacrifice (the animal being offered instead of
the murderer).85 In
this way the anger of the dead is washed away—for this anger is itself the pollution
that is to be removed.86 The famous scapegoats were nothing but sacrifices offered to
appease the anger of the Unseen, and thereby release a whole city from “pollution”. At the
Thargelia or on extraordinary occasions of need in Ionic cities, and even in
Athens, unfortunate men were in ancient times slain or stoned to death or burnt “for the
purification of the city”.87 Even the materials of purification that in private life served to
free the individual and his house from the claims of invisible powers, were thought of as
offerings to these powers: this is proved clearly enough by the custom of removing such
materials, when they had served their purpose as “purifications”, to the cross-roads, and
of making them over to the unearthly spirits who have their being there. The materials of
purification so treated are in fact identical with offerings to the dead or even with
“Hekate’s banquets”.88
In this case we can see most clearly what the forces are which Kathartic processes
essentially aim at averting. In them no attempt was made to satisfy a heartfelt
consciousness of sin or a moral sense that has become delicate; they were much rather the
result of a superstitious fear of uncanny forces surrounding men and stretching out after
them with a thousand threatening hands in the darkness. It was the monstrous phantasies of their own imagination that
made men call upon the priests of purification and expiation for much-needed aid and
protection.
It is simply the invasion of human life by the sinister creatures of the daimonic world
that the clairvoyant mantis is supposed to avert with his “purifications”. Among
these sinister influences Hekate and her crew are particularly noticeable. This is without
doubt an ancient product of religious phantasy—though it is not mentioned by
Homer—which did not till a late period emerge from the obscurity of local observance
and obtain general popularity: even then it only here and there ceased to be a private and
domestic cult and reached the dignity of public city-worship.89 The cult of Hekate fled the light of day,
as did the wild farrago of weird and sinister phantoms that surrounded her. She is
chthonic, a goddess of the lower world,90 where she is at home; but, more easily
than other lower-world creatures, she finds her way to the living world of men. Wherever a
soul is entering into partnership with a body—at birth or in child bed—she is
at hand;91 where a
soul is separating from a body, in burials of the dead, she is there. Amidst the
dwelling-places of the departed, the monuments of the dead and the gloomy ritual of their
worship, she is in her element.92 She is the queen of the souls who are still fast bound to the
upper world. It shows her deep-seated connexion with the primeval worship of the dead at
the household hearth,93 when we hear of Hekate as dwelling “in the depth of the
hearth”,94 and being
honoured together with the underworld Hermes, her masculine counterpart, among the
domestic gods who “were left to us by our forefathers”.95
This domestic cult may be a legacy from times when in familiar intercourse with the
lower world men did not yet fear “pollution” therefrom.95a To later ages Hekate was the principal
source and originator of all that was ghostly and uncanny. Men came upon her suddenly and
to their hurt by night, or in the dreamy solitudes of midday’s blinding heat; they see her
in monstrous shapes that, like the figures in a dream, are continually changing.96 The names of many
female deities of the underworld of whom the common people had much to say—Gorgyra
(Gorgo), Mormo, Lamia, Gello or Empousa, the ghost of midday—denote in reality so
many different personifications and variations of Hekate.97 She appeared most frequently by night, under the half-light of
the moon, at the cross-roads. She is not alone but is accompanied by her “crew”, the
hand-maidens who follow in her train. These are the souls of those who have not had their
share of burial and the holy rites that accompany it; who have been violently done to
death, or who have died “before their time”.98 Such souls find no rest after death; they travel on the wind now,
in the company of Hekate and her daimonic pack of hounds.99 It is not without reason that we are
reminded of the legends of “wild hunters” and the “furious host”, so familiar in modern
times in many countries.100 Similar beliefs produced similar results in each case; perhaps
there is even some historical connexion between them.101 These night-wandering spirits and souls
of the dead bring pollution and disaster upon all who meet them or fall into their hands;
they send evil dreams, nightmares, nocturnal apparitions, madness and epilepsy.102 It is for them, the
unquiet souls of the dead and Hekate their queen, that men set out the “banquets of
Hekate” at the cross-roads.103 To them men consign with averted faces the remains of the
purificatory sacrifices104 that they may not come too close to human dwelling places.
Puppies, too, were sacrificed to Hekate for “purifications”, i.e. “apotropaic”
sacrifices.
Gruesome inventions of all kinds were easily attached to this province of
supernaturalism: it is one of the sources which, with help from other Greek conceptions
and many foreign creations of fancy, let loose a stream of anxious and gloomy
superstitiousness that spread through the whole of later antiquity and even reached
through the Middle Ages to our own day.
Protection and riddance from such things were sought at the hands of seers and
“Kathartic priests” who, in addition to ceremonies of purification and exorcism had other
ways of giving help—prescriptions and recipes of many strange sorts which were
originally clear and natural enough to the fantastic logic of superstition and were still
credited and handed down as magic and inexplicable formulæ after their real meaning had
been entirely forgotten. Others, again, were driven by a fearful curiosity to attempt to
bring the world of surrounding spirits—of whose doings such strange stories were
told in legend105—even closer to themselves. By magic arts and incantations,
they compelled the wandering ghosts and even Hekate herself to appear before them:106 the magic power
forces them to do the will of the spirit-raiser or to harm his enemies.107 It was these
creatures of the spirit-world that
magicians and exorcists claimed to banish or compel. Popular belief was on their side in
this, but it is hardly possible that they never resorted to deceit and imposture in making
good their claims.
The mantic and Kathartic practices, together with what arose out of them, are known to
us almost exclusively as they were in the time of their decay. Even in the brief sketch
just attempted of this notable by-way of Greek religion, many details have had to be taken
from the accounts left to us by later ages that had quite outgrown the whole idea of
mantic and Kathartic procedure. Compared on the one hand with science, seriously engaged
in studying the real and inward sources of being and becoming throughout the world,
together with the limitations of man’s estate, and on the other hand with the practical
and cautious medical study of the physical conditions of human life in health and
sickness, the mantic and Kathartic practices and all the myriad superstitions arising from
them seemed like a legacy from a forgotten and discredited past. But such things persisted
in many circles of old-fashioned and primitive-minded people, though by the emancipated
and cultured they were despised as the silly and dangerous quackery of mendicant priests
and wizards.
But this product of the religious instinct cannot always have appeared in such a light;
it certainly was not so regarded when it first came into prominence. A movement that was
zealously taken up by the Delphic oracle, which influenced many Greek states in the
organization of their religious cults, must have had a period when its right to exist was
incontestable. It must have answered to the needs of a time when the dawning sense of the
profound unity and interconnexion of all being and becoming in the world still contented
itself with a religious explanation of what seemed mysterious, and when a few chosen
natures were seriously credited with the power to communicate with the all-embracing
spirit-world. Every age has its own ideal of Wisdom; and there came a time when the ideal
of the Wise Man, who by his own innate powers has achieved a commanding spiritual position
and insight, became embodied in the persons of certain great men who seemed to fulfil the
highest conceptions of wisdom and power that were attributed to the ecstatic seer and
priest of purification. The half-mythical stories in which later ages preserved the memory
of the times lying just before the
age of the philosophic exploration of nature tell us of certain great masters of a
mysterious and occult Wisdom. It is true that they are credited with powers over nature of
a magical kind rather than with a purely intellectual insight into the laws of nature; but
even in the scanty accounts of them which have come down to us there are clear indications
that their work already included the first attempts at a mode of study based on theory. We
cannot call them philosophers—not even the forerunners of Greek philosophy. More
often their point of view was one which the real philosophic impulse towards
self-determination and the freedom of the soul consciously and decisively rejected, and
continued to reject, though not indeed without occasional wavering and backsliding. These
men must be counted among the magicians and exorcists who so often appear in the earliest
dawn of the spiritual history of civilized nations, and, as primitive and marvellous types
of the spirit of inquiry, precede the philosophers. They all belong to the class of
ecstatic seers and Kathartic priests.
Legend related how, out of the country of the Hyperboreans, that distant Wonderland
where Apollo hid himself in winter, there came to Greece one Abaris, sent by the god
himself. He was a saint and needed no earthly food. Carrying in his hand the golden arrow,
the proof of his Apolline origin and mission, he passed through many lands dispelling
sickness and pestilence by sacrifices of a magic kind, giving warning of earthquakes and
other disasters. Even in later times prophecies and “purifications”, going under his name,
were still to be read.108—This man, and also another like him, called Aristeas, were
already mentioned by Pindar (fr. 271). Aristeas, a man of high rank in his native
city of Prokonnesos, had the magic gift of prolonged ekstasis. When his soul left
his body behind, being “seized by Phoibos”, it (as his second self made visible) was seen
in distant places.109 As Apollo’s attendant he also appeared together with the god in
Metapontum. A bronze statue in the market-place of that city remained to testify to his
presence there, and to the astonishment awakened by his inspired utterances.110 But among all these
examples of the type,111 Hermotimos of Klazomenai is the most striking. His soul could
desert his body “for many years”, and on its return from its ecstatic voyages, brought
with it much mantic lore and knowledge of the future. At last, enemies set fire to the
tenantless body of Hermotimos when his soul was away, and the latter returned no more.112
The greatest master of all these magically gifted men was, according to tradition, Epimenides. His home was in Crete, an
ancient centre of Kathartic wisdom,113 where Epimenides was instructed in this lore as an adherent of
the cult of the underworld Zeus.114 Through a mist of legend and fable we hear of his prolonged stay
in the mysterious cave of Zeus on Mt. Ida, his intercourse with the spirits of the
darkness, his severe fasting,115 the long ecstasy of his soul,116 and his final return from solitude to
the light of day, much experienced and far-travelled in “enthusiastic wisdom”.117 Next he journeyed
through many lands bringing his health-giving arts with him, prophesying the future as an
ecstatic seer,118
interpreting the hidden meaning of past occurrences, and as Kathartic priest expelling the
daimonic evils that arose from specially foul misdeeds of the past. The Kathartic activity
of Epimenides in Delos and other Greek cities was famous.119 It was in particular never forgotten how
in Athens at the end of the seventh century he brought to a satisfactory close the
expiation of the godless murder of the followers of Kylon.120 With potent ceremonies of which his
wisdom alone knew the secret, with sacrifice of animals and men, he appeased121 the anger of the
offended spirits of the depth who in their rage were “polluting” and harming the city . .
.
It was not without reason that later tradition, undeterred by questions of
chronological possibility, brought all the names just mentioned into connexion with
Pythagoras or his adherents,122 and was even accustomed to refer to Pherekydes of Syros, the
latest of the band, as the teacher of Pythagoras. The practice, if not the philosophy, of
the Pythagorean sect grew up among the ideas and what may be called the teaching of these
men, and belongs to the epoch which honoured them as Wise Men. We still possess a few
scraps of evidence to show that the conceptions guiding their life and work tended to
reach some sort of unification in the minds of these visionaries who were yet something
more than the mere practicians of a magical species of religion. We cannot, indeed, tell
how far the fanciful pictures of the origin of the world of men which Epimenides123 and Pherekydes drew
were connected with the business and professional activity of these men;124 but when it is
related of Hermotimos that he, like his country-man Anaxagoras, attempted a distinction
between pure “mind” and matter,125 we can see very clearly how this theory might arise out of his
special “experiences”. The ecstasies of the soul of which Hermotimos himself and this
whole generation had such ample experience seemed to point to the separability of the soul
from the body126—and, indeed, to the superiority of the soul’s essence in its separate state
over that of the body—as to a fact of the most firmly established authenticity. In
contrast with the soul the body could hardly help appearing as an encumbrance, an obstacle
to be got rid of. The conception of an ever-threatening pollution and “uncleanness” which
was nourished by the teaching and activities of those innumerable purification-priests of
whom Epimenides is known to us as the supreme master, had gradually so penetrated the
whole of the official religion itself with purification-ceremonies that it might very well
have seemed as though, in the midst of this renovation and development of a type of
religious thought that had been more than half forgotten in the Homeric period, Greek
religion was fast approaching the condition of Brahmanism or Zoroastrianism and becoming
essentially a religion of purification. Those who had become familiar with the contrast
between body and soul, especially if they lived in the atmosphere of Kathartic ideas and
their practical exercise, were almost bound to proceed to the idea that even the “soul”
required to be purified from the polluting embarrassment of the body. That such ideas were
almost a commonplace is shown by many stories and turns of phrase which represent the
destruction of the body by fire as a “purification” of the man himself.127 Wherever these
ideas—the precise opposite and contrary of the Homeric conception of the relation
between body and soul-image—had penetrated more deeply they must have led to the
idea that even in the lifetime of the body the purification of the soul should be prepared
by the denial and inhibition of the body and its impulses. The first step was thus taken
towards a purely negative system of morality, not attempting the inner reformation of the
will, but aiming simply at averting from the soul of man a polluting evil threatening it
from without—in fact to a morality of religious asceticism such as later
became such an important and decisive spiritual movement in Greece. In spite of all the
inadequacy of our information about these Wise Men of the early pre-philosophic period, we
can still dimly make out the fact that their natural bent lay in this ascetic direction
(the abstention from food practised by Abaris and Epimenides are distinct cases of it).128 How far, exactly,
they went in this direction is indeed more than we can say.
Thus, the ascetic ideal was not absent even from Greece. It remained, however—in
spite of the influence it had in some quarters—always a foreign thing in Greece,
having its obscure home among sects of spiritualistic enthusiasts, and regarded in
contrast with the normal and ruling view of life, as a paradox, almost a heresy. The official religion itself is not entirely
without the seeds of an ascetic system of morality; but the ascetic ideal, fully developed
and distinguished from the simple and normal religious attitude, was in Greece found only
among minorities who cut themselves off in closed and exclusive conventicles of a
theological or philosophical temper. The “Wise Men” as idealized in the legends of Abaris.
Epimenides, etc., were as individuals not far removed from the ideal of asceticism. Nor
was it long before the attempt was made to use these ideals as the basis on which to found
a society.
CHAPTER X T HE O RPHICS — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — § 5 — NOTES TO CHAPTER X
The earliest authority who mentions Orphic sects and their practices is Herodotos (ii,
81), who calls attention to the correspondence between certain sacerdotal and ascetic
ordinances of the Egyptian priesthood, and the “Orphic and Bacchic” mysteries. The latter,
he says, are really Egyptian and Pythagorean, or in other words they were founded by
Pythagoras or Pythagoreans upon Egyptian models; and thus, in the opinion of the
historian, they cannot have come into existence before the last decade of the sixth
century. Herodotos then, either in Athens or elsewhere, had heard during his journeys of
certain private societies who by calling themselves after the name of Orpheus, the
prototype of Thracian song so well known to legend, recognized the origin of their
peculiar cult and creed in the mountains of Thrace, and did honour to Bakchos the Thracian
god. The fact that the Greek Orphics did indeed worship Dionysos, the lord of life and
death, before all other gods, is clearly shown by the remains of the theological poems
that originated in their midst. Orpheus himself, as founder of the Orphic sect, is
actually said to have been the founder also of the Dionysiac initiation-mysteries.1
This gathering-together in the name of Orpheus for the purpose of offering a special
worship to Dionysos was, then, the work of sects who, in private association,
practised a cult which the public and official worship of the state either did not know of
or disdained. There were many such associations, and of very varied character, which kept
themselves aloof from the organized religion of the community, and were tolerated by the
state.2 As a rule,
they were “foreign gods”3 who were thus worshipped; and generally by foreigners who thus
kept up the special worship of their own homes, though they did not always exclude natives
of their adopted country. Now, Dionysos, the god of the Orphic sects, had for a long time
ceased to be a foreigner in Greek countries; since his arrival from Thrace he had been
refined and matured under the humanizing sun of Greece, until he had become a Greek god,
and a worthy associate of the Greek Olympos. It is possible, however, that in this
process, the old Thracian god may have seemed to his original worshippers to have lost his
real character, and they may on that
account have joined together to offer, in separation from the official worship, a special
cult in which all the old ideas of the national religion should be preserved unaltered. A
secondary wave of influence thus broke upon the long-since-Hellenized god, the Thracian
Dionysos in Greece, and this wave the official worship either had not the power
or lacked the will to assimilate. It was therefore left to special sects who honoured the
god after their own private laws. Whether indeed they were Thracians who, as in
the similar case of the unmodified worship of Bendis,4 or Kotytto, thus reinstituted their ancient
and national worship of Dionysos in Greek countries, we cannot with certainty tell; but
this special cult would certainly not have achieved the importance it did in
Greek life if it had not been joined by Greek adherents brought up in the native
conceptions of Greek piety, who under the name of “Orphics” once more adapted the Thracian
god to Greek modes of thought—though this new adaptation differed from the previous
assimilation of the god by the official worship of the state. We have no reason for
believing that Orphic sects were formed in Greek states before the second half of the
sixth century,5 that
critical age of transition when in so many places primitive and mythological modes of
thought were developing into a theosophy, which in its turn was making an effort
to become a philosophy. The Orphic religious poetry is itself clearly marked by this
effort—for in Orphism it never became more than an effort and never succeeded in
reaching its goal.
The exact point of origin of this combined movement of religion and theosophy, the
various steps and manner of its development remain hidden from us. Athens was a centre of
Orphism; it does not therefore follow that Orphism had its origin there, any more than had
the multifarious tendencies and activities in art, poetry, and science that at about the
same period flowed together, and as though driven by an unseen intellectual current, found
their meeting place at Athens. Onomakritos, we are told, the giver of oracles in the court
of Peisistratos “founded the secret worship of Dionysos”.6 This appears to refer to the first founding
of an Orphic sect at Athens; and we meet with the name of Onomakritos among the authors of
Orphic poems. But the real authorship of these poems is far more often ascribed to certain
men of Southern Italy and Sicily, who can be more or less clearly connected7 with the Pythagorean
societies which were flourishing in those districts about the last decades of the sixth
and the first of the fifth centuries.
It seems certain that in Southern Italy at that time, Orphic societies were already in
existence—for whom else can these writers have intended their “Orphic” poems? In any
case we must take it as certain that the correspondence of Orphic and Pythagorean doctrine
on the subject of the soul is not purely accidental. Did Pythagoras when he came to Italy
(about 532) find Orphic societies already settled in Kroton and Metapontum, and did he
associate himself with their ideas? Or did the “Orphic” sectaries (as Herodotos imagined8) owe their inspiration
to Pythagoras and his disciples? The various cross-currents of reciprocal influence can no
longer be disentangled by us, but if the Pythagoreans were the sole creditors in the
bargain we should undoubtedly find the whole body of Orphic doctrine thoroughly permeated
with conceptions that belong exclusively to the Pythagorean school. In the wreckage of the
Orphic poems, however, except for a few negligible traces of the Pythagorean mystic theory
of numbers,9 we find
nothing that must necessarily have been derived by the Orphics from Pythagorean sources.10 Least of all did
they need to derive the doctrine of the migration of souls and its application from this
source. It is possible, therefore, that it was the independently developed Orphic doctrine
which exerted an influence upon Pythogoras and his adherents in Southern Italy; just as it
was a ready-made Orphic teaching (and that, too, perhaps, brought from Southern Italy)
with which Onomakritos, the founder of the Orphic sects at Athens, associated
himself—about the same time as Pythagoras’ similar action in Kroton. It is hardly
possible to interpret in any other way the various relations of the Orphics with each
other when we learn that at the court of the Peisistratids, in addition to Onomakritos,
two other men who had arrived from Southern Italy were active and were counted among the
earliest writers of Orphic poems.11
The Orphics wherever we meet with them in Greek countries always appear as members of a
private cult-society who are held together by a specially organized and individual mode of
worship. The old Thracian worship of Dionysos in its straining after the infinite
conducted its revels under the open sky of night, seeking out deserted mountain-sides and
forests where it was farthest from civilization and closest to unspoiled and untrammelled
nature. How this cult may have accommodated itself to the narrow limitations of ordinary
city-life, it is hard to imagine;12 though it is natural
to suppose that much of the extravagance that was literal and actual enough in the old
northern festival of night was represented in the milder worship of Greece by mere symbol.
We have less difficulty in discovering the side of their religious activity which the
Orphics, apart from the private worship of the conventicle, revealed to the outer world of
the profane. Orpheus himself in the tradition had been not merely the inspired singer but
the seer, the magically endowed physician and purification-priest as well,13 and the Orphics, as
his followers, were active, too, in all these directions.14 In the composition of Greek Orphism the
kathartic ideas which had been evolved on Greek soil were combined in a not unnatural
alliance with the old Thracian worship of Dionysos. The Orphic priests of purification
were preferred to others of their kind by many religious people.15 But among the inner circles of Orphism
the sacerdotal activities of purification and the removal of daimonic hindrances, which
were by no means given up, tended rather to produce deeper and broader ideas of purity and
of release from the earthly and the transitory. In some such way was evolved that
asceticism which in close combination with the Thracian worship of Dionysos gave the
peculiar tone to the faith and temperament of the sectaries and gave to their lives their
special direction.
The Orphic sect had a fixed and definite set of doctrines; this alone sufficed to
distinguish it both from the official worships of the state, and from all other
cult-associations of the time. The reduction of belief to distinct doctrinal formulæ may
have done more than anything else to make Orphism a society of
believers—none of the other theologi of the time, Epimenides, Pherekydes,
etc., accomplished as much. Without its fundamental religious doctrine Orphism in Greece
is inconceivable; according to Aristotle the “doctrines” of Orpheus were put into poetical
form by the founder of the Orphic sect in Athens, Onomakritos.16 The uncertain accounts given us by the
later authorities do not allow us to make out quite clearly17 what was the extent of Onomakritos’ work
in the formation or collection of Orphic doctrinal poetry. What is important is the fact
that he is distinctly named as the author of the poem called “Initiations”.18 This poem must have
been one of the basic, and in the strictest sense “religious”, writings of the sect; a
poem of this character may very well have had for its central incident the dismemberment
of the god at the hands of the Titans—a story which Onomakritos is said to have put
into verse.19
The religious beliefs and worship of the sect were founded upon the detailed
instructions of certain very numerous writings dealing with matters of ritual and
theology. These claimed the authority of religious inspiration,20 and were as a whole supposed to be the
work of the primitive Thracian bard, Orpheus, himself. The anonymity which concealed the
identity of the real authors of these poems was not, however, very thoroughly preserved;
even towards the end of the fourth century there were those who claimed to be able to give
with certainty the names of the original authors of the various poems. Strictly canonical
authority, such as would at once have reduced to silence every conflicting view or
statement, never seems to have belonged to any of these writings. In particular, there
were several “Theogonies”21—poems which attempted to give expression to the fundamental
ideas of Orphic speculation on religious subjects—and in spite of much harmony in
general effect they differed considerably from each other in particular mode of
expression. They represented ever-renewed and increasingly elaborate attempts to construct
a connected doctrinal system for Orphism. With unmistakable allusion to the oldest Greek
theological system—that which had been committed to writing in the Hesiodic
poem—these Orphic Theogonies described the origin and development of the world from
obscure primordial impulses to the clear and distinct variety-in-unity of the organized
kosmos, and it described it as the history of a long series of divine powers and figures
which issue from each other (each new one overcoming the last) and succeed each other in
the task of building and organizing the world until they have absorbed the whole universe
into themselves in order to bring it forth anew, animated with one spirit and, with all
its infinite variety, a unity. These gods are certainly no longer deities of the familiar
Greek type. Not merely the new gods evolved by the creative fancy of
Orphism—creatures which had almost entirely lost all distinct and sensible outline
under the accumulation of symbolical meaning—but even the figures actually borrowed
from the Greek world of divinities are turned into little more than mere personified
abstractions. Who would recognize the Zeus of Homer in the Orphic Zeus who after he has
devoured the World-God and “taken unto himself the power of Erikapaios”,22 has become himself
the Universe and the Whole? “Zeus the Beginning, Zeus the Middle, in Zeus all things are
completed.”23 The
concept here so stretches the personality that it threatens to break it down altogether;
the outlines of the individual figures are lost and are merged into an intentional “confusion of
deities”.24
Still, the mythical envelope was never quite given up; these poets could not do without
it altogether. Their gods did indeed strive to become pure abstractions but they were
never quite successful in throwing off all traces of individuality and the limitations of
form and matter: the concept never quite broke through the veil of mythology. The poets of
the Orphic Theogonies vied with one another in their attempts to make the half-seen and
half-conceived accessible alike to the imagination and the reason; and in succession gave
varying expression to the same fundamental conceptions until finality was reached as it
seems in a poem whose contents are better known to us than the others from quotations made
from it by Neoplatonic writers—the Theogonical poem of the four-and-twenty
Rhapsodies. Into this poem was poured all the traditional material of mythological and
symbolical doctrine, and in it such doctrine achieved its final expression.25
This combination of religion and quasi-philosophical speculation was a distinguishing
feature of the Orphics and of Orphic literature. Religion only entered into their
Theogonical poetry in so far as the ethical personalities of the divinities therein
described had not entirely faded away into transparent allegories.26 It was abstract speculation alone which
really prevailed there, little respect being paid to religion; and as a result a much
greater licence was given to speculative construction.
This abstract speculation, however, reached its climax in a religious narrative of the
first importance for the beliefs and cult of the sect. At the end of the series of
genealogically connected deities came the son of Zeus and Persephone, Dionysos, who was
also given the name of the underworld deity Zagreus.27 To him, even in infancy, was entrusted
the rule of the world by Zeus. But the wicked Titans, urged on by Hera, approached him by
a stratagem. They were the enemies of Zeus, and had already been overthrown by Ouranos,28 but had, it seems,
been let loose again by Zeus from Tartaros. They made Dionysos trust them by giving him
presents, and while he was looking at his own image in a mirror29 that they had given him, they fell upon
him. He tried to escape them by repeated transformations of shape; finally, in the form of
a bull,30 he was at
last overcome and his body torn to pieces which his savage foes thereupon devoured. The
heart alone was rescued by Athene,
and she brought it to Zeus who swallowed it. From Zeus there sprang the “new Dionysos”,
the son of Zeus and Semele, in whom Zagreus came to life again.
The myth of the dismemberment of Zagreus by the Titans was already put into verse by
Onomakritos;31 it
continued to be the culminating point of the doctrinal poetry of the Orphics. It occurred
not only in the Rhapsodies,32 but in other versions of the Orphic legend composed in complete
independence of these.33 It is a religious myth in the stricter sense; its
ætioloqical character is most marked;34 its purpose is to explain the religious
implication of the ritual dismemberment of the bull-god at the Bacchic nocturnal
festivals, and to derive that feature from the legendary sufferings of
Dionysos-Zagreus.
But though the legend thus has its roots in the primitive sacrificial ritual of ancient
Thrace,35 in its
extended form it belongs entirely to the region of Hellenic thought; and in this
combination of the two elements it becomes truly Orphic. The wicked Titans belong entirely
to strictly Greek mythology.36 In this case, as the murderers of the god, they represent the
primeval power of evil.37 They dismember the One into Many parts; by their impiety the One
divine being is dispersed into the multiplicity of the things of this world.38 It is reborn as One
in the new Dionysos sprung from Zeus. The Titans—so the legend goes on to
relate—who had devoured the limbs of the god were destroyed by Zeus with his
lightning flash. From their ashes sprang the race of men in whom, in conformity with their
origin, the good derived from Dionysos-Zagreus is mixed with a wicked Titanic element.39
With the rule of the new-born Dionysos and the origin of mankind, the series of
mythological events in the Orphic poetry came to an end.40 With the entry of mankind into Creation41 the existing period
of the world begins; the period of world-revolutions is over. The poems now turn to the
subject of man and the revelation of his fate, his duty and his purpose in the world.
The mixture of the elements that make up the totality of his being in itself prescribes
for man the direction that his effort shall take. He must free himself from the Titanic
element and, thus purified, return to the god, a fragment of whom is living in him.42 The distinction
between the Titanic and Dionysiac elements in man is an allegorical expression of the
popular distinction between body and
soul; it also corresponds to a profoundly felt estimate of the relative value of these two
sides of man’s being. According to Orphic doctrine man’s duty is to free himself from the
chains of the body in which the soul lies fast bound like the prisoner in his cell.43 The soul has a long
way, however, to go before it can find its freedom; it may not by an act of violence tear
its bonds asunder for itself.44 The death of the body only frees it for a short while; for the
soul must once more suffer imprisonment in a body. After leaving its old body, it flutters
free in the wind, but a breath of air sends it into a new body again.45 So it continues its
journey, perpetually alternating between an unfettered separate existence, and an
ever-renewed incarnation—traversing the great “Circle of Necessity” in which it
becomes the life-companion of many bodies both of men and beasts. Thus, the “Wheel of
Birth”46 seems to
return ever upon itself in hopeless repetition: in Orphic poetry (and there perhaps for
the first time) occurs the despairing thought of the exact repetition of the past; events
which have already been lived through once returning again with the convergence of the
same attendant circumstances.47 Thus, Nature, ever reverting to its own beginnings, draws men
with it in its senseless revolution round itself.
But the soul has a way open for escape from this perpetual recurrence of all things
that threatens to close in upon it; it may hope “to escape from the circle and have a
respite from misery”.48 It is formed for blessed freedom, and can at last detach itself
from the condition of being it has to endure upon earth—a condition unworthy of it.
A “release” is possible; but man in his blindness and thoughtlessness cannot help himself,
cannot even, when salvation is at hand, turn himself towards it.49
Salvation comes from Orpheus and his Bacchic mysteries; Dionysos himself will loose his
worshipper from Evil and the unending way of misery. Not his own power, but the grace of
the “releasing gods” is to be the cause of man’s liberation.50 The self-reliance of the older Greece is
breaking down; in humility of heart the pious man looks elsewhere for help; he needs the
revelation and mediation of “Orpheus the Ruler”51 in order to find the way of salvation; he
must follow his ordinances of salvation with perfect obedience if he is to continue in
that way.
It is not only the sacred mysteries themselves, in the form in which Orpheus has
ordained them, which prepare for the release; a complete “Orphic life”52 must be developed
out of them. Asceticism is the prime
condition of the pious life. This does not mean the practice of the respectable bourgeois
virtues, nor the discipline and moral reformation of a man’s character; the height of
morality is in this case the turning again towards god,53 and the turning away not merely from the
weaknesses and errors of earthly being but from the whole of earthly life itself;
renunciation of all that ties man to mortality and the life of the body. The fierce
determination with which the Indian penitent tears away his will from life, to which every
organ in his body clings desperately—for this, indeed, there was no place among the
Greeks, the lovers of life—not even among the world-denying ascetics. Abstention
from the eating of flesh was the strongest and most striking species of self-denial
practised by the Orphic ascetics.54 Apart from this, they kept themselves in all essentials
uncontaminated by certain things and situations which rather suggested to a religious
symbolism than actually indicated in themselves attachment to the world of death and
transitoriness. The long-standing ordinances of the priestly ritual of purification were
taken up and added to;55 but they were also raised to a higher plane. They are no longer
intended to free men from the effects of daimonic contacts; the soul itself is made pure
by them56—pure
from the body and its polluting association, pure from death and its loathsome mastery. In
expiation of “guilt” the soul is confined within the body,57 the wages of sin is in this case that
life upon earth which for the soul is death. The whole multiplicity of the universe,
emptied of its innocent and natural sequence of cause and effect, appears to these zealots
under the uniform aspect of a correlation between crime and punishment, between pollution
and purification. Thus, mysticism enters into the closest alliance with kathartic
practices. The soul which comes from the divine and strives to return thither, has no
other purpose to fulfil upon earth (and therefore no other moral law to obey); it must be
free from life itself and be pure from all that is earthly.
The Orphics, moreover, were the only people who could venture among themselves or
before strangers to greet each other with the special name of the “Pure”.58 The first reward of
his piety was received by the initiate of the Orphic mysteries in that intermediate region
whither men must go after their earthly death. When a man dies, Hermes leads the
“deathless soul” into the underworld.59 Special poems of the Orphic community announced the terrors and
delights of the underworld kingdom.60 What the Orphic mystery-priests vouchsafed to their public upon these hidden
matters—outdoing the promises made in the Eleusinian mysteries in coarse appeal to
the senses—may have been the most popular, but was certainly not the most original
feature of Orphic teaching.61 In Hades a judgment awaited the soul—it was no instinctive
fancy of the people, but the “sacred doctrine”62 of these sectaries which first introduced
and elaborated the idea of compensatory justice in the world of the dead. The impious
suffer punishment and purgation in the depths of Tartaros;63 those who have not been made pure by the
Orphic mysteries lie in the miry Pool;64 “dreadful things65 await” the disdainer of the sacred worship. By a conception that
is quite unique in ancient religion, participation in the Orphic ceremonial enables the
descendant to obtain from the gods “pardon and purification” for his departed ancestors
who may be paying the penalty in the next world for the misdeeds of the past.66 But for the initiate
of the Orphic mysteries himself who has not merely borne the narthex but has been a
true Bakchos,67 his
reward is that he shall obtain a “milder fate” in the kingdom of the underworld deities
whom he has revered on earth, and dwell “in the fair meadows of deep-running Acheron”.68 The blessed home of
refuge no longer lies like the Homeric Elysium upon earth, but below in the world of the
Souls, for only the released soul reaches there. There, the initiated and purified will
live in communion with the gods of the nether world69—we feel that we are listening to
Thracian and not Greek conceptions of the ideal when we hear of the “Banquet of the Pure”
and the uninterrupted intoxication which they enjoy there.70
But the depths restore the soul at last to the light, for its lasting habitation is not
below; it stays there only for the interval which separates death from its next rebirth.
For the reprobate this is a time of punishment and purgation—the Orphics could not
distress their hearers with the awful and intolerable idea of the perpetual
punishment of the damned in Hell; many times over the soul rises again to the light and in
continually renewed bodies fulfils the cycle of births. For the deeds of its past life it
is recompensed in the next life that it lives, and each man must now suffer exactly what
he has done to another.71 So he pays the penalty for ancient guilt: the “thrice-ancient
law”—what thou hast done thou shalt suffer—is thus fulfilled for him in far
livelier fashion than it could be in any torments of the shadow-world. So surely also
shall the pure be rewarded in future lives by ever-increasing happiness. How exactly the
Orphic fancy filled out the
individual gradations in the scale of happiness is beyond our knowledge.72
But the soul is immortal, and even sinners and the unredeemed cannot perish entirely.
Hades and the life on earth holds them in their perpetual round, and this is their
punishment. For the soul of the blessed, however, neither Hades nor earthly life can offer
the highest crown of happiness. If it has been made pure and spotless in the Orphic
mysteries and the Orphic manner of life, it is freed from the necessity of rebirth and
withdrawn from the cycle of becoming and perishing. The “purification” ends in a final
redemption. The soul mounts upwards from the base level of earthly life, not to become
nothing in a final death, for it is now that it first truly begins to live; hitherto it
has lain imprisoned in the body like the corpse in the grave.73 It was death for the soul when it entered
into life—now it is free and will no more suffer death; it lives for ever like God,
for it comes from God and is itself divine. We do not know whether these theosophists went
so far as to lose themselves in detailed picturing and contemplation of the blissful
heights of the divine life.74 In the remains of their poems we read of stars and the moon as
other worlds,75
perhaps as the dwelling-place of illuminated spirits.76 But perhaps also the poet allowed the
soul to flee from its last contact with mortality without himself desiring to follow it
into the unbroken radiance of divinity that no earthly eye can abide.
This, then, is the keystone that completes the arch of Orphic religion—the belief
in the divine, immortal, and abiding life of the soul for whom union with the body and its
desires is a thwarting hindrance and repression—a punishment from which its one
desire, as soon as it is awakened to a full knowledge of itself is to escape in order that
it may belong entirely to itself in full enjoyment of its powers. The contrast between
these ideas and those of the Homeric world is complete; there, the soul released
from the body was credited only with a poor, shadowy, half-conscious existence, so that an
eternity of godlike being in the full enjoyment of life and its powers was only thinkable
if the body and the soul, the twofold self of man, were translated in undissolved
communion out of the world of mortality. The Orphic legends about the origin of the human
race do not tell us the real source and derivation of the very different beliefs about the
soul held by the Orphics; those legends only give expression to the way—and only one of many ways77—in which the
already established confidence in the divinity of the soul was deducible from what might
be considered the oldest historical story of mankind, and how it might be brought into
connexion with the Orphic legend of the gods. This persuasion, the belief that a god was
living in man and a god that could not be free until he had broken through the prison of
the body, was deeply rooted in the worship of Dionysos and the ecstasies belonging to that
worship; we cannot be in much doubt that it was taken over ready-made, together with the
“enthusiastic” cult of the divinity, and further developed by the Orphic believers. We
have already met with traces of this belief even in the Thracian home of the Dionysiac
cult; and in what we know of the Thracian form of the religion, traces are not absolutely
wanting of an ascetic tendency of living that would easily and naturally arise from such a
belief.78 Even in
those Northern countries we found the belief in the transmigration of souls bound up with
the religion of Dionysos, and that belief, when it is naively held, has as its essential
presupposition the idea that the soul, in order to have a complete life, and one that can
survive bodily death, must of necessity be united to another body. Even this idea is,
however, quite foreign to Orphism. The Orphics retained, in spite of everything, the
doctrine of transmigration, and combined it in a strange alliance with their own belief in
the divinity of the soul and its vocation to a life of perfect liberty. It is evidently
improbable that they invented that doctrine entirely on their own account; the first
principles of their creed by no means led necessarily to it. Herodotos79 asserts distinctly
that the doctrine of transmigration came to the Greeks from Egypt; and as a consequence,
that it was from Egyptian tradition that the Orphics received it. This assertion has no
more to recommend it than any other of Herodotos’ many pronouncements as to the Egyptian
origin of Greek opinions and legends, and it is even less likely to mislead us in view of
the fact that it is by no means certain and not even probable that a belief in
transmigration ever really existed in Egypt.80 This belief has arisen independently in
many places on the surface of the earth, without the need of transmission from one place
to another;81 it
might easily arise in a country where the belief prevailed that there existed only a
limited number of souls of which each one—in order that no earthly body might be
without its spiritual guest—must inhabit many perishable life-tenements, and not be
bound to any one of them by a real inner necessity. This, however, is a conception common to popular psychology all over
the world.82 If it
is still considered more probable that the idea of a migration of the soul through many
temporary bodies was not spontaneously evolved by the Orphics, but was received by them
from the hands of others, there is yet no reason to reject the most natural
assumption—namely, that this also was one of the beliefs that the Orphics took over
with the cult of Dionysos from Thrace. Like other mystics,83 the Orphics took over the belief in
transmigration from popular tradition and turned it into a serviceable member of their own
body of doctrine.84
It served them by giving a striking and physical expression to their own conception of the
inevitable connexion between guilt and penance, pollution and the refining power of
punishment, piety and future blessedness upon which all their religious ethic depended. It
was with an exactly similar purpose that they also retained and developed the old Greek
idea of a place of the souls in the depths below the earth.
But if they believed in the transmigration of souls, that belief did not with them hold
the highest place. There is a realm where the ever free and divine souls have their being,
a realm to which the series of lives in earthly bodies is only transitional, and the way
to it was pointed out by the saving doctrine of the Orphic mysteries, by the purification
and salvation afforded by Orphic asceticism.
CHAPTER XI T HE P HILOSOPHERS — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — § 5 — § 6 — § 7 — NOTES TO CHAPTER XI
The Orphic teaching, in which a protracted movement of religion in Greece reached
comprehensive expression, might seem almost an anachronism, appearing as it did in an age
when a religious interpretation of the world and of mankind was hardly any longer
admissible. Eastwards, on the coasts of Ionia, a new view of the world had arisen which,
like a youth that has come of age, demanded the right to pursue its course without any
guidance from traditional beliefs. The Ionic maritime cities were the meeting-place of all
the collected wisdom and experience of mankind; and there all the more serious knowledge
and study—both indigenous and of foreign origin—of “Nature”, the earth, and
the heavenly bodies, was gathered together in the intelligence of those ever-memorable
spirits who at that time were laying the foundations of natural science, and of all
science in general. This knowledge was now attempting to turn itself into an organized and
all-embracing whole. Observation and constructive study combined with an imaginative
vision to hazard a picture of the world and reality as a whole. Because it was impossible
anywhere in this world to find anything completely and for ever fixed and dead,
speculation inevitably pressed forward to the discovery of the undying source of Life,
that perpetually fills, moves, and rebuilds this whole, and of the laws according to which
it works and necessarily must work.
This was the direction pursued by these earliest pioneers of philosophy; and they
pursued it unhampered by any subservience to mythical or religious modes of thought. Where
mythology and the theology founded upon it saw a complete history of cosmic events each
one of which was the result of the separate and unique action of divine personalities
endowed with consciousness and the power of arbitrary choice—there the philosopher
saw the play of everlasting forces which could not be completely resolved into the single
events of any historical process, for, without beginning or end they had been ever in
action, tirelessly fulfilling themselves in accordance with unchanging laws. In such a
universe there seemed to be little
room left for divine figures created by man after his own image, and worshipped by him as
the guiding and supreme powers of the world. And in fact, the foundations were now laid of
that tremendous structure of free inquiry, which finally succeeded in weaving out of its
treasure new worlds of thought, where even those who had quarrelled or were dissatisfied
with the old religion (now inwardly falling into decay for all its outward appearance of
being at the most brilliant zenith of its powers) might yet find a refuge if they would
not fall back upon sheer nothingness.
And yet Greece never saw a thorough-going opposition and conscious quarrel between
science and religion. In a few special cases the religion of the state was forced to
recognize its incompatibility with the openly expressed opinions of individual
philosophers, and took steps to make its claims to universal supremacy respected. But for
the most part, the two streams of influence flowed on side by side for centuries without
ever coming into hostile contact. The propagandist temper was completely absent from
philosophy from the very beginning. (Even when it appeared later as among the Cynics it
produced very little effect on the supremacy of the state religion.) Religion on its side
was not represented by any priestly caste which might have been led to take up arms for
religion and for what it believed to be its own interest alike. Theoretic contradictions
might the more easily remain unobserved when religion depended so little upon fixed dogma
or upon a world-embracing whole of opinions and doctrines; while Theology, wherever it
accompanied the worship of the gods (εὐσέβεια), which was the real core of religion, was, just as
much as philosophy, the business of individuals and their adherents gathered together
outside the limits of the official religion of the state. Philosophy (except in a few
special and unrepresentative cases) never sought open war with religion—not even
with the weakened and diluted religion of the masses. In fact the juxtaposition of
philosophy and religion (with theology itself by their side) sometimes went beyond the
external conditions of the time, and affected the private intellectual life of certain
thinkers. It might seem as if religion and philosophy were not merely different but dealt
with different provinces of reality, and thus even strict and philosophically minded
thinkers could honestly and without imagining disloyalty to philosophy, adopt particular
and even fundamental conceptions from the creed of their fathers, and allow them to grow
up side by side and at peace with their own purely philosophical ideas.
What the Ionic philosophers in connexion with the rest of their cosmology had to say
about the soul of man did not for all its striking novelty bring them into direct conflict
with religious opinion. Philosophy and religion used the same words to denote totally
different things; it could surprise no one if different things were said about quite
different objects.
According to the popular view, which finds expression in Homer, and with which, in
spite of their very different estimate of the relative values of body and soul, the
religious theory of the Orphics and other theologi also agreed—according to
this view the “psyche” was regarded as a unique creature of combined spiritual and
material nature that, wherever it may have come from, now dwells within man and there, as
his second self, carries on its separate existence, making itself felt when the visible
self loses consciousness in dream, swoon, or ecstasy (see above, pp.
6 f.). In the same way, the moon and the stars become visible when no longer obscured
by the brighter light of the sun. It was already implied in the conception itself that
this double of mankind, which could be detached from him temporarily, had a separate
existence of its own; it was no very great step from this to the idea that in death, which
is simply the permanent separation of the visible man from the invisible, the latter did
not perish, but only then became free and able to live by and for itself.
This spiritual being and the obscure manifestations of its existence in the living man,
did not attract the observation of the Ionian philosophers. Their thoughts were all for
the universe as a whole; they looked for the “origins” (ἀρχαί) of all that is and becomes; for the simple elements of
multifarious appearance and for the force which turns the simple into the multifarious
while controlling, moving, and giving life to primeval matter. The power of life, the
force which can set in motion both itself and all else that without it would be fixed and
motionless—this force penetrates all being; where it manifests itself most
strikingly in separate individual beings, there it is what these philosophers call the
“psyche”.
Thought of in this way, the psyche is something quite different from the old psyche of
popular belief, idly observing the life and activities of its body, as of some stranger,
concentrated in itself, and pursuing its own secret, hidden life. And yet the name given
to these very different concepts remained the same. The application of the word “psyche”
to the power which gives life and
movement to the visible body—man’s power of life—might have been suggested to
the philosophers by a manner of expression which, though in the strict sense of the words
conflicting with Homeric conceptions, is occasionally observable in the Homeric poems, and
seems to have become more and more frequent in late times.1 In more exact language, the “psyche” of
these philosophers is a collective expression for all the powers of thought, desire, and
will (νόος, μένος,
μῆτις, βουλή), and especially for the functions denoted by the untranslatable word
θυμός—powers which according to the
Homeric and popular partition all belong entirely to the side of the visible man and his
body.2 According to
that view, they are all expressions of the body’s natural powers of life—though they
cannot indeed be awakened to real life before the arrival of the “psyche”—and in
Homeric usage are almost the exact opposite of the “psyche”, for they perish at death,
while the psyche leaves them behind to wander about in its separate shadow-life.
But the soul, according to the view of the physiologists, has quite a different
relation to the totality of life and living, and differs in this respect both from the
Homeric psyche and the Homeric θυμός. The same
force which manifests itself so strongly, as though specially concentrated there, in the
psyche of man, works and rules in all matter as the general source of life that creates
and preserves the world. Thus, the psyche loses the special singularity that distinguished
it from all the other things and substances in the world, and made it incomparable and
unique. Later reporters are wrong in attributing to these Ionic thinkers (for whom vital
power and material substance seemed immediately and indissolubly united) the conception of
a separate, independent “World-Soul”. Not as emanations from a single Soul of the World
did they conceive the separate souls of men; but neither did they conceive them as simply
independent, unique, and entirely incomparable essences. They are expressions of that
force which everywhere in all the phenomena of the world produces life and is itself
life. Attributing spiritual qualities to the primeval source of things, the
physiology of the “Hylozoists” naturally could not assume any profound distinction between
that source and the “soul”. Deprived in this way of its separateness, the soul acquired a
new importance in exchange; in another sense from that of the mystics and theologians it
could still be thought of as something divine, for it was a participator in the one Force
which builds and rules the world. It is not the abode of a single daimonic nature, but instead, the very nature of god
is alive within it.
The closer its inward connexion with the universal Whole the less, of course, will the
soul be able to preserve its individual existence, which was only lent to it while it gave
life and movement to the body, when that body, the sign and support of its separateness,
is overtaken by death. These earliest philosophers whose view was almost entirely
concentrated on the broad outlines of the life of nature as a whole, would hardly have
regarded it as part of their task to formulate a deliberate opinion about the fate of the
puny individual soul after the death of its body. In no case could they have spoken of an
immortality of the soul in the same sense as did the mystics who regarded the
soul of which they spoke as something which has entered from without into material
existence, and as a spiritual essence quite distinct from everything material. The latter
were thus able to attribute to the psyche a capacity for separate and continued existence
which was inadmissible in the case of a force of movement and sensation completely
inhering in matter and in the shaping of matter. And it was such a force which the
physiologists called the soul.
Ancient tradition, nevertheless, asserts that Thales of Miletos, whose genius first
began the philosophic study of nature, was the first “to call the soul (of man)
immortal”.3 But
Thales, who recognized a “soul” also in magnets and plants,4 and thought of the material stuff and the
motive force of the “soul” as inseparable, can only have spoken of the “immortality” of
the human soul in the same sense as he might have spoken of the immortality of all
“soul-forces” in nature. Like the primal Matter which works and creates by reason of its
own natural powers of life, so, too, the universal Force which permeates it5 is imperishable and
indestructible, as it is uncreated. It is entirely and essentially alive and can never be
“dead”.
Anaximander said of the “Unlimited” from which all things have been developed by
separation, and by which all things are enveloped and directed, that it never grows old,
but is immortal and imperishable.6 This cannot be intended to apply to the human soul as a separate
existence; for like all separate creations out of the “Unlimited” it must “in the order of
the time” pay the penalty for the “offence” of its separate existence,7 and lose itself again
in the one primordial matter.
Nor could the third in this series—Anaximenes of Miletos—have differed
seriously from Thales in the sense in which he spoke of the soul as “immortal”; for him it was of the same
nature8 as the one
divine9 primal element
of Air that is eternally in movement and produces all things out of itself.
In the teaching of Herakleitos of Ephesos the living power of the primal
essence—the one10 and universal, out of which arises through change the many and
the particular, which manifests itself in the union, regarded as indissoluble, of matter
and motive force—received even greater prominence than with the older Ionians. By
them matter itself—described as either limited or not limited in reference to one
particular quality—is regarded as self-evidently in motion. For Herakleitos the
origin of all multiplicity lies rather in the creative energy of absolute Life itself
which is at the same time a definite material substance or analogous to one of the known
substances. The idea of life, and that form of it which makes its appearance in
man, must have been more important for him than for any of his predecessors.
This never-resting force and activity of becoming that has neither beginning nor end,
is represented by the Hot and Dry and called by the name of that elementary condition
which cannot be thought of as ceasing to move, namely, Fire. The ever-living (ἀείζωον) fire, which periodically kindles
itself and periodically goes out (Bywater, fr. 20), is formed entirely of movement
and livingness. Living belongs to everything; but living is becoming, changing, becoming
something different without cessation. Every appearance brings forth from itself, at the
moment of its appearance, the opposite of itself. Birth, life, and death, and fresh birth
clash together in a single burning moment, like the lightning (fr. 28).
That which thus moves itself in unceasing vitality and has all its being in becoming;
which perpetually changes and “in backward-straining effort” finds itself again—this
is something endowed with reason, creative in accordance with reason and “art”; is Reason
(λόγος) itself. In creating the world it loses
itself in the elements; it suffers its “death” (frr. 66, 67) when in the “Way
downwards” it becomes water and earth (fr. 21). There are degrees of value in the
elements decided by the relation which they hold towards the moving and self-vivifying
fire. But that which in the multiplicity of the phenomena in the world, yet preserves its
godlike fiery nature—this is for Herakleitos “psyche”. Psyche is fire.11 Fire and psyche are
interchangeable terms.12 And so, too, the psyche of man is fire, a part of the universal
fiery energy that surrounds it and
upholds it, through the “inhalation” of which it maintains itself alive;13 a portion of the
World-Reason by participation in which it is itself rational. In men God is living.14 But god does not
descend into man, as in the teaching of the Theologians, entering as a finite
individuality into the vessel of the individual human life. As a united whole he surrounds
men with his flood and reaches after and into them, as though with fiery tongues. A
portion15 of his
universal Wisdom is living in the soul of man: the “drier”, more fiery, nearer to the
universal Fire and further from the less living elements he is, the wiser will he be
(frr. 74, 75, 76). If he sundered himself from the universal wisdom, man would
become nothing; it is his business in thinking, as in acting and in moral behaviour, to
surrender himself to the One Living essence that “nourishes” him and is the Mind and Law
of the world (frr. 91, 92, 100, 103).
But the soul itself is also a portion of the universal Fire that in the perpetual
variation of its form of being has been encompassed by the body and become entangled in
corporeality. Here we no longer have the rigid, unmediated contrast between “Body” and
“Soul” such as it appeared from the standpoint of the theologian. The elements of the
body, water and earth, have themselves arisen and perpetually arise out of the fire which
changes into all other things, and into which everything else changes (fr. 22). So
it is the soul itself, the creative fire, which creates the body. “Soul,” i.e.
Fire, unceasingly turns itself into the lower elements; there is no contrast between them,
and it is but a continual flux of transition.
While it is enclosed in the body the soul is still affected by unceasing change. In
this it is like everything else. Nothing in the world can for a single moment preserve the
parts which compose it unaltered; the perpetual movement and alteration of its being
constitute its life. The sun itself, the greatest fire-body, becomes another sun every day
(fr. 32). So, too, the soul, though distinct from the body and a self-existing
substance, yet is a substance that never remains like itself. In unceasing alteration of
its material substance, its contents are perpetually being transposed. It loses its fire
of life in the lower elements; it absorbs fresh fire from the living Fire of the universe
that surrounds it. There can be no question of the permanent identity of the soul, of the
spiritual personality, with itself. What in the unbroken process of upward and downward
straining seems to maintain itself as a single person, is in reality a series of souls and
personalities, one taking the place
of another and ousting and being ousted in turn.
Thus, even while it is in life, the soul is perpetually dying—but to live again;
ever supplementing the departing soul-life or supplying its place with another. So long as
it can recruit itself from the surrounding World-Fire, so long the individual lives.
Separation from the source of all life, the living and universal fire of the world, would
be death for it. The soul may temporarily lose its life-giving contact with the “common
world”: this happens in sleep and dreaming which enclose it in their own world
(frr. 94, 95), and this is already a partial death to it. Sometimes, too, the soul
has a tendency to transform itself to a humidity not always made good by fresh fire; the
drunkard has a “moist soul” (fr. 73). Finally, there comes the moment when the soul
of man cannot any longer repair the loss of the living fire which is taken from it in the
perpetual alteration of its matter. Then it dies; death carries off the last of the series
of living fires which in their continuity made up the human soul.16
But in Herakleitos’ world there is no such thing as death in the absolute
sense—an end followed by no beginning, an unconditional cessation of becoming.
“Death” is for him only a point where one condition of things gives way to another; a
relative “not-being”, involving death for one but simultaneously bringing birth and life
for another (frr. 25, [64], 66, 67). Death, just as much as life, is for him a
positive thing. “Fire lives the death of earth, and air lives the death of fire; water
lives the death of air, and earth the death of water” (fr. 25). The One that is in
all things is at once dead and alive (fr. 78), immortal and mortal (fr. 67);
a perpetual “death and becoming” agitates it. So, too, the “death” of man must be the exit
from one positive state of things, and the entry into another, also positive, condition.
Death occurs for man when the “soul” is no longer within him. Only the body is then left;
alone and by itself it is no better than dung (fr. 85). But the soul—what
becomes of that? It must have altered; it was fire, but now it has descended on the “Way
downwards” and become water—to become earth after that. So it must happen to all
fire. In death the fire in man “goes out” (fr. 77). “It is death for the souls to
become water” says Herakleitos clearly enough (fr. 68).17 The soul must tread this path at last,
and treads it willingly; change is for the soul its delight and refreshment (fr.
83). The soul has then changed itself into the elements of the body, has lost itself in
the body.
But it cannot rest permanently in this transformation. “For the souls it is death to
become water; for the water it is death to become earth. And yet from earth comes water;
and from water, soul” (fr. 68). Thus, in the restless up and down of becoming, in
the “Way upwards” the soul reconstitutes itself out of the lower elements. But not
that soul which had formerly animated the particular individual and of whose
complete self-identity in the midst of the influx of the Fire-spirit there could be no
question even during the life of the body. The inquiry after an individual immortality or
even a continued existence of the separate soul could hardly have had any meaning at all
for Herakleitos. Nor can he have admitted it under the form of the “transmigration of the
soul”.18 It is quite
certain that Herakleitos can never have distinctly asserted the changeless persistence of
the individual human soul in the midst of the unbroken stream of becoming in which all
fixity is nothing but an illusion of the senses. But it is also incredible that, in
despite of his own fundamental principles, he even admitted the possibility of this
popular view with an indulgence quite foreign to his nature.19 What could have tempted him to do so? We
are told20 that it
was from the mysteries that he adopted this opinion which was one of their most important
doctrines. Herakleitos, however, only casts an occasional glance at the mysteries and what
might be called their “doctrine” (just as he glanced at other prominent manifestations of
the excited religious life of his time21); and he does so in order to harmonize their teaching with his
own—a result which he achieves rather by imposing an interpretation than by
patiently eliciting one. He demonstrates that the mysteries might be harmonized with his
own doctrine,22
which seemed to him able to explain all the phenomena of the world; that contrariwise he
ever sought to set his own teaching in harmony with that of the mysteries, or that the
latter had shown him the way to his thought, or could ever have tempted him to set foot
outside his own self-chosen path—of this there is not a scrap of evidence to be
had.
The individual in its isolation has, for Herakleitos, neither value nor importance: to
persist in this isolation (if it had been possible) would have seemed to him a crime.23 The Fire is for him
indestructible and immortal as a totality, not as divided into individual particles, but
only as the one Universal Mind that transforms itself into all things and draws all things
back again into itself. The soul of man has a claim to immortality as an emanation of this
universal Reason, and shares the
immortality which belongs to it. So, too, the soul, even when it has lost itself in the
elements, finds itself again. Between “want” and “satisfaction” (frr. 24, 36), this
process of becoming has its perpetual being. A day will come when the Fire will “overtake”
everything (fr. 26); God will then be utterly by himself—all in all. But that
is not the purpose of this world; here change, becoming and passing away will never end.
Nor should they end; the “Strife” (fr. 43) which has created the world, and ever
fashions it anew, is the most inward nature of the All-living which it perpetually stirs
to insatiable desire of becoming. For the desire and refreshment of all things is Change
(frr. 72, 83), the coming and going in the interplay of Becoming.
It is the precise opposite of a quietistic mood that speaks from the whole teaching of
Herakleitos. His voice is a trumpet call that grows louder and louder as his lofty and
majestic spirit with ever-increasing intensity proclaims prophet-like the last word of
wisdom. He knows well that it is only labour that can give meaning to rest, and hunger to
satisfaction; only sickness can call forth the desire of health (fr. 104). That is
the law of the world which binds together the opposing contraries, each of which is
engendered from the last, with an inward and complete necessity. He bows before it and
assents to it. For him the fixity of the soul in a Blessedness that was without activity
and without change—even if such were thinkable24—would not have seemed a possible
goal of desire.
Even before the days of Herakleitos the torch of philosophic inquiry had been borne
from the coasts of Ionia to the West by Xenophanes of Kolophon who in a life of adventure
had wandered as far as Southern Italy and Sicily. For his fiery temperament the most
subtle reflection was turned into life and experience, and the one enduring source of
Being to which he ever directed his gaze became the universal Divinity that is all
perception and thought, that tirelessly embraces all things in its thought and
intelligence, and, without beginning or end, perpetually remains the same with itself.
What Xenophanes had to say about this God which for him is the same as the world, became
the basis for the elaborated doctrine of the Eleatic school which, in declared opposition
to Herakleitos,25
denied all possibility of movement, becoming, alteration, division of the One into Many,
to the one absolute Being that completely and entirely occupies Space, is raised above all development, whether temporal or
spatial, and remains perpetually enclosed in itself in absolute self-sufficiency.
For this view the whole multiplicity of things that presses itself upon
sense-perception is an illusion. Deceptive also is the apparent existence of a
multiplicity of animated beings, just as the whole of nature is an illusion. It was not
“Nature”, the content of actual experience, that provided the starting-point of the
philosophy of Parmenides. Without any assistance from experience, simply by the pure
logical deductions to be made from a single fundamental concept (that of “Being”), which
was to be grasped only by the understanding, this philosophy claimed to arrive at the
whole content of its teaching. For the philosophic scientists of Ionia the soul also had
been a part of nature and the science of the soul a department of the science of nature;
and this inclusion of the psychical within the physical was the peculiarity in their
doctrine of the soul which distinguished it from the ordinary popular psychology. When,
however, the whole of Nature was to be ruled out of account as a subject of scientific
knowledge, the derivation of psychology from physiology had to be given up as well. These
aphysici26
were logically debarred from holding any doctrine of the soul.
With a complaisance that is remarkable in view of the uncompromising logical vigour
with which they deduced their main theory and based it on abstract, super-sensual
knowledge, the Eleatics conceded so much at least to the region of appearance and the
pressure of sense-perception that, although they did not deduce from their own fundamental
conceptions a physical theory of multifarious appearance and its development, yet, side by
side with their rigid doctrine of being, in unjustified and unjustifiable relation with
it, they did in fact put forward such a theory. Xenophanes, himself, had already in the
same way offered a physical theory of limited and relative validity. Parmenides in the
second part of his doctrinal poem, developed, “in deceptive adornment of words,” not an
authoritative statement of the true nature of being, but “human opinions” of becoming and
creation in the world of multiplicity. This, too, must be the standpoint of the
physiological doctrines put forward by Zeno of Elea, the boldest dialectician who upheld
the doctrine of the motionless All-One. In the course of such a physiology, and with the
same implied reservations, the Eleatic philosophers dealt also with the nature and origin
of the soul. Their physical doctrine was framed entirely on the lines of the older type of
natural philosophy, and they regarded
the relation of the spiritual to the corporeal from exactly the same point of view as
their predecessors had done. For Parmenides (146 ff, Mull. = fr. 16 Diels) the mind
(νόος) of man depends for its existence upon the
mixture of two ingredients of which everything, including its body, is composed. These
ingredients are the “Light” and the “Night” (the Warm and the Cold, Fire and Earth). What
is intellectually active is, even in mankind, the “nature of his limbs”; the character of
his thought is determined by the one of the two elements which preponderates in the
individual. Even the dead man (because he still has a body) has feeling and sensation; but
these powers are deserted by the warm and the fiery and given over to the cold, the dark,
and silence. All that is has some capacity of knowledge.27—It would be impossible to condemn
the “soul” to corporeality more completely than is here done by the bold philosopher of
abstract Reason, who at the same time denied so unconditionally all validity to
sense-perception. The soul is evidently no longer an independent substance but a mere
resultant of material mixture, a function of elements in composition. For Zeno, too, the
“soul” in the same way was an exactly equal mixture of the four elementary properties of
matter, the Warm, the Cold, the Dry, and the Wet.28
It is, therefore, startling, in the face of these utterances, to find that Parmenides
also said about the “soul” that the deity that rules the world “at one time, sends it out
of the Invisible into the Visible, and at another time back again”.29 Here, the soul is no longer a condition
arising from the mixture of material elements, but an independent being credited with
pre-existence before its entry into the “Visible”, i.e. before its entry into the life of
the body, and also with a continued existence after its separation from the realm of
visibility—and indeed, with a sojourn, several times repeated, in those two worlds.
Did Parmenides distinguish between this independently existing soul and the being that
perceives in the mixture of the elements and as mind (νόος) thinks, but whose existence is bound up with the elements and
the body they together compose? It is obvious at any rate that in what he says of the
psyche, and its alternate life in the visible and the invisible, Parmenides is not
speaking as a physiologist, but as an adherent of the Orphic-Pythagorean theosophy. While
reserving for himself his knowledge of “Truth” and unalterable Being, he could select as
he liked among the “opinions of men” when speaking only hypothetically. In his doctrine as
a practical teacher with an ethical purpose in view he preferred to adopt the conceptions of the
Pythagoreans with whom he lived in close association.30
Ionic physiology had fixed its attention on Nature as a whole, and on the phenomena of
life displayed in every nook and corner of the universe; man, as a mere ripple on the
surface of the ocean of becoming and taking form, was almost entirely neglected. A
philosophy that made it its main effort to learn the nature of man, and, still further,
with the knowledge so acquired, to show man the way and purpose of his living, had to try
other paths.
This is what Pythagoras of Samos did. What he called his “Philosophy”31 was in essence a
practical effort. Plato32 tells us that Pythagoras was so peculiarly honoured because he
discovered a special mode of directing one’s life. A distinct way of living, formed on a
religious and ethical basis, was his creation. How far his “polymathy”,33 which indubitably
contained already the substance of Pythagorean science, may have become a system in his
hands, is not distinctly known. What is certain is that in Kroton he formed a society
which, together with the strict rules in accordance with which he organized their manner
of life for his associates, eventually spread far and wide among the Achæan and Dorian
cities of the Italian “great Greece”. In this society a profound conception of human life
and its purposes was given practical and visible application, and to have brought this
about must be regarded as the act and the special service of Pythagoras. The fundamental
conception of this way of life, except in so far as it may have contained from the
beginning a mystic philosophy of numbers, was by no means the special invention of
Pythagoras; the new and potent feature which he introduced was the force of personality
which was able to give life and body to the ideal. What was apparently lacking in similar
movements in ancient Greece was now provided by a great man who for his followers was a
pattern and an example, a leader inspiring imitation and emulation. His personality became
a centre to which a whole community was attracted by a sort of inward necessity. Before
very long this founder of a community appeared to his followers as a superman, unique and
incomparable among all other men. Some lines of Empedokles,34 who did not himself belong to the
Pythagorean society, bear witness to this fact, and to his followers Pythagoras became in
memory a saint or even a god in human form, and they related legends of the miracles he
had performed. For us it is difficult
to form a connected picture or trace the real features of the man beneath the dazzling
halo of the saint.
The teaching which enabled him to knit together his followers in a far closer bond of
fellowship in living than had been achieved by any Orphic sect, must still in the main
have coincided with what in the Orphic doctrine immediately related to the religious life.
He too pointed out the way of salvation for the soul and his doctrine of the soul formed
the central feature of his philosophy.
So far as our scanty and dubious evidence serves us, the substance of the Pythagorean
doctrine of the soul may be stated as follows.
The soul of man, once more regarded entirely as the “double” of the visible body and
its powers, is a daimonic immortal being35 that has been cast down from divine heights and for a punishment
is confined within the “custody” of the body.36 It has no real relationship with the
body; it is not what may be called the personality of the individual visible man; any soul
may dwell in any body.37 When death separates it from the body the soul must first endure
a period of purgation in Hades38 and then return again to the upper world. The souls invisibly
swarm about the living;39 in the tremulous motion of motes in the sunbeam the Pythagoreans
saw the movement of the “souls”.40 The whole air is full of souls.41 Upon earth, however, the soul must seek
out another body, and this may be repeated many times. So it wanders a long way, passing
through many bodies of men and beasts.42 Very ancient tradition43 said that Pythagoras himself remembered
the earlier incarnations through which his soul had passed (and of which he gave
information for the instruction and warning of the faithful). Here, too, the doctrine of
the soul’s transmigrations took on an edificatory character in a religious and ethical
sense. The conditions of the new incarnations and the character of the new lifetime are
governed by the performances of the past life. What the soul has done in the past, that it
must suffer in its own person when it becomes a man again.44
It is thus of primary importance both for the present life and for future incarnations
to know and to follow the methods of salvation delivered by Pythagoras to his followers.
The society points out the way to its company of the faithful in purifications and
initiations, in a “Pythagorean life”45 entirely organized with the same purpose in view—to “follow
the god”.46 Much of
the old ritual symbolism that had been in use for ages must have been incorporated in this
Pythagorean asceticism.47 The theological ethic of asceticism was essentially negative in
character, and here, too, it meant nothing more than a protecting of the soul against the
attacks of external evil that might come and pollute it.48 All that matters is to keep the soul
pure: no need for moral reformation—only that it be kept free from external evil.
The fact of immortality, the soul’s perpetuity, stands fast and unalterable; as it was
from the beginning so it must ever be and live.49 To lift it at last altogether from this
earthly existence and restore it to a free divine state of being—that, at least, was
the final goal.50
The practical philosophy of the Pythagorean school is founded upon a conception of the
soul as absolutely distinct from “nature”, and, in fact, opposed to it. It is thrust into
the life of nature, but it is in a foreign world where it preserves its self-enclosed
individuality intact and from which it escapes into independence to undergo ever-renewed
incarnations. Its origin is supra-mundane, and so, too, when liberated from the shackles
of natural life it will one day be enabled to return to a supernatural existence as a
spirit.
Not one of these ideas is achieved by a process of scientific thinking. Physiology, the
science of the world and all the phenomena of the world could never lead to the conception
of the soul’s separateness from nature and its life. It was not from Greek science, but
neither was it, as ancient tradition would have us believe, from foreign lands, that
Pythagoras got his belief in the fallen nature of the soul, descended from supra-mundane
heights to this earthly nature, and in its long pilgrimage through many bodies on the
completion of which it is to be free at last, through purifications and initiations. He
may have owed much to his travels; from his stay in Egypt, perhaps, he may (like
Demokritos after him) have derived the stimulus to his mathematical discoveries and much
else besides of the “learning” which Herakleitos ascribes to him. His doctrine of the
soul, on the other hand, simply reproduces in essentials the fanciful ideas of the old
popular psychology, as it had been enlarged and transformed by the theologi and the
purification priests. Tradition was right in its estimation of his character, when it set
him in this company and made him the pupil of Pherekydes of Syros, the theologos.51
It can hardly be doubted that Pythagoras himself laid the foundations of the
Pythagorean science—the doctrine of the creation of the world and perhaps, too, the
interpretation of all being and
becoming in the world as due to the action and relation of numbers, as the essential basis
of all things—all this, at least in elementary outline, must have been handed on by
him to his followers. After his death the two sides of his doctrine continued to develop
for a period in loose conjunction side by side; the guidance of life by the mystical and
religious philosophy (though this, indeed, was hardly capable of further development), and
the scientific interest which grew into a fairly elaborate system. Indeed, with the
break-up of the Pythagorean society and its bifurcation in the fifth century, the
scattered members of the band now brought into touch with the scientific studies of other
communities and cut off from the ideal of the Pythagorean life which could only be
realized within the limits of the society, were forced to continue their scientific
studies in solitude. Pythagorean science, evolving, as it did, a picture of the world as a
whole, no less than Ionian physiology deprived the soul of the unique and, indeed,
antagonistic relation to nature that Pythagorean theology had given it. Philolaos,
conceiving it in a manner strictly conforming to the mathematical and musical theory,
called the soul a Harmony of contrary elements united together in the body.52 If, however, the
soul is only a binding-together of opposites to unity and harmony, then it must, when
death breaks up the conjunction of the united elements, itself pass away and perish.53 It is difficult to
imagine how the older Pythagorean faith in the soul as an independent being dwelling in
the body and surviving it—in the immortal soul, in fact—could be accommodated
to this conception. Can it be that the two conceptions were not originally intended to be
brought into conjunction at all, or were not meant to exclude each other? Ancient
tradition spoke of different groups among the followers of Pythagoras who had also
different objects, methods, and aims of study; nor shall we be inclined to deny all
credibility to this tradition when we observe how little, in fact, Pythagorean science and
Pythagorean faith had to do with each other.54
And yet we have to admit that the same Philolaos, who described the soul as a harmony
of its body, also spoke of the soul as an independent and imperishable being. We may well
doubt whether these two contradictory utterances can really come from the same man and
apply to the same object; though the same man might really speak in varying language about
the one soul if he recognized different parts of the soul of which different
truths held good; and this was, in fact, first suggested by the Pythagorean school.55
Empedokles of Akragas did not belong to the Pythagorean school (it lost its external
unity in his time); but he approaches Pythagorean doctrine so closely in his opinions and
teaching about the soul of man, its problems and destinies, that there can be no doubt
about Pythagorean influence upon the formation of his convictions on these points. His
many-sided activities also included the study of natural science and he took up the
researches of the Ionic Physiologists with zeal and a marked aptitude for the observation
and synthesis of natural phenomena. But the roots of his peculiar individuality—the
pathos which moved and agitated him—lay in a practical activity far removed
from scientific investigation and representing a brilliant resuscitation in a very
different age of the character and practice of the mantis, the purification-priest
and magical-physician of the sixth century. The introduction to his “Purifications”56 gives a picture of
his triumphal progress from city to city, crowned with ribbons and garlands, adored as a
god and questioned by thousands: “Where is the road to healing?” He intends to give his
disciple Pausanias the results of his own experience and to teach him all his remedies for
disease and their virtues, the arts of stilling the winds and stirring them up, producing
drought or rain, raising the dead from Hades.57 He himself boasted of being a magician
and his pupil Gorgias saw him “do magic”.58 Through him those efforts of the Kathartes, the
expiation-priest and seer, which an earlier and already distant-seeming time had honoured
as the highest form of wisdom, at last achieved a voice and literary expression—an
expression given them with the fullest personal experience of the truth of their claims by
one who was convinced of their power to control nature and sure of the godlike status of
the man who had reached these almost superhuman heights of empire over nature. As a god,
an immortal no longer subject to death, he passed through all the land—so Empedokles
himself tells us.59
He may have won credit in many places. He did not, indeed, found an ordered society of
disciples and adherents, a sect: this does not seem to have been his intention. But he
alone as a unique and unparalleled being, a self-confident personality of the greatest
force and weight impressed himself masterfully both as mystic and politician upon the
mundane affairs of his contemporaries and pointed the way beyond time and all things
temporal to a blessed and divine state as the final goal of human life. He must have made a profound impression upon
the men among whom he lived,60 though he disappeared from their midst like a comet, and left no
permanent traces of his presence behind him. Many legends still witness to the
astonishment that his appearance among men provoked, more especially those legends that in
varying form related his end.61 They are all expressions of the same belief: that he, as his own
verses had foretold, in his departure did not have to suffer death; he had vanished,
“translated” body and soul together to an everlasting divine life, as once Menelaos had
been and so many great figures of the ancient days, and even a few Heroes of more recent
times.62 Once more
the ancient conception shows in this story that it still lives on: immortal life can only
be obtained by undissolved union of the psyche with its body. Such a legend hardly did
justice to Empedokles’ own idea. When he claimed to be a god who would never die he
certainly did not mean that his psyche would remain for ever bound to his body. On the
contrary, he thought that in “death”, as men63 call it, it would be freed from this last
corporeal envelope64
and never again have to enter into a body, but would live for ever in freedom and
divinity. His conception of the conscious after-life of the psyche was as different as it
was possible for it to be from the Homeric conception on which that translation legend was
based.
Empedokles united in his own person to an astonishing degree the most sober attempts at
a study of nature that was scientific according to its lights, and quite irrational
beliefs and theological speculations. Occasionally the scientific impulse passes over to
influence even the world of his beliefs;65 but as a rule theology and natural science exist side by side in
his mind quite independently. As a physiologist he inherited the already extensive and
variously developed stock of ideas belonging to the older generations of inquirers and
thinkers. He himself was able to unite conceptions derived from the most different sources
into an original whole that satisfied himself at least. Becoming and passing-away, all
qualitative change, were denied by him as by the Eleatics, but the permanent substance of
Being is for him no single indivisible unity. There are four “roots” of things, the four
bodies of elements, which in this division are for the first time clearly distinguished.
It is the mixture and separation of the essentially indivisible elements that cause the
appearance of becoming and perishing; and those two processes are caused by the two
forces—clearly distinguished from the elements—of attraction and repulsion,
Love and Hate, which in the creative
process struggle and in turn overmaster each other until at last, in the final victory of
one of the two forces, all things are either united or divided; in either case an organic
world ceases to exist. The present state of the universe is one in which “Love”, the
tendency to amalgamation of differences, is prevailing; when this tendency is completed,
there will be an absolute levelling-out of all distinction; a result which Empedokles, a
quietist in his scientific studies as well, regards as the most desirable end.
In this world, then, that experiences only mechanical movement and change, and from
whose evolution Empedokles by an ingenious turn is able to exclude all idea of purpose,
there are also to be found souls; or rather psychical powers which grow up entirely within
it. Sense-perception is expressly distinguished from the capacity of thought by
Empedokles.66 The
former takes place when each of the elements, from the mixture of which the perceiving
being has its origin, comes into contact with, and so becomes aware of, the same elements
in the object perceived, through the “passages” that connect the interior of the body with
the exterior.67
“Thinking” has its seat in the heart’s blood, where the elements and their powers are
mixed most equally. Or rather this blood actually is thinking and the power of
thought;68 the
material substance and its vital functions thus also for Empedokles completely coincide.
Plainly, nothing in the nature of a permanent substantial “soul” is here intended by the
thinking-power of the “mind”, but rather a capacity of bringing together and unifying the
individual sense-activities;69 a capacity no less than the individual powers of sensation bound
up with the elements, the senses, and the body.70 With the varying constitution of the
body, they too vary.71 Both capacities, that of sense-perception, and that of thought,
as vital expressions of the matter that is combined together in the organic creature, are
present in all organisms; in men, in beasts, and even in plants.72
If we give the name of “soul”73 to the sum of these psychical powers—a name generally
reserved for the common permanent substratum of the changing psychical activities—we
cannot avoid concluding, in accordance with the logic of this philosopher, that the “soul”
must be perishable. With the death and destruction of the individual the elementary parts
that go to compose him are disunited, and the soul which in this case is nothing but the
highest resultant of that composition, must itself disappear with their
dissolution—as it had come into being with their union.74
It might seem as if Empedokles himself was as far as possible removed from drawing such
conclusions from his own premises. No one speaks more distinctly and forcibly of the
spiritual, individual beings that dwell in men and in other creatures of nature as well.
They are regarded by him as Daimones fallen to the corporeal world, who have to pass
through many different forms of life till they may at last hope for release.
In the introduction to his poem on Nature, he describes, from his own experience, and
the information of the Daimones who had once led his soul down to this earthly Vale of
Grief,75 how by an
ancient decree of the gods and the compulsion of Necessity, every daimon that has
“polluted” itself by drinking the blood or eating the flesh of living beings,76 or has broken its
oath,77 is banished
for a long period78
from the company of the blessed. It is thrust down to the “Meadow of Disaster”, into the
realm of contradiction,79 the cave of misery upon this earth, and must now wander through
many “painful ways of life”80 in changing incarnations. “Thus, I myself was once a boy and also
a maiden, a bush, a bird, and a voiceless fish in the salty flood” (ll. 11, 12 =
fr. 117). This daimon that in expiation of its crime must wander through the forms
of men, beasts, and even plants, is evidently no other than what popular speech and that
of theologians as well called the “psyche”, the soul-spirit.81 In all essentials though perhaps in
clearer language, Empedokles merely repeated82 what the adherents of the doctrine of
Transmigration had long told of its divine origin, its fall and penal banishment in
earthly bodies. So, too, when as teacher of the means that bring salvation, he tells how
more gracious forms and conditions of life may be obtained in the series of births, till
at last complete release from rebirth is achieved,83 Empedokles follows in the footsteps of
the purification-priests and theologi of old. It is a matter of keeping the daimon
within us free from the pollutions that bind it fast to the earthly life. To this end the
methods of religious purification are most efficacious; Empedokles respects them quite as
much as did the old Kathartai. It is necessary to keep the internal daimon far
removed from every kind of “sin”,84 more particularly from the drinking of blood and the eating of
meat which must necessarily involve the murder of kinsmen daimones which are dwelling in
the slaughtered beasts.85 By purification and asceticism (which here again dispenses with a
positive form of morality aimed at reforming the man) a gradual process to purer and
better births is achieved;86 in the end the persons thus reborn in a purified condition become seers, poets, doctors, and are the
leaders of mankind.87 Finally, when they have emerged superior even to these highest
steps of earthly life, they return to the other immortals, and become themselves gods
released from human misery, escaping death, and now indestructible.88 Empedokles regard himself as one who has
reached the last stage,89 and points out to others the way up to it.
Between what Empedokles the mystic here tells us of the soul that was once living its
divine life, but has since been plunged into the world of the elements, though it is not
for ever bound to them; and what Empedokles the physiologist teaches of the psychical
powers that dwell in the elements and are bound to the body that is composed of the
elements and perish with their dissolution, there seems to be a hopeless contradiction.
And yet if we are to grasp the whole truth of what Empedokles means, we must neither leave
on one side half of what he says,90 nor yet by well-meaning interpretation seek to bring the
philosopher into harmony with himself,91 when he clearly speaks with two different voices. The two voices
say different things, and yet in the mind of Empedokles, there is no contradiction in what
they say, for they are dealing with totally distinct objects. The psychical powers and
faculties of feeling and perception which are functions of matter, born in matter, and
determined by it, together with the thinking faculty that is no other than the heart’s
blood of men—these neither make up the character and content of that soul-spirit
which dwells in men, beasts, and flowers, nor are they expressions of its activity. They
are entirely bound up with the elements and their combination, and in man they are joined
to the body and its organs; they are the powers and faculties of this body, and not of a
special and invisible entity, the soul. The soul-daimon is not made out of the elements,
nor is it for ever chained to them. It enters as a stranger into this world in which the
only permanent component parts are92 the four elements, and the two forces of Love and Hate; and it
enters it from another world, the world of gods and spirits, to its detriment; the
elements cast it about from one to another “and they all hate it” (fr. 115, 12, l.
35 M.). This living soul, with its independent existence, that thus enters into foreign
and hostile surroundings, only enters into such earthly creatures as already possess
senses, feeling and perception, together with reason or the faculty of thinking, the
crowning manifestation of their material union. It is, however, as little identical with
these psychical faculties as it is with the mixture of elementary matter or, in the case of men, with the heart’s blood. It
exists, unmixed and incapable of mixture, alongside the body and its faculties
which indeed only have life—“what men call life”—(fr. 15, 2, l. 117 M.)
when united with it. When they are separated from it they fall into dissolution; not so
the soul, which continues its journey and visits other dwelling places, and does not share
in their dissolution.
This peculiar dualistic doctrine reflects the two sides of Empedokles’ own mental
activity. He probably intended in this way to unite the views of both the physiologists
and the theologians. To the Greeks, such a twofold division of the inner life may have
seemed less surprising than it does to us. The conception of a “soul” that as an
independent, unique, and self-contained spiritual being dwells within the body, while the
body does not receive its intellectual faculties of perceiving, feeling, willing and
thinking from the soul, but exercises these by its own power—this conception agrees
at bottom with the ideas of popular psychology that are as a rule described or implied in
the Homeric poems.93
The only difference is that these ideas of poet and populace are elaborated and defined by
the speculations of theologians and philosophers. How deeply impressed upon the Greek mind
such conceptions, derived eventually from Homer, actually were, can be measured by the
fact that a conception of the twofold origin of psychic activity, its twofold nature and
sphere of action, closely related to that of Empedokles, is continually recurring in more
advanced stages of philosophy. It occurs not merely in Plato, but even in Aristotle, who
in addition to the “soul” that directs and expresses itself in the physico-organic nature
of man, recognizes another being of divine descent that enters into man “from without”,
the “mind” (νοῦς) which is separable both from
the soul and from the body, and is alone destined to survive the death of the man to which
it was assigned.94
In the doctrine of Empedokles, too, it is a stranger-guest from the distant land of gods
that enters into man to give him a soul. This being is indeed far below the “mind” of
Aristotle in philosophic importance; nevertheless, in the introduction of this Stranger
into the world composed of the elements and vital faculties, a sense of the absolute
uniqueness of spirit, its unlikeness to everything material, its essential distinctness
from matter, finds expression, if only in a limited theological fashion.
In the light of such theological considerations, the soul seems also to Empedokles
something essentially distinct from its prototype, the Homeric psyche, which after its
separation from the body passes to
the twilight of a shadowy dream-life. To him, the soul is of divine race, too noble for
this world of visibility, and only when it escapes from this world does it seem to him to
begin its real and full life. Though confined within the body, it has its separate
existence there; it has no concern with the everyday business of perception and
sensation—not even with that of thinking, which is nothing else but the heart’s
blood. But it is active in the “higher” mode of knowledge, in ecstatic inspiration;95 to it alone belongs
the profound insight of the philosopher who is enabled to pass beyond the limits of mere
experience and sense-perception, and behold the totality of the universe in its true
nature.96 To it
alone apply all the requirements of ethical and religious systems—duties in this
higher sense belong only to the soul; it is something in the nature of a “conscience”. Its
highest duty is to free itself from the unhallowed union with the body, and the elements
of this world; the rules of purification and asceticism refer solely to it.
Between this soul-daimon that yearns after its divine home, and the world of the
elements, there exists no inward bond or necessary connexion. And yet, since they have
become implicated in each other’s existence, a certain parallelism exists between them in
character and destiny. In the mechanically moved world, too, the separate and particular
phenomena tend back again towards their starting point, the inwardly coherent Unity from
which they once took their origin. A day will come when, after all struggle has been done
away, “Love” alone will have absolute rule; and this means for the poet—who in his
description even of this world of mechanical attraction and repulsion interpolates
half-realized ethical concepts97—a state of absolute goodness and happiness. If there is no
longer any world, then, until another one is created, no soul-daimon can be bound any more
to the individual organisms of a world. Have they then all returned to the blessed
communion of the immortal gods? It appears that not even the gods and daimones (and so not
the spirits enclosed in world as “souls”) are regarded by Empedokles as having everlasting
life. “Long-living” is the name he repeatedly applies to them; he never distinctly
ascribes eternal life to them.98 They, too, shall for a period enjoy “the happiness of profoundest
peace” until, just as the elements and forces are drawn into the unity of the Sphairos,
they, too, come together in the unity of the godlike Universal Mind, thence at a new
world-creation to appear once more as individual separate being.99
Empedokles took a fully developed “hylozoic” system (which in itself, with its
introduction of the motive forces of Conflict and Love, already betrayed a latent dualism)
and attempted to combine with it an extreme form of spiritualist teaching. His attempt
illustrates very clearly the observation that a philosophic science of nature in itself
could never lead to the establishment of the axiom that the individual “soul” after its
separation from the body continues to exist, still less that it is indestructible. Any one
who still felt it necessary to assert that axiom could find support for it only by
allowing physiology to be either overwhelmed by theological speculation, or else
supplemented by it in the manner attempted by Empedokles.
Such an attempt to reconcile the irreconcilable can have found few adherents among
those who were accessible to scientific ideas, nor was it likely to tempt the
physiological philosophy from the path which it had hitherto followed. Soon after
Empedokles, and in essentials hardly influenced by him, Anaxagoras and Demokritos
developed those doctrinal systems which were the last products of the independent
speculation of Ionia. Demokritos was the founder and completer of the atomic doctrine
according to which there exist “in reality” only the indivisible, minutest material
bodies—which, while qualitatively indistinguishable, yet differ in shape, position,
and arrangement in space as well as in bulk and weight—and empty space. He was
obliged to seek for the “soul” (which to the materialist may easily present
itself as being a separate, substantial, self-existent thing) among those minutest bodies
out of which the whole fabric of the world of appearance is built up. The soul is that
which confers movement upon the inherently motionless collections of bodies. It is
composed of the round and smooth atoms which, in the universal condition of unrest that
keeps all the atoms in agitation, are the most easily moved, for they offer least
resistance to change of position, and can most easily penetrate others. These atoms
compose fire and the soul. It is the soul-atom—one being inserted between every two
of the other atoms100—which gives these their movement; and it is from all the
soul-atoms uniformly disposed throughout the whole body that the body gets its movement,
whence also (though it must be admitted in an unintelligible manner) comes the power of
perception, which equally depends on movement, and the thought arising thence, of this
same body. During the life-time of
the individual body, the continuance of the soul-atoms is secured by the breathing which
continually replaces the smooth soul-particles that are as continually being expelled from
the whole atom-complex by the pressure of the surrounding atmosphere. The breathing is
always drawing in fresh soul-stuff from the air which is full of floating soul-atoms, and
supplies it to the body. A time comes, however, when the breathing refuses this function,
and death occurs, which is simply the insufficient supply of these moving and animating
atoms.101 With the
coming of death, there is an end to the union of the atoms, whose amalgamation had formed
the particular living organism. Neither the soul-atoms nor any of the other atoms are
destroyed; they do not alter in kind; but from the loose state of aggregation which even
in the living body hardly amounted to an absolute unity to which a single common name
could be applied—from this they now escape entirely. It is scarcely possible to see
how, on this view of what essentially constitutes mental and vital phenomena, as a mere
resultant of the separate and individual activities of individual and disconnected bodies,
the unity of the living organism and the spiritual entity could ever come into being. It
is even more evident that a unified “soul” could not possibly continue to exist after the
dissolution which takes place at death of the atoms that in their union made up the
organism. And, in fact, the soul-atoms disperse;102 they return whence they came into the
restless mass of world-stuff. The human individual, in this view of the case, perishes in
death entirely.103
The materials out of which he was shaped and composed are indestructible, and reserved for
future construction; but his personality—the invisible personality, the “soul”, just
as much as the visible—has but a single existence strictly limited to its one
appearance in time. The continued existence of the soul after death, an immortality in
whatever manner the thing may be conceived, is here for the first time in the history of
Greek thought, expressly denied. The Atomist, with the candid precision that distinguishes
him, draws the necessary consequences of his premises.
Anaxagoras strikes out a path almost directly opposed to this materialist doctrine. As
the first decisive and conscious dualist among Greek philosophers, he takes the material
substratum of being, the inexhaustible many of distinctly characterized and distinctly
separate “Seeds” of things—which are nevertheless indistinguishably intermingled
with each other—and sets over against them a force which he obviously did not mean to derive from them, to which he gives
a name usually attached to the faculty of thought in man, and which in any case he thought
of as analogous to that faculty.104 This “Mind”, simple, unmixed and unchangeable, is given such
titles and adjectives that it is impossible to mistake the effort of Anaxagoras to think
of it as something distinct from everything material, and in fact, absolutely immaterial
and incorporeal.105 It is at once power of thought and force of will; at the
creation of the world it gives the first circular impulse to the intrinsically motionless
lump of matter; the creation of distinct forms in accordance with a conscious purpose is
begun by it—though the carrying out of this purpose is indeed to be completed in
accordance with pure mechanical laws without the interference of “Mind”. This “Mind” that
plans and orders but does not make the world, that with the conscious insight of its
omniscient wisdom106 influences matter without being influenced in turn, that moves
without being moved;107 set over against the multiplicity of things as an indivisible
unity,108 “having
nothing in common with anything outside itself”109 but entirely self-contained110—how shall
we conceive of it otherwise than as an almost personified, transcendent divine power
confronting the world of matter as something foreign to it, ruling the world from without
by magical, not mechanical, means?
But this transcendent is also completely immanent. Wherever in this world life and independent
movement are found, there, too, the mind as the source of life and movement must be
active. “Mind rules all that has soul” says Anaxagoras.111 In saying this he has not indeed
asserted the presence of “Mind” within the animated being nor yet identity of nature as
between soul and mind. But when we hear that Mind “goes through all things,112 that in
everything there is a part of all things, except of mind, and in some things of mind
also”,113 that
must imply the penetration of many associations of matter by mind (hardly any longer to be
thought of as immaterial) whereby the previously asserted transcendency of mind seems to
be given up. At any rate, as such associations in which is “Mind”, living and animated
beings are regarded. It is in them that “Mind” is present in continual, equal
creativeness, though in different degrees;114 indeed, Mind is or constitutes that
very thing that we call the “soul” of a living being.115 Among these living beings, which exist
upon the moon,116
as well as on earth, are not only men and beasts, but also plants.117 In all these “Mind” is active; without
losing any of its purity or unity, it is mixed with them.118 How we are to conceive the omnipotent Mind, whose oneness and
self-containedness has been so emphatically asserted, as nevertheless entering
simultaneously into the infinity of individual being—that certainly remains obscure.
It is clear, however, that having thus derived all animated being from the single
World-Mind, Anaxagoras could not speak of the continued existence of individual,
self-existent “souls” after the dissolution of the material concretions in which moving
and animating “soul-force” had once lived. The view is definitely ascribed to him that
separation from the body is also “the soul’s death”.119 Nothing, indeed, of the component parts
that belong to the whole perishes, and no change in its nature takes place. So “Mind”,
whose manifestations the “souls” were, maintains itself unaltered and undiminished; but
after the dissolution of the united, which “the Hellenes” regard as its destruction,120 though the
component parts of the individual remain, yet not that particular mixture in
which the peculiarity of the individual was inherent—“Mind” remains, but not the
soul . . .
Thus, the first distinct separation of the intellectual thinking principle from the
material substance with which it was—not fused, much less identified,
but—contrasted in sovereignty and independence, did not lead to the recognition of
the indestructibility of the individual spirit.
Shall we say that the mental, self-moved, life-giving principle, whether set over
against the material and corporeal or indivisibly united with it, is for the physiologist
always something universal—that the essentially real is impersonal? For him the
individual, the personality conscious of itself and of the outer world, can be nothing but
a manifestation of the universal, whether the latter is regarded as fixed and at rest, or
as a living process that untiringly develops itself, recruits itself, and reconstructs
itself in ever renewed creations. The only permanent, unchanging reality is the universal,
the essential and fundamentally real Nature which appears in all individual things, speaks
out of their mouth, and, in reality, only works and lives in them. The individual human
soul has its indestructibility only in its identity with the universal that represents
itself in it. The individual forms of “appearance”, having no independence of their own,
cannot permanently abide.
The view that imperishable life belongs to the individual soul could only be reached by
a line of thought that took as a fact and held fast to it as something given that the
individual spirit is a reality. (Its appearance and disappearance in the midst of the one universe was indeed for
the physiologists the true miracle, the problem never satisfactorily solved.) Such a
belief in individuality, the belief in an independently existent individual substance that
had never had a beginning and could therefore never have an end, was the contribution,
however fancifully it might be expressed, of the theologians and the mystics. For them
immortality, the power of substantive duration unlimited by time, was extended also to
include the individual. The individual soul is for them a self-existent, individual,
divine being, indestructible because it is divine.
Greek philosophy underwent many changes in the course of its speculations during the
following ages; but exactly in proportion as it, to a greater or lesser degree, accepted
theological elements or on the other hand rejected such elements, did it give fundamental
support to the view of the soul’s immortality, or grudgingly admit it, or absolutely
reject it.
CHAPTER XII T HE L AY A UTHORS — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — § 5 — § 6 — NOTES TO CHAPTER XII
Theology and Philosophy, each in its own way attempting to go beyond inadequate popular
belief, could only very gradually transcend the limits of those narrow communities within
which their influence was first felt and reach the circles in which that popular belief
held sway. During the earliest successes of the theological and philosophical spirit
hardly a voice was raised that might have suggested that the belief in the imperishability
and divine nature of the human Soul, of the inherence of all things spiritual in one
imperishable, fundamental substance, might become something more than a mystery known to
the wise and illuminated, and enter into the convictions of the people and the unlearned.
“After the death of the body, the Image of Life remains alive; for that alone is descended
from the gods”—such is the announcement of Pindar. But for all the confidence with
which, as though anticipating no contradiction, he here proclaims the view of the soul’s
immortality and bases it upon its divine nature, such an opinion can at that time have
been no more than the persuasion of isolated communities formed and instructed in that
particular doctrine. It cannot be merely accidental,1 that in the fragments which have come down
to us of the lyric and semi-lyric (elegiac and iambic) poetry—poetry intended for a
wide and unspecialized public and expressing feelings and ideas in language that all could
understand—hardly a trace appears of that enhanced conception of the worth and
nature of the Soul. Reflexion does not linger over such dark subjects; whenever they are
illuminated for a passing moment, we discern the outlines of those figures from the spirit
world just as the Homeric imagination had given them shape.
Life and light are only to be found in this world;2 Death, to which we are all “owing”,3 leads the soul into a
realm of nothingness.4
Inarticulate, voiceless, the dead man lies in the grave like a statue.5 Upon earth, and not in
any shadowy hereafter, is completed that judgment6 which divine Justice passes upon the
criminal himself, or upon his descendants in whom something of him still lives on. It is
the lack of such descendants that forms the bitterest pang, as he goes down to Hades, of
the man who passes childless out of this life.7
More distinctly and bitterly, in this age of advancing civilization and growing
sensibility, sounds the wail over the pain and affliction of life, the obscurity of its
ways, and the uncertainty of its outcome.8 Silenos, the prophetic wood-spirit, so went the ancient legend,
when captured by King Midas in his rose-gardens at Bermios earned his release with the
judgment of melancholy wisdom that the Greek was never tired of repeating in ever-varying
forms—not to be born is the best thing for men, but having been born, let him pray
that he may return as soon as possible to the kingdom of Night,9 and of Hades.10 The cheerful enjoyment of life is no
longer so sure of itself as once it had been in the days of its naïve confidence: and yet
there is no substitute attempted, no compensatory hereafter in a next world of justice and
untroubled happiness. We rather hear the opinion expressed that rest is the greatest of
all earthly blessings; and rest is brought by Death. Nevertheless there is little demand
for consolation; a robust and virile sense of life that can put up with whatever may
befall of evil or hardship in healthy indifference, is in the air, and speaks to us from
many a page of this poetic legacy with unpretending veracity. No attempt is made to smooth
over the hardship and cruelty of life. Man’s power is small, his efforts go unrewarded,
one necessity after another besets his short life: over all alike hangs the shadow of
inevitable death. All things come at last to the awful chasm—the bravest virtue and
the highest authority in the world.11 Yet life is good and death an evil; else, why do the blessed gods
not die? asks Sappho12 with feminine naiveté; though indeed, her life’s path had lain
through the deepest valley of the shadow. Even the dead man, if he wishes to be preserved
from utter nothingness, must depend upon the world of the living as the only place of
reality; the fame of his virtues and his deeds is all that outlasts his death.13 Perhaps some dim
perception of that fame reaches even to the dead.14 They themselves are for the living as
though they had passed into nothingness; we should not, thinks a poet, give them another
thought after we have buried them.15
Here even the time-honoured conventions associated with the cult of souls seem to be
perversely cast aside. In general, the poet with his wide-ranging observation of mankind
had small occasion to be reminded of the cult of the soul that the narrow circles of
family or city offered to their dead, or of the conceptions thereby encouraged of the
continued life enjoyed by the departed. The omission is supplied by the Orators of the
fifth and fourth centuries and by what they say—and do not say—of the state of things hereafter. The greatest
period of lyric poetry was by that time already fading into the past, and yet whoever
wished in speaking before a citizen assembly to meet with general agreement and
understanding was still obliged to refrain from speaking of the blessed immortality, the
eternity and divinity of the soul. The Orators16 never pass beyond the conceptions of the
survival, power, and rights of the souls of the departed which were called forth and
maintained in existence by the cult of the soul. The continued existence of the souls in
the next world is not called in question; but the opinion that the souls still preserve
their consciousness and have any knowledge of what happens on this earth is only expressed
with the most cautious avoidance of definiteness.17 What—apart from the sacrificial
offerings of their relatives—still binds the dead to the life upon earth, is little
more than the fame accorded to them among the living.18 Even in the elevated language of solemn
funeral orations the consolations offered to the survivors omit all mention of any
enhanced state of being, any thought of immortal life in fully-conscious blessedness, that
might belong now to the glorious departed.19 Such high visions and hopes for the future were still, it
appears, as little necessary or demanded for the comfort of the people as they had been in
the times of the great wars of liberty.20 The beloved dead who had given their lives for their country in
those wars, as well as many others of the time whom death had overtaken, were the
recipients of the epitaphs composed by Simonides the master of brilliant and condensed
inscriptions. Nevertheless, not once does he vouchsafe a word that might point forward to
a land of blessed immortality for the departed. There is a vestige of life still remaining
for the dead—but it is in this world; the memory of the living and their own great
name honoured by after generations is all that can prolong their existence.
It seems like an echo from another world when (about the middle of the fifth century)
Melanippides the dithyrambic poet addresses a god in the words: “Hear me Father, marvel of
all mortal men, Thou that rulest over the everliving Souls.” The words must be
addressed to Dionysos;21 for such as entered into the magic circle of his nightly festival
those visions of the imperishability of the human soul and its divine power acquired
reality. Such wisdom received but partial assent from those who lived unaffected by the
conceptions of isolated sects of the theologically or philosophically minded.
A peculiar position is taken up by Pindar. Two contrasted views of the nature, origin,
and destiny of the soul seem to be combined in his mind with equal claim to authority.
In the Victory Odes allusions predominate which imply an agreement with the popular
view expressed in the sayings of poets and the presuppositions of the cult of souls and
the worship of Heroes. After its separation from the body, the soul disappears into the
underworld.22 The
piety and affectionate memory of relatives and descendants remains as a link between the
dead and the living;23 whether the soul itself is still conscious of any connexion with
the world of the living seems uncertain.24 Its power is over and done with—it is certainly no
condition of blessed happiness into which it has entered. Only the glorious name, the fame
that is honoured in song, rewards the great deeds of the virtuous after death.25
An exalted state of being, after their departure from this earth, is attributed to the
Heroes alone. The belief in the existence, importance, and power of these
illuminated spirits holds complete sway;26 it emerges in lively reality from the words and narrations of the
poet throughout all his work. Moreover, the ancient conception—in reality rendered
untenable by the belief in Heroes—that only with the undivided union of body and
soul is complete life imaginable, is discernible in many allusions and stories of
Translation that imply that conception. Amphiaraos, the most illustrious of those who have
been translated to everlasting life, is specially dear to the heart of the Theban poet,
and is glorified more than once in the language of unaffected faith in such miracles.27 But, further, even
when death has occurred in the meantime, elevation to a higher life remains
possible—even beyond the heights of the “Hero”. Semele lives for ever, though she
died under the crash of the thunder-bolt.28 The barrier between men and gods is not insuperable; we can
distantly approach the immortals not only in greatness of mind, but in bodily vigour.29 One mother gave
birth to both races, though the gulf between them is indeed a deep one; man is
nought—a shadow’s dream-image; for the gods the brazen heavens remain for ever as an
unconquerable stronghold.30 Only a miracle of divine interference with the lawful and normal
course of nature, can raise the individual soul to the everlasting life of the gods and
Heroes.
Such visions as these could be indulged in by one who still kept his feet firmly fixed upon the ground of popular belief.
And yet side by side with them in Pindar’s works are to be found descriptions of quite
another order in which is expressed, with elaborate fullness and dogmatic exactitude, a
complete doctrine of the nature, destiny, and fate of the soul; passages in which, in
spite of some little poetic licence in detail, a well ordered and, in the main, consistent
whole is pictured.
The Soul, the “Image of Life”, the other Self of the living and visible man, sleeps
while the limbs of man are active; when the individual is asleep it shows him
dream-visions of the future.31 This psyche32 which during the waking and conscious hours of the man is itself
lying in the darkness of unconsciousness, is far from being the totality of mental powers
gathered together in a single creature, or at any rate, in a single concept, such as the
philosophers as well as the everyday use of the word at that period understood by the name
“psyche”. Here, again, the name once more denotes the double of mankind dwelling within
the living man such as it was known to primeval popular belief and to the Homeric poems. A
theological meaning has, however, been added to it. This “Image” of man, we are told, “is
alone descended from the gods,” and with this the reason also is discovered why
the soul-image alone after the destruction of the body by death remains alive.33
Derived from the gods and therefore eternally exempt from destruction, everlasting and
immortal, the soul is none the less condemned to finiteness; it dwells within the mortal
body of man. This is the result of the “ancient guilt” of which, quite in the manner of
theological poetry, Pindar also speaks.34 After the death of the body it is to await in Hades the stern
sentence that “One” shall pronounce over its earthly deeds.35 For the condemned there is in store
“affliction past beholding”36 in deep Tartaros, “where the slow rivers of murky night spit out
endless darkness,” and forgetfulness encloses the victims.37 The just enter into the subterranean
places of bliss where the sun gives them light when he has set upon earth.38 In flowery meadows
they enjoy an existence of resplendent idleness, such as only the Greek imagination,
nourished amid the artistic surroundings of Greek life, could describe without falling
into emptiness and futility.
But the soul has not even so found its last resting place. It must again give life to a
body and not until it has completed upon earth a third faultless life can it hope for an
end of its earthly course of being.39 The conditions of each new life upon earth depend upon the degree of purity that the soul has
achieved in its previous lifetimes. When at last the Queen of the Underworld considers
that its “ancient guilt” has been atoned for, she sends forth the souls after the ninth
year40 of their last
sojourn in Hades once more to live in the upper world, this time in happiness. Here they
pass through one more lifetime as kings, mighty men of valour, and Wise Men.41 Then at last they
escape from the necessity of earthly rebirth. As “Heroes” they are honoured among men;42 and they have
therefore entered into a state of higher being which the popular belief of Pindar’s time
ascribed not only to the souls of the great ancestral figures of the past, but also to
many who had departed hence in more recent times after a life of valour and service.43 Now they are beyond
the reach of Hades as much as of the world of men. Faith seeks them in “Islands of the
Blest” far out in Okeanos; thither, to the “Citadel of Kronos” they travel on the “Way of
Zeus”44 and enjoy,
in company with the great ones of the past, under the protection of Kronos45 and his assessor
Rhadamanthys, a life of bliss for ever undisturbed.
Such conceptions of the origin, fortunes, and ultimate destiny of the soul, the more
they diverge from commonly held opinions, the more certainly must they be regarded as
being part of the private and real persuasion of the poet himself. The poet, who on other
occasions when he makes passing and casual reference to the things of the next world
accommodates himself to the traditional view, gives himself up willingly to such hopes and
aspirations where the circumstances of his song provided an opportunity of dealing at
length with such matters—especially in hymns of mourning for the dead. He may have
paid attention in such poems to the special opinions of those who were to be the first
hearers of his song. Theron, the ruler of Akragas, to whom was dedicated the second
Olympian Ode of Victory that deals so fully with the hope of bliss to come, was an old man
whose thoughts might well be occupied with the life after death.46 In this case, therefore, we may presume
perhaps the special interest of the person whose praises are sung in these reflections
that lead so far away from the commonly accepted view of the Soul.47 But that Pindar, proud and self-willed,
conscious of specific knowledge and proud of that consciousness, should have given
expression to strange doctrine so foreign to popular ideas simply out of complaisance to
another’s will, and in subservience to another man’s belief—that is quite
unthinkable. It is rather the substance of what he believes himself and has achieved by his own struggles that
in a solemn hour he reveals for a moment to like-minded friends.
The different elements out of which Pindar has composed his special view are not hard
to distinguish. He is following theological doctrine in what he tells of the divine origin
of the soul, its wanderings through several bodies, the judgment in Hades, the special
place assigned to the just, and that of the wicked. But it is layman’s theology that he is
propounding; it does not bind itself to a single unalterable formula, and betrays
throughout that its exponent is a poet. Pindar, throughout the whole of his poetic
activity, combines the office of singer with that of professional teacher, more especially
where he has to speak of the things of an invisible divine world. But for all his didactic
professionalism he remains the poet, for whom as depository and trustee of the Myth it is
out of the question to abandon the traditional, whether in legend or belief. His task is
to keep pure what has been handed down to him, to make it more profound, perhaps to
supplement and complete it, but with all this to justify it. Thus, poetic legend and
popular belief enter even into his theologian’s doctrine of the Soul; the Islands of the
Blest, the elevation of man to Hero—these were things he could not give up.
From what particular direction Pindar’s theological interests may have come to him we
cannot say with precision or certainty. Orphic as well as Pythagorean doctrines may have
come to his notice in Sicily whither he made repeated visits after 477 B.C.48 For both sects this country was the original nursery and breeding
ground.
There, too, the poet may perhaps have (even at that date) met with certain varieties of
the Orphic mystical doctrine which, like his own views, were intermingled with elements
taken from conventional mythology. Examples of this type of Orphic mysticism allied with
foreign elements are the verses which, inscribed upon gold tablets, were found not long
ago in graves near the ancient Sybaris.49 Three of these poems begin with phrases that are common to them
all, and imply the same underlying conceptions; after that they part company and represent
two different views. The soul of the dead person50 thus addresses itself to the Queen of the
lower world, and the other gods of the depths below: “I draw near to you purified and born
of pure parents.”51
It belongs then to a mortal who, like his parents before him, has been “purified” in the
sacred mysteries of a religious association.52 It claims also to be descended from the
blessed race of the deities of the lower world.53 “Lightning robbed me of life,” so one of the versions goes on,54 “and so I escaped
from the Circle, the burdensome, the grievous”. In these words purely Orphic belief is
expressed: the Soul has now at last escaped entirely from the “Circle of Births”,55 and it enters as it
tells us “with speedy feet into the wished-for precinct”,56 and buries itself in the bosom of the
Queen of the Underworld.57 It is the latter, probably, who at the end greets the liberated
soul with the words: “Fortunate and to be called Blessed art thou; now shalt thou be,
instead of a mortal—a god.”
Much less exalted are the hopes expressed in the other two versions of the mystic
document—two versions that resemble each other in most essentials. Here the soul
asserts that it has done penance for unrighteous deeds; now it appears before the revered
Persephoneia to implore her graciously to send it to the dwelling places of the pure and
the holy.58
How are we to explain the discrepancy? It would indeed be possible to explain the more
restrained version as that of a sect whose members were less confident of their own divine
origin and of the necessary return of the soul at last to its enfranchised divine state.
It is much more probable, however—since in fact the presupposition of the divine
nature of the soul and its kinship with the divine is really made in both cases and with
the same words—that we here have to do with the beliefs of one and the same sect,
and that the varying heights of felicity aspired to correspond to different stages of the
process of redemption. He who through participation in the sacred mysteries has atoned for
the ancient guilt, can be admitted by the goddess into the paradise of the blest in the
midst of Hades. But he must still, in subsequent rebirths upon earth first complete the
cycle before he can be fully released from rebirth and become once more what he was at the
beginning, entirely a god. The dead man of the first tablet has reached the final goal of
his pilgrimage; the other two have only reached an intermediate resting place.59 Another inscription,
found in a grave of the same neighbourhood,60 by its use of a mystic formula61 appended also to the first version of the
above-mentioned poems, reveals itself as an expression of faith deriving from the same
sect. Among a variety of disconnected instructions and appeals to the dead,62 strung together with
no particular arrangement, it contains the following statement: “a god hast thou
become instead of a mortal”. This then always remained the crowning point of the salvation
promised by the sect.
In the cult and beliefs of this sect which thus with divided voice speaks to us in
these verses, the worship of the ancient Greek divinities of the Underworld (among whom
Dionysos is not this time included) was fused with the boldest conception belonging to the
Dionysiac mysteries: the confident assurance that the divine nature of the soul must in
the end break through, purified and triumphant over the earthliness that obscured it.
Pindar in another, but not very different, way has brought the same elements into
conjunction. One would indeed like to be able to estimate the influence which his
doctrine, which lay so close to his own heart, may have exercised on the hearers and
readers of his poems. He was at once something more and something less than a theological
teacher. Never again among the Greeks did the blessed life of the sanctified soul receive
such majestic expression, clothed in such ample and resplendent diction, as that which
poured so freely from the heart of this richly gifted poet. But though the poet may have
touched the heart of his hearer and tempted his imagination to stray along the path laid
out for him, yet it cannot have been easy (and perhaps the greatness of the poet’s triumph
almost made it harder) permanently to mistake the magic gleam of poetry for the sunlight
of reality. One may doubt whether the poems in which Pindar recounted his dreams of future
blessedness can have found many hearers in whom they awakened not merely æsthetic
satisfaction, but belief in the literal truth of the teaching, in the reality of those
beautiful, dim, haloed figures.
But perhaps by the expression of such doubts we do less than justice to the influence
which a Greek poet might exercise upon the minds and dispositions of his hearers. Greek
popular opinion was very much inclined to place the poet on a pedestal to which his modern
representative would hardly care to aspire, and to which at any rate he could never
attain. The purely artistic value and importance of a poem did not seem to be impaired by
the demand that it should at the same time instruct and edify. The poet was to be the
teacher of his people in an age when, in the conditions of Greek life, the people had no
other instructor. He was to be a teacher in the highest sense of all when, speaking in the
language of the most exalted poetry, he dealt with the doubts and certainties of religion
and the relationship between religion and morality. In these matters he could supplement
out of the wealth of his own
far-reaching reflection what was lacking in the public morality of the time through the
absence of an official, authoritative religious Book. By giving them intelligible and
memorable expression, together with greater cohesion and unity, he could strengthen the
foundations of the common stock of moral ideas that had been evolved in the course of
social and city life. He might also expand and give greater depth to the ideas of popular
morality, tempering them in the fire of his own more rigorous thought and interpreting and
refining them from the heights of a more elevated understanding of the divine. What he
thus gave back to the people stamped with the impress of his own very personal temperament
and outlook, no longer remained the casual opinion of a single individual, but took root
in suitably constituted minds and became for many a valued possession, an enduring
addition to their consciousness.
It was not until the rise in later times of a fully developed philosophy extending its
range of interpretation to the whole of life that poetry was deprived of its special
office of instructress to the aspiring minds among the people.63 Poetry had always been willing to
exercise this function, but never so decidedly or with such fully conscious purpose as in
the times of transition at the beginning of which Pindar lived—the transition from
an unsophisticated faith in the traditional view of all things visible and invisible to a
fresh stabilization of belief secured by, and resting upon, philosophic conviction. The
need felt for the readjustment or verification of the ancestral or traditional forms of
belief was vividly awakened, and it was still only poetry that could extend the light of
its teaching to illuminate the minds of whole classes of the population. The influence of
the poets must have increased in proportion as the numbers increased of those who were
ready to receive the special bounty which they were able to offer. But if the influence
wielded by Pindar, the Pan-Hellenic poet of the great Festivals, as the teacher of his
people was, as we have seen, considerable, a very wide field indeed for the propagation of
fruitful ideas lay open to the Attic tragedians in the huge concourse of the people which
flocked together to hear their creations—a multitude which seemed all the greater
for being confined within a narrower space. The poets themselves frequently allow it to be
seen how seriously they regarded themselves as the teachers of their public, and the
people admitted their claims. All men expected and demanded instruction from the word of
the poet—the highest instruction from the highest poetry.64 We shall not be much mistaken if we believe that the opinions and
reflections to which Aeschylus, Sophokles, and not least Euripides, gave utterance in
their tragic drama did not remain the sole property of those in whose minds they had first
arisen.
The Attic Tragedy of the fifth century must of its own accord, even if the conscious
purpose of the dramatists had not tended in the same direction, have developed into an
artistic product based on psychological interest. The real theatre of that drama must
inevitably have become the interior of its hero’s mind.
The tragic poet attempted something hitherto unknown. The characters and events of
ancient legend or history which had passed shadowlike before the minds of the hearers or
readers of all earlier poetry, at the mercy of those hearers’ own private and variously
limited imagination—these same events and characters were now to take form and body
and appear visibly before the eyes of all beholders alike in equal clearness. What had
hitherto seemed a dream-vision of the imagination now visibly presented itself to the eyes
of the beholder, unchanging, precise, independent of the limitations of intellect among
the audience, a concrete and self-moving object of waking perception. Thus reawakened to a
palpable and fully realized life, the myth was seen in a new light. What in it was mere
incident became subordinated to the personality of the man who plays his part in these
events before our eyes, and whose importance and content is not exhausted in the single
particular action. The old legend in becoming drama has undergone an extension both
spatial and temporal, and even in externals the plot that unfolds itself in a series of
momentary acts plays the least part in the story. The speeches and counter-speeches of the
hero and the other actors who take part in the story were bound to take up the greater
part of the time. Motives of action, expressed, debated and fought out in words, become
more important than their eventual outcome in passionate deed or mortal woe. With the
advance of artistic skill the intellect seeks to grasp the permanent outlines of the
character that in the given circumstances can be moved by particular motives to particular
acts. Thus, the complete materialization of the myth leads to its complete
spiritualization. The eyes and mind of the beholder are directed less to the external
events—these, being familiar from the ancient legend, could awaken little curiosity—and more to the inward meaning
and import of what the hero does and suffers.
And it was here that the dramatic poet was faced with his special and peculiar problem.
What was to happen in his drama was settled out of hand by the course of the ancient
legend (in a few cases by the course of historical events) and the lines along which his
invention must move were planned out for him in advance. To give life to the personages of
the drama, motivation and justification to the events of the drama—that was his
particular business. But in this he was thrown entirely upon his own resources. Even if he
could he was not permitted to derive the inner motive forces of the action from the real
modes of feeling and thinking that had belonged to the distant past in which the myth had
first been conceived. Such motives would have remained unintelligible to the audience, and
his play would have been stillborn. But on the other hand, how was he to make plausible
and intelligible to the vastly different mentality and changed feelings of the age in
which he lived actions which really sprang from the habits and moral ideas of a long since
vanished age? It is open to him (if he is not content to be a mere annalist simply
stringing together bare events) to take the actual incident given him by the mythical
legend and set over against it the actor in the story whose emotions are those of a modern
man, and upon whose shoulders the burden of the event is laid; he may represent this
opposition as beyond reconciliation, and so lead to the most simple and overwhelming of
tragic conflicts. This simple opposition of character and destiny which places both the
poet and his hero—another Hamlet—in a position of direct hostility to the
mythological background can, however, never become the rule. It is the business of the
poet as far as possible to assimilate and make his own the spirit that actually called
forth the dark and cruel legend of the past, while yet remaining true to the mode of
perception proper to his own time. He must manage to leave undisturbed the full primitive
sense of the mythical story and bring it about that by its marriage with the spirit of a
later age its meaning is not destroyed but deepened. He is committed to the search for an
adjustment between the mental attitudes of an older and a newer age.
Such an adjustment came most easily to Aeschylus and satisfied the needs of his
temperament. As one who had grown to manhood in the Athens of the period before the
Persian wars his own character had its roots in ancient and traditional modes of thought.
These he built up under the guiding
influence of his own special ways of thinking and feeling into a new and loftier whole: to
corroborate this whole, which appeared to him as a law of the moral world, by reference to
typical examples taken from mythology—examples chosen by him with deliberate care to
serve as subjects of his dramatic poetry—this was one of the chief aims of his art.
To the plot in its moral—nay, its religious—sense, all his thoughts are
directed; the characters of the actors themselves are only illuminated from the standpoint
of this special interest; their wider, independent existence outside the life of the drama
which completely envelops
them is not meant to draw attention to itself. He himself gives us the right, in studying
his plays, to leave out of sight for a moment the representational aspect of the
particular and the personal—all that in fact makes them essentially works of
art—in order to observe more closely the under-current of generalized belief which
we may reasonably call the ethic and theology of the poet.
Behind the living tissue of his artistic creation Aeschylus allows us to perceive
pretty clearly the firm outlines of his own ethical and religious convictions. He fuses
together elements prescribed to him from without with that which was dictated by his own
spirit. What is prescribed to him by legend—which he allows to run its full course,
in strictly dramatic form and by preference as a trilogy, a form in this case uniquely
adapted to the subject—is a history that deals with the continued operation of the
forces of evil and suffering upon several generations of a family, persisting from father
to son and from son to son’s son. The belief also in such interconnexion of human
destinies is prescribed to him from without. That the sins of the ancestors were visited
upon their descendants here upon earth was an ancient article of faith especially strong
in Attica.65 What
Aeschylus contributes on his part is the unswerving conviction that the son and grandson
of the sinner are punished for their own sin too. Suffering is punishment,66 and suffering would
not have overtaken Oedipus, nor the sons of Oedipus, if Laïos had been the only guilty
one—if their own sin had not deserved punishment.
And yet it does not lie within their power to choose whether the guilt shall be theirs
or not: they cannot escape the deed of sin. How, we may ask, can a guilty deed be
necessitated, imposed upon the guilty one by the decree of a higher power, and yet at the
same time the fault of the doer of the deed, as though he had acted of his own
free will? The question is a
perplexing and a formidable one, and it was by no means unnoticed by the poet. Behind the
external apparatus of myth he finds himself faced by the problem of the freedom or
determination of man’s will, which, as civilization and culture advance, feels itself
morally responsible for every decision. He finds a way out of the difficulty in the view
that it is not merely the deed of wickedness itself, but the conscious decision that leads
up to the deed that arises out of the family inheritance of crime. The conscious choice
and decision, though regarded as necessary, seemed to demonstrate fully the personal guilt
and responsibility of the doer.67 The cloud of evil that proceeds from the deed of the ancestor
casts a dark shadow also over the minds of his son and his son’s son. Not from his own
mind or character does the will to do wrong take its origin. The noble, pure and resolute
Eteokles, the model of intelligent manhood, the shield and protection of his people, falls
in a moment, a victim to ominous destiny; his clear-sighted spirit is darkened, he gives
himself up—his better self—for lost,68 and rushes upon his doom with awful
resolve. The “sins derived from his ancestors”69 drive him on. Then, and not till then, is
the full measure of penance at last paid for the crime done by the ancestor;70 his descendants are
his representatives, and become guilty on his behalf and then, for their own guilt as well
as his, they suffer retribution. Divinity, or a spirit of vengeance sent with a divine
mission, drives the victims burdened with the inheritance of crime to the criminal deed.
The divine guidance is actuated no longer, as in ancient and undying popular belief, by
personal desire of vengeance, anger or malice,71 but by divine justice, acting with “just
deceit”,72 that the
measure of guilt may be fulfilled, and that the divine will to justice may have a means to
complete satisfaction. The evil Spirit of the House assists Klytaimnestra to conceive the
thought of murdering her husband;73 God himself guides and urges forward Orestes to the act of
matricide which he plans and carries out with fully conscious purpose—a crime that
is also a duty. To the poet the old ideas of the duty of avenging murder are a very living
reality. The right to worship and cult possessed by the souls, their claim to vengeance
when they have been violently done to death, their ghostly influence exerted upon the life
and destinies of their immediate kinsfolk upon whom the duty of taking vengeance
rests—all these things are for him not the obsolete fancies of an older generation
but true and awful realities.74 Whole dramas, the Choephoroi and the Eumenides, for instance, would appear as a meaningless
beating of the air if they were not animated and made significant by unaltered faith in
the right and the might of the souls, the reality and potency of the daimonic counsel, the
Erinyes,75 who
appear on behalf of the murdered mother. And now at last light breaks through the dark and
clouded sky of awful imagination: where Duty and Crime have become inextricably confused,
divine grace, though yielding nothing of its rights, finds at last a solution.
All these things, however—conflict and solution, crime and its expiation in
ever-renewed crime and the suffering that arises thence—fulfil themselves in
this world. Guilt is avenged always upon earth. The “other” world is by no means
an indispensable link in this chain of conceptions and fancies; the poet’s view is rarely
turned in that direction. Speculation upon the state of the soul after death, upon a
blessed life in the kingdom of the spirits,76 does not interest him. Only such portions of the eschatological
imaginings of the theologians as might serve the purposes of moral inspiration or support,
found favour with the poet. There are occasional allusions to the judgment that, in Hades,
“another Zeus” holds over the deeds of earthly life,77 but they remain dark and vague. It is not
explained in what relation this judgment in Hades stands to the complete equivalence of
guilt and destiny that, here upon earth, Zeus and Moira bring to completion in the person
of the criminal himself and, after his death, of his descendants. Side by side with the
allusions to the judgment in the underworld implying the complete consciousness of the
dead, stand expressions that call up a picture of the senseless, twilight existence of the
souls in Hades like that described in Homer.78 The poet, to whom every feature of the
beliefs derived from the cult of the souls about the relations of the departed to the life
of the dwellers on earth was intensely and vividly real, never cared to fix his attention
for long upon the nature and condition of the dead in their separate other-world
existence. In fact his chosen work of giving a moral significance and deeper meaning to
popular and ancient faith was wholly derived from this faith itself; and so also was the
lofty and consistent idea of divinity which fills the background of his picture of life.
The generation which had fought at Marathon, in spite of a profounder and even more sombre
meditation upon life and destiny, could still dispense almost entirely with the assistance
of the theological doctrines of the sects who sought refuge from the dark and austere
realities of this unsatisfying world
in thoughts of an imagined hereafter.
Towards the great problems of dramatic philosophy—the problems of the freedom or
compulsion of the will, the guilt and destiny of man—Sophokles took up a position
that differed essentially from that of his great predecessor. A maturer and calmer
self-abandonment to the observation of life and its difficulties made him less able to
rest content with simple or sweeping solutions of the complexities; made him seek out
other and more various modes of understanding. The individual man, stamped with the unique
impression of his peculiar being, with him becomes more fully detached from the background
of omnipotent might and universal law. The individual finds within himself the rules of
his behaviour, the causes of his success, or his tragic failure. No petty, egotistical
motive inspires the action of Antigone or Elektra: they are obedient to the old, unwritten
laws of the gods. But the force that leads them to obey is derived solely from the special
fashion and impulse of their own hearts. No one else could do what they do, suffer what
they suffer. We realize the necessity and justification of what they do and suffer solely
from the contemplation of the strength and weakness of their own characters as displayed
for us in the action that takes place upon the stage. Indeed, the length to which
Sophokles, in the “Elektra”, goes in the suppression of such universally recognized and
binding motives as those derived from the duty of vengeance and the rights of injured
souls, may well cause surprise. The special and individual case must for him carry its own
justification within itself, and in fact it receives such justification so completely from
the character and behaviour of the actors in the drama that, unlike the hero of Aeschylus’
tragedy, Orestes needs to have no qualm of doubt in the performance of his deed, and
suffers no remorse after the murder of the wicked murderess. Once again as in the Homeric
story, with Orestes’ “righteous deed of blood”,79 the circle of calamity is complete: no
Erinys rises from the earth to demand his overthrow.80
So, too, when the suffering and calamity that befalls the mortal hero comes not from
his own conscious decision and exercise of will, but from obscure decrees of fate it is
still the special character of the hero which not only demands the greater part of our
attention, but entirely conditions and sufficiently explains the course of events. The
same misfortune might overtake
another man, but neither its inward nor its outward effects would be the same as they are
for Oedipus or Aias. Only tragically extreme characters can have a tragic fate.
And yet, in these as in other tragedies, what gives the first impulse and direction to
the course of the story does not arise from the will or character of their heroes. The
mind of Aias is not free but subject when he performs the deed that sends him to his
death. Oedipus, Deianeira take vengeance upon themselves for the deeds of horror that they
have brought about without knowing what they did. Notwithstanding the fact that the
interest of the “Philoktetes” centres so completely round the vividly contrasted
characters of Philoktetes, Neoptolemos, and Odysseus, yet the situation which brings them
into opposition is one which it was beyond the power or the purpose of man to bring about
or to hinder. An obscure destiny plunges man into suffering, drives him to actions in the
face of which easy and ready-made judgments about “guilt” and the relation between
suffering and desert are silenced. It is not inherited family crime that here forces the
son and the grandson to deeds that can hardly be called their own. The poet, it is true,
knows of these conceptions81 that play so large a part in the poetry of Aeschylus, but they
are mere historical tradition to him, not vital motives of his drama. Nor is it mere
irrational chance, or impersonal fate working by necessity and without passion that
directs the mind and guides the hand of the actor in his bondage. Clearly or obscurely
moving about in the background of events the will of a divine power can be discerned that,
inevitable as fate,82 guides the deeds and the fate of men in accordance with its own
purpose.
The divine purpose brings to maturity a plan in which the individual man and his
destiny are mere instruments. To make plain the premeditated character of this purposeful
direction of human affairs is the object of the prophetic anticipations of the future, the
divine oracles and prophecies of seers of which we hear so much in the plays. If this
divine purpose should involve the fatal act, the undeserved suffering of the individual,
then that purpose will be fulfilled though human happiness may be destroyed in the
process, and though pain, crime, agony, and violent death may overwhelm the mortal
individual. The well-being of the individual does not enter into the question where the
intentions of a divinity that sees far beyond this puny existence are concerned. An
honest, simple-minded, good-hearted man, without deceit or fault, like Philoktetes, is abandoned for many long
years to every kind of suffering in order that he may not interfere prematurely in the
development of the war against Troy with the magic weapons that are in his possession.83 He is an involuntary
martyr for the good of the whole community. In order that Herakles may be released from
this life at the precise moment of time that has been fixed by divine foreknowledge,84 Deianeira, the most
devoted and womanly character in the whole of the Attic drama, must out of the goodness of
her heart and the love she bears to her husband send him to the most awful of deaths and
then perish herself. Simply because such is the will of heaven85 must Oedipus, unknowing and blameless,
slay his father, marry his mother, and plunge himself into the deepest depth of
misery.
Thus, out of the darkness, the hand of divine superiority guides the destinies of
humanity, the will and behaviour of men, according to its own purposes. The problematical
in human life, the disparity between personal guilt and personal suffering, which daily
experience brings before our eyes, seemed to the poet to be rendered more intelligible by
this conception. He preaches dutiful submission to these dispensations of a higher power.
He himself is one of the pious, in the specific sense of the word,86 for whom to perceive the will of the gods
is sufficient to call forth adoration of the gods; who feel no need that this mighty will
should justify itself to human ideas of morality and goodness.87 It may be right to call this will a holy
will; but there is no need for it to prove itself such at the bar of human judgment. Nor
does such piety find itself disturbed in its worship when, in order to assert the divine
prerogative over humanity (whose first duty it is to recognize the limits of what is
allowed and possible for it), divine inhumanity and cold lust of vengeance manifest
themselves so clearly as in the Athene of the “Ajax”.88 It gives the measure of the peculiar and
unique character of Sophoklean art and the Sophoklean attitude to life—a quite
personal character not to be explained on abstract grounds—that this attitude of
awed submissiveness in matters of religion could exist side by side with the strong
appreciation and justification of the unfettered action of free individuality.
Rarely—only once or twice in the plays—is a cry of pain wrested from the lips
of one of these uncomplaining victims of a purpose not their own.89 As a rule, the eye shuns to behold, the
judgment to criticize, the ultimate reasons of divine action. It is partly artistic
restraint no doubt, but religious discretion, too, makes the poet leave such things in semi-obscurity.90 The majesty of
divine power remains for the most part in the background and does not mingle familiarly
with men or too notoriously interfere with human destiny.91
But the individual who with his sufferings must serve a purpose that is not his own,
Humanity that lives under such bitter laws—what elevating and consoling thoughts are
awakened by the contemplation of their fate. The poet employs all the resources of his
overwhelming art to secure the profoundest sympathies of his hearers for the undeserved
sufferings of the victim, for the delusions of well-intentioned but limited vision that
must always stray from the goal at which it aims. The moral of the play is not lost even
on the sufferer’s foe as he beholds the error and guilt of the noble but misguided
heart.92 What thus
overwhelms the strong and the wise, the good and the well-meaning, through no fault of
their own, may descend upon any member of the human family. Thus the destinies of men are
allotted. The lament over the vanity and the sorrow of life, its brief happiness, and the
uncertainty of its joy, is poured forth in memorable lines.93 They end on a note of resignation which
gives the keynote of the poet’s own character; but there is a bitterness which remains
behind.
It might have been supposed that one who thus abandoned all attempt to reconcile the
worth and actions of men with their fate upon earth, would feel all the more need, for his
own satisfaction and that of others, to prove the existence of a divine justice that
should restore the balance in a future state of being. But the poet shows little sign of
any such need. Thoughts of what may happen after death are never of very great moment to
him. They never distinctly affect the behaviour of those whose deeds or suffering fill his
plays.94
When, however, light is thrown for a passing moment on the unknown land beyond the
grave the scene that imagination reveals hardly differs at all from the picture that had
once been present to the minds of the Homeric singers. The place that is in store for the
departed is Hades,95
the unlovely country of the dead,96 whither the Soul flits powerless, shadowlike, little more than a
nothing,97 feeling
no joy but no pain either;98 where it enters upon a state of insensibility that the
grief-stricken sufferer on earth often longs for as a much-desired haven of rest.99 Plouton, Persephone,
all the deities of the earth below,100 there rule over the departed. But it is not grace nor kindliness
that prevails there—only Justice: Hades demands equal justice for all.101 Pious veneration of the gods continues also
in the other world,102 and for the rest we hear nothing of either reward or punishment
or of a final supplementing in the land of the Souls of the inadequacy of the justice that
fulfils itself on earth.
But though departed into Hades the dead have still a claim upon the upper world and on
those who still are living there. Together with the Homeric picture of the lower world is
united the cult of the souls and the ideas, connected with that cult, of the continued
life of the dead. The next of kin owe to the departed the ceremonious burial that is the
first expression of their pious solicitude for his soul’s welfare.103 In two plays the “Ajax” and the
“Antigone”, the love and loyalty of the survivors is obliged to fight for this right of
the dead in desperate encounter with earthly authority and even with the sacrifice of
their own devoted lives. Such instances serve to bring out clearly the fact that it is no
empty convention or tradition that is thus defended and carried through to the end. Nor
does the completion of the burial mark the end of the dead man’s relations with the upper
world: even after that he may be benefited by offerings made at his grave.104 Information of
what happens on earth may penetrate to the dead;105 and he himself, under the protection of
the underworld spirits and of their assessor Dikê, who take cognizance of his claims,106 may interfere in
the affairs of the living as a “Curse-spirit” upon those who disregard his wishes,107 by sending
threatening dream-visions upon his foes,108 and as a very present help and unseen ally to his friends in
their hour of need.109
As to an eternity of bliss awaiting the soul, the god in man, after its final release
from the shackles of the body, the poet knows as little of such as he does of an eternity
of damnation for the wicked. Only the quite special state of grace which is enjoyed by
those who have been purified in the mysteries of the goddesses at Eleusis receives mention
by him110: he is
frequently disposed to think of this supreme expression of Attic worship with patriotic
pride.111 But it
is only a minority of the good who thus achieve by the grace of the goddesses a privileged
“life” in the kingdom of shadows. One and only one is lifted by the divine grace clear of
the human fate of annihilation, and in the Grove of the Erinyes the sorely-tried Oedipus
is translated without seeing death out of this earthly life.112 So living a reality to this poet of
ancient piety is the conviction that the divine miracle of translation113 is a literal
truth, that he is even ready to make
this strange circumstance serve as the sole aim and purpose of a whole drama: a miracle
which all the other scenes serve not so much to prepare as simply to postpone, and thus
heighten the expectancy with which the event is awaited. It is not supreme virtue that
secures an immortality for Oedipus which others also who showed an equal degree of
goodness might possibly attain. He reveals himself to us as an innocent sufferer indeed,114 but also as
obdurate in his rash and violent nature, vindictive, stubborn, and self-willed, not
ennobled but rather brutalized by his sufferings.115 Nevertheless, divine power elevates him
to the state of immortal Hero less almost for the sake of the satisfaction and
bliss to himself as in order that he may be the saviour of the Attic land, the country of
humanity and kindness that has taken into its protection116 the unfortunate one, and desires to
preserve for ever his power of blessing.117 Just as once it had pleased divine power to overwhelm the
innocent victim in a sea of crime and suffering, so now it pleases the same divine power
to raise the sufferer, without any new or special merit on his side, to a fate of
superhuman bliss.118 In his case a divine miracle occurs, into the ultimate reasons
for which it is not profitable to inquire.
In his views, so far as he allows us to see them, of the things of the next world,
Sophokles differs not at all from those who still saw life and worshipped the gods as
their fathers had done before them. The great poet of human, tragic destiny, the profound
student of the divine government of this mournful world, was unwilling to set by the side
of it a brighter and more comforting picture of a spirit world of the imagination. In
this, too, he is modest and will not say much—he knows no more of these matters, and
in no other fashion, than “any other honest citizen of Athens”.119
In the course of a long life Sophokles was able to make himself complete master of his
art and grow up into strong and generous manhood without the guidance or support of either
theological or philosophical learning. Theology he did not care to seek out in its hiding
place, the obscurity of isolated sects. Philosophy, in the period of his impressionable
youth, had not yet reached Athens, and when he had attained riper years his noble
simplicity of temper had little to gain or to fear from the meditated wisdom or folly of
the younger generation. In serene detachment he passed on his way through all the press
and clamour of the market place.
The moving impulse which since the end of the sixth century had collected together at
Athens all the intellectual forces of Greece for a final expansion of their capacity now
began, in the middle of the fifth century, to take hold of philosophy as it had long since
done literature and the fine arts. Athens saw the last representatives of Ionian
physiology gathered together within her walls. Some, like Anaxagoras, took up their
residence there for a long period, and left the impress of their teaching upon the
foremost minds of the city. The others who paid briefer visits were those who in conscious
opposition to the recent trend of thinking, stoutly upheld the older principles of
philosophic Monism or Hylozoism, such as Diogenes of Apollonia or Hippon of Samos; or who
sought like Archelaos to reconcile the old and the new Ionic doctrine. Besides these,
Athens was a headquarters of the wandering exponents of the newest wisdom, the Sophists.
Nowhere did unfettered discussion find such cultivated appreciation of its daring; nowhere
was such an eager welcome given to the dialectical word-play that, seeming to be an end in
itself, was destined to become the most fruitful nursery of native Athenian philosophy.
All traditional beliefs and customs that had not their origin or their justification in
reflexion were already doomed as soon as they, together with every conventional view of
life and the world, were deprived of their natural protection of unchallenged
self-evidence by the cold scrutiny of the sovereign tyrant Dialectic. The Sophists, those
skirmishers of a new and as yet unrecognizable philosophy, scattered and put to flight the
old guard of positive and doctrinal wisdom, but to the individual, who was bidden to
depend upon his own resources, they offered stimulus to reflection in abundance but no
permanent foothold in the shifting sands of opinion. It would be but a final assertion of
the principle that there are no principles if by any chance the Sophists themselves should
for a moment speak in the language of edification and, for example, lend the support of
their eloquence to certain articles of doctrine that provided a positive teaching as to
the nature and life of the soul.120
If Sophokles remained quite unaffected by this whole movement which reached its flood
tide in Athens, Euripides was drawn completely into its current. He sought out
philosophers and sophists personally and in their writings. His was a spirit that urgently
desired to know the truth and he followed every available guide to knowledge and wisdom
for a stage upon their journey. But he was never able to continue permanently in any one
direction; in the restlessness and
bewilderment of search and experiment he is the true son of his age.
His philosophical and sophistical leanings were sufficiently marked to make it
impossible for him to accept any part of the belief or tradition of his countrymen without
trial. So far as it is possible within the limits of dramatic art, he instituted an
unsparing and unhesitating criticism of all accepted things, and in the process felt
himself immeasurably superior to the wit and wisdom of the past. And yet he never
satisfied himself. He could never rest content with a merely negative position, for all
onesidedness was foreign to his nature. The tremendous honesty of his nature made it
impossible for him to admit that element of frivolity which made the sophistic movement
and the dialectical negation of all certainty so simple and attractive, and at the same
time took away half its sting. But he could take nothing easily; and so with all his
sophistic enlightenment he was never happy. The pupil of the Sophists would hear every
other side as well; there were even moments when he longed to take refuge in the restful
narrowness of old and traditional piety. But it was not given to him to settle down in any
fixed set of opinions; all his convictions were provisional, mere hypotheses adopted for
the purposes of experiment. Afloat on a changeful sea, he let himself be driven hither and
thither by every wind of intellectual excitement or artistic necessity.
When all convictions were involved together in a state of perpetual change and
instability, the conception of the nature and being of the soul and its relation to the
powers of life and death could not alone remain in fixed and dogmatic certainty.
Where the content and character of the fable chosen as the subject of his drama demand
it, the poet frankly adopts the popular view of the nature and destiny of the departed
soul, its power and claim upon the worship of the survivors upon earth. In the fairy-tale
play of the “Alcestis” the whole apparatus of popular belief plays its part; the God of
Death and his awful office, the dwelling of the dead in the underworld, are spoken of as
facts and creatures of experience and reality.121 The elaborate funeral ceremonies owed
to the dead are treated with the utmost seriousness and precision.122 A whole drama, the “Suppliant Women”,
has as its real subject, or at least as its ostensible motive, the religious importance of
a ritual burial,123 nor is there any lack of isolated passages in which the
importance of burial and the honour paid to graves is stressed.124 The survivors on earth give pleasure to
the dead by offerings at their graves,125 and in this
way obtain their goodwill and can count upon their support.126 Power and honour belong not only to the
great ones of antiquity translated to a higher state of being;127 not only “Heroes” can extend their
influence beyond their graves and affect the course of earthly events:128 from the soul of
his murdered father, the son expects assistance and succour in his time of need. The dread
creatures of antique faith, the Erinyes, exact vengeance for the murdered mother.129
But at this point it becomes apparent that the poet only associates himself for his own
purposes with this circle of ancient and sanctified popular fancy—so long in fact as
it suits the tone that he wishes to give to the drama and its characters. The Erinyes are
excellent material for the play—that in reality their horrid figures only exist in
the imagination of the mentally diseased is clearly asserted in the “Orestes”.130 The whole series
of beliefs and demands—murder ever calling forth fresh murder in accordance with the
sacred duty of vengeance, the Erinyes, the bloodthirsty patrons of the murdered victim who
leaves no proper avenger behind him—all these have ceased to have any validity for
him. The “animal and bloodthirsty” part of these figures of ancient belief call forth the
loathing of the poet living in the days of organized justice and humaner manners.131 He does not
believe in the souls’ right to blood; the ancient legends which depend on this right are
an abomination to him. In fact, he only seems to have written his plays about them in
order, by the manner of his presentation, to have his revenge upon this material that was
almost unavoidably thrust upon him by the tradition of the tragic stage. The duty of the
living to offer a cult to the departed souls becomes doubtful in its turn. The seriousness
with which that cult is sometimes handled in the plays is compromised by such reflections
as these: it is certain that it matters little to the dead whether rich offering are
placed in their graves or not; such things only satisfy the idle vanity of the living;132 honour and
dishonour are of no further consequence to the dead.133 How should they be, if the departed no
longer feel either pleasure or pain, are nothing at all, as is repeatedly declared even in
the middle of the “Alcestis”?134
It is evident that only from an arbitrarily adopted point of view do the picturesque
creations of popular belief in the soul and of the cult of souls seem real to the poet;
apart from this they disappear from his mind like the creatures of a dream.135 The teachings of
the theologians supplied him with no real substitute for popular faith; at the most they
were a momentary and passing
stimulus. No doubt he did not shut his eyes completely to these manifestations of the
spiritual life of his time. His plays contain allusions to Orphic poetry and he joins the
asceticism of the Orphics to the cold virtue of his Hippolytos.136 The thought that the soul has fallen
from a higher state of being and is enclosed within the body like the dead man in his
coffin takes captive his imagination for a moment. “Who knows then whether life is not a
kind of death,” so that in death the soul awakes to its real life?137 The gloomy view of human destiny upon
this earth to which the poet so often gives expression, might seem to hint at a
consolation to come in a more satisfactory hereafter; but the poet has no longing for the
consolation offered by the theologians. Among the many and various reflections of the poet
upon the reality that may reveal itself when the curtain is drawn aside by death, we never
meet with the conception that lies at the bottom of the assurances made by the
theologians—the conception that the spiritual individual is certain of its
immortality because in its individuality it is of divine nature and is itself a god.138 True, he is the
author of the bold saying so often quoted and varied in later times, that God is nothing
else but the mind that dwells in men.139 But this makes no allusion to the theological doctrine of the
multiplicity of individual gods or daimones banished into the life of men; it rather
implies a semi-philosophic doctrine of the soul in which one may perceive for the first
time the expression of a permanent conviction on the part of the poet.
In quite inapposite contexts Euripides sometimes introduces passing allusions to a
philosophical view of the world and humanity, that is the more certainly to be regarded as
the private conviction of the poet himself as the utterances fail to correspond fully with
the character of the person in the play who makes them, and do not arise necessarily from
the dramatic situation. Everything in the world has had its origin from Earth and “the
Aether of Zeus”; the Earth is the maternal womb from which the Aether brings everything to
birth.140 Both
constituents combine to produce the multiplicity of appearance; they are not fused
together nor are they to be derived from a single common original element;141 they remain in
dualistic contrast side by side.142 It was probably the dualism of this cosmological fancy that
reminded the ancients of Anaxagoras; but these statements cannot be regarded as simply a
poetical version of the doctrine of Anaxagoras;143 for they derive the multiplicity of
matter and things from the simple element of “Earth” from which they arise only by a process of change and transformation,
while in the “seedmixture” of Anaxagoras, the unchangeable seeds of all things only
separate themselves out from the whole and give rise by mechanical reassemblings to all
the perceived appearances of the world. The “Aether” of Euripides in its relations with
the “Earth” is besides being the active partner also the intellectual and animated
element. The isolation of such an element from the rest of matter does indeed remind us of
the procedure of Anaxagoras. But the poet’s Aether is still an element though it may be
penetrated by mind and animated by spirit; it is not a mental being standing over against
all the other elements in essential distinctness like the Nous of Anaxagoras. The
fact that it is the element of the Aether, i.e. the dry and hot air, in which intellectual
capacity is said to inhere, may be regarded as having been borrowed from Diogenes of
Apollonia, a philosopher who was held in considerable estimation at Athens at that time,
and who was well known to Euripides.144 In his doctrine, the air (which indeed, in contrast to the view
of Euripides, produces all other things simply out of itself) is expressly identified with
the “Soul” and is itself described as “having understanding”.145
This view of the elementary forces and constitution of the universe, made up as it is
from philosophical suggestions of a scarcely reconcilable character, in which the
dualistic tendency is in fact finally predominant, suggests itself to the poet whenever in
an exalted mood he speaks of the final destiny of the human soul. The soul on its
separation from the body will depart to join the “Aether”. But in such conceptions it is
not always the imagination of the philosopher-poet that finds expression. On this subject
it is accompanied or replaced by a more popular view that only distantly resembles it, but
which led to the same result. When we hear now and again of the Aether, the luminous
atmosphere above the clouds, as being the dwelling place of the departed souls,146 the
view—more theological than philosophic in its character—seems to be implied
that after death the liberated soul will float upwards to the seat of the gods147 which has long
ceased to be situated upon Olympos, but is in “heaven” or in this same Aether. This, too,
was the meaning of a saying traditionally ascribed to Epicharmos the comic-poet of Sicily
who was himself versed in philosophy. In this saying the pious man is assured that for him
death will bring no evil for his “mind” will dwell permanently in “heaven”.148 This conception,
which appears so frequently in later epitaphs, must have been familiar to popular imagination at Athens at an
early period; at least in the grave-epigram officially dedicated by the state to the
memory of the Athenians who fell in the year 432 before Poteidaia, we find the belief
expressed (as a commonly received opinion) that the souls of these brave men have been
received by the “Aether” just as the earth has received their bodies.149 Such official use
implies a commonly accepted opinion and the fundamental ideas of the popular cult of the
souls might have led to similar results. From the beginning popular belief had regarded
the psyche, which got its name from the air or breath, as closely akin to the winds, the
mobile air and its spirits. It would not be difficult for the idea to arise that the soul,
as soon as it was free to decide for itself what should become of it, should go to join
the elemental spirits that are its kinsfolk. Perhaps this, too, is what Epicharmos means
when on another occasion he says that in death when the united are parted asunder each
returns whence it came, the body to earth, but the soul up to the heights—its name,
in which allusion is made to its perpetual mobility, being now after the example of
Xenophanes derived from the breath of the wind, the moving air (πνεῦμα), a usage which became very common in later times.150
But perhaps the use of such a name is an indication that this poet also regards the
soul as standing in a close relation and kinship with the Aether that is destined to
receive it after its release from the body; so that from this side, too151—in addition
to the more popular conception just mentioned—Euripides may have received a hint for
his peculiar version of the physiological theory of Diogenes. In his view the soul
participates in the nature of the Aether. But it is more important to notice that the
Aether participates in the nature and true reality of the soul; it possesses life,
consciousness and power of thought. They both belong to one family. The Aether according
to the poet—and here the speculations of Anaximenes as revived by Diogenes are
unmistakable152—is a true vital atmosphere, an all-embracing psychic
element, so that it becomes, not a mere vehicle of mind, but the All-Mind itself. The
concept is even condensed and half-personified, it is called by the name of the highest
divine power, Zeus,153 and the poet as though speaking of a personal god, calls it
“immortal”.154 The
human mind, too, as akin to the universal god and the All-Mind, appears, as it had been in
the teaching of Diogenes,155 as a part of this God, this universal Mind. God is the mind, and
the mind and understanding in us is God—so the poet clearly asserts.156 In death, when
the separation of the mind from its
earthly elements takes place, the Pneuma of man will “not indeed live”, as it had done in
the separate existence of the individual man, but it will “preserve an immortal
consciousness”, entering into the immortal Aether and fusing itself with the All-living
and the All-thinking.157 None of the physiologists who conceived the same idea of an
immortality excluding the personal immortality of the individual, of the universal spirit
of life in mankind, has expressed his meaning with such distinctness as this philosophic
layman.
The poet may have wished to remain permanently upon the sublime heights of this
Pantheistic vision; but he must, in his peculiar all-embracing spirit that never held fast
to any one view with enduring persistence, have experienced too often the truth of the
saying of Protagoras that every statement calls forth its equally legitimate opposite,158 to have become an
unswerving adherent of any single opinion. Death, and whatever may reveal itself after
death, is beyond the experience of any man.159 It may be that complete disappearance
into nothingness follows death; that the dead man becomes simply nothing.160 It may be that in
the permanence of the human race the great name and the renown of glorious deeds lives on
undying.161
Whether there may remain besides a vestige of life in a spirit world, who can tell?
Perhaps such a thing is hardly even to be wished.162 It is just what makes death such a
comforting thing, that it puts an end to all feeling and therefore to all pain and every
care. We should not lament over our fate if, like the harvests that follow each other in
the course of the years, one generation of men after another flowers, fades, and is
carried off. So it is ordered in the course of Nature, and we ought not to be dismayed by
anything that is rendered inevitable by her laws.163
CHAPTER XIII P LATO — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — NOTES TO CHAPTER XIII
The belief in human immortality, construed in a theological or philosophical sense, had
at this time hardly penetrated to circles of ordinary lay folk. Socrates himself, when it
came to such inquiries into the unknowable, never claimed to provide an answer that
differed from that which would be given by the majority of his fellow citizens out of the
accumulated wisdom of their ancestors. Where in the pages of Plato he is allowed to give
undisguised expression to his natural and homely vigour—in the
Apology—he shows little anticipation of an immortal life of the soul. Death,
he thinks, either brings complete unconsciousness to men, like a dreamless sleep, or else
it means the transition of the soul to another life in the realm of the Souls—a
realm which, to judge by his allusions, has much more resemblance to the Homeric Hades
than to any of the visionary countries imagined by theologians or theologically minded
poets.1 Both
possibilities he accepts with complete equanimity, trusting in the righteousness of the
controlling gods,2 and
he looks no further. How should he know with certainty where everyone was ignorant?3
With a like absence of concern it is possible that the majority of the cultured (who
were just beginning to separate themselves from the rest of the community) left unsettled
the problem of the Unknown.4 Plato assures us that it was in his time a widespread belief of
the populace that the outgoing soul-breath of the dying was caught up by the
winds—especially if its exit took place in stormy weather—and was dispersed,
blown away, into nothing.5 In other ways, too, we may suppose that the orthodox Greek, when
death approached, allowed his fancy to picture what might await his soul on the other side
of death’s threshold.6
But it is certain that the belief in an unending life of the soul—a life with no end
because it had no beginning—was not among these thoughts. Plato himself lets us see
how strange such a conception was even to those who were capable of following and
understanding a philosophical discussion. Towards the end of the long dialogue upon the
best kind of State his Sokrates asks Glaukon with apparent irrelevance “are you not aware
that our soul is immortal
and never perishes?” Whereupon, we are told, Glaukon looked at him in astonishment and
said, “No, in truth, of that I was not aware: can you then assert any such thing?”7
The idea that the soul of man may be everlasting and imperishable seemed thus a
paradoxical freak to one who was no adept in the theological doctrine of the soul. If in
later times the case was altered, no one contributed more effectually or more permanently
to bring that change about than the great thinker and poet who established the theological
conception of personal immortality in the very heart of philosophy and then gave back the
idea strengthened and made more profound to its parent theology, while he himself extended
the influence of that idea far beyond the bounds of school or sect by the far-reaching
power of his own unaging writings which belong, not to the schoolroom, but to the greatest
achievements of literature whether of Greece or of mankind. It is beyond calculation what
power has been wielded since their first appearance by the Platonic dialogues in the
confirmation, dissemination, and precise definition of the belief in immortality—a
power that with all its alteration in the passage of the centuries has maintained itself
unbroken into our own times.
Plato had not always given his assent to the belief in immortality. At any rate, it
must have remained very much in the background of his thoughts and his belief in the days
when he still regarded the world from the point of view of a slightly more developed
Socraticism. Not only at that period (in the Apology) does he make his Sokrates go
to his death without the most distant approach to a belief in the undying vitality of his
soul, but also in the first sketch of his Ideal State—a sketch made while the
influence of the Socratic view of life still prevailed with him—the belief in
immortality is omitted and even excluded.8 It seems as if Plato did not reach the higher conception of the
nature and value of the soul, its origin and destiny reaching out beyond all temporal
limitation, until the great change which came over his philosophy had been completed. The
world of ever-changing Appearance manifesting itself to the senses in perpetual flux and
efflux—this in its inessential, unseizable unreality he abandoned to the criticisms
of Herakleitos. But above it, in accordance with his own deepest longings and, as it
seemed, implied as its real object by the Socratic search itself after conceptual knowledge, stood a world of
unchangeable Being without beginning or end, to which all the appearances of this lower
world owed such reality as they possessed. “Being” itself, the totality of the Ideas,
remained uncontaminated with “Becoming” and passing away; remained the highest goal and
supreme aim standing high above all that aspired to it, or felt a longing for its complete
and unlimited fullness.9 This everlasting reality holds itself aloof from the stream of
appearance and is not to be grasped within that stream; it is not manifested in the
deceitful ever-changing perception of the senses, nor yet in the Opinion that is based
upon them; it can only be apprehended, without any assistance from the senses, by the pure
intuition of the Reason.10 This world of everlasting self-identical Being exists outside the
thought and knowledge of man, but it first reveals itself to man in the activity of his
own thinking;11 and
at the same time there is revealed to him a higher power than the mere capacity to
abstract the unsubstantial general conceptions from the multiplicity of experience—a
power that is the highest capacity of the soul, enabling it to voyage out beyond all
experience and with infallible knowledge12 to soar of its own independent power upwards to a transcendental
world of permanent and essential reality. The highest capacity that belongs to man, the
soul of his soul, is not enclosed within this world that surrounds his senses in its
restless flood. Like the objects that are the last goal of its study the soul itself is
raised to where it can for the first time find a form of activity worthy of its natural
powers. It achieves a new distinction, a priestlike dignity, as an intermediary between
the two worlds to both of which it belongs.
The soul is a pure spiritual essence; it contains nothing within it that is material,
nothing of the “place” where Becoming is shaped into a distant resemblance to Being.13 It is incorporeal
and belongs to the realm of the “invisible”, which in this immaterialist doctrine counts
as the most real of all, more real than the most solid matter.14 It is not one of the Ideas; on the
contrary it seems to partake in one of the Ideas—that of Life—only as other
appearances share in their Ideas.15 But it stands nearer to the whole world of the everlasting Ideas
than anything else that is not itself an Idea; of all the things in the world it is “most
like” to the Idea.16
But it has also a share in Becoming. It cannot simply remain with the Ideas in
unaltered other-world transcendence. It has its origin indeed in that other world beyond
Appearance. It was from the beginning, uncreated17 like the Ideas and like the Soul of the World to which it is
akin.18 It is “older
than the body”19 to
which it must link itself; it does not come into being at the same time as the body, but
is only drawn down from its spiritual state of being into the realm of matter and
becoming. In the Phaedrus this “fall into birth” appears as the necessary result of
an intellectual “fall” which takes place within the soul itself.20 In the Timaeus, however, with its
study of the general life of the whole world-organism, the animation of the living
creature has now to be explained as arising out of the plan—not from a failure of
the plan—of the Creator.21 The soul thus seems to be destined from the beginning to give
life to a body. It is not only the knowing and thinking element in a world of inanimate
things, it is also the source of all movement. Itself in motion from the beginning it
bestows the power of movement upon the body with which it is associated; without it, there
would be no movement in the world, and no life either.22
But though enclosed within the body it remains a stranger to the body. On its side it
has no need of the body and is not conditioned by it. It remains independently associated
with it as its mistress and leader.23 Even in their united existence there is a great gulf fixed
between the soul and all that is not soul;24 body and soul never fuse into one, however closely they may be
bound up with each other. And yet the body and its impulses have the power to influence
profoundly the immortal being that dwells within it. By its union with the body the soul
can be made unclean; “diseases” such as folly and unrestrained passion come to it from the
body.25 It is not
beyond the reach of change like the Ideas, to which it is akin without being of their
nature; on the contrary, it can degenerate entirely. The evil influences of the body
penetrate to its inmost being; even in its everlasting, immaterial, spiritual nature it
can derive something “corporeal”26 from such a sinister partnership.
It is bound to the body by influences of a lower kind which attach themselves to the
pure power of knowledge that alone is proper to it. At the outset of his speculations
Plato, like other thinkers before him,27 had thought of the different capacities of the soul, alternately
in conflict or alliance with each other, as “parts” of unequal rank and value, bound up
together within the soul of man.28 Even in the previous life of the soul, in the other world, the
reasoning power of the soul is, according to the Phaedrus, already coupled with
“Temper” and “Desire”; it is these in fact which drag down the soul into the realm of the
material; and the three parts still
remain indissolubly united in the everlasting life which awaits the soul after its release
from the body.
But in proportion as the philosopher extends and elevates his conception of the soul,
and as he becomes more convinced of its eternal destiny and vocation to a life of unending
blessedness in a realm of unchangeable being, the more impossible does it seem to him that
this candidate for immortality in the realm of the everlasting Forms can be a composite
amalgam of elements capable of being resolved again by division and analysis29—that the
reasoning faculty can be for ever united with Effort and Desire, which perpetually
threaten to drag it downwards into materiality. The soul in its true and original nature
is now for him simple and indivisible.30 Only with its enclosure in the body does the everlasting,
thinking soul, whose tendency is towards the eternal, acquire impulses and desires31 that have their
origin in the body and belong to the body,32 that only adhere to the soul during the period of its earthly
life, that with their separation from their immortal associate will pass away, since they
are themselves mortal and such as perish with the body.
The soul, to which sense-perception,33 feeling, emotion, and desire are only added from outside, is in
its own imperishable nature nothing but pure capacity of thought and knowledge—with
which indeed the power to will that which is conceived in thought, seems to be directly
associated. It is destined for the “other” world, for the intuition and undistorted
reflection in its consciousness of the immaterial essences. Banished to this earth amid
the restless change and alteration of all being, and not uninfluenced by the forces of
bodily life, it must endure a brief exile here.34 Not unscathed does it leave behind it, in
death, its ill-assorted companion, the body.35 Then it goes into an intermediate region
of bodiless existence in which it must do penance for the misdeeds of its life on earth,
and free itself from their effects.36 After that it is driven away once more into a body and
transported to a fresh life upon earth, the character of which it chooses for itself in
accordance with the special nature that it had evolved in its earlier incarnation upon
earth.37 Though no
organic connexion exists between them, yet there is a certain “symmetry”38 between the
individual soul and the body that is lent to it.
Thus, the soul lives through a series of earthly lives39 of the most varied character; it may even
sink so low as the animals in the course of its incarnations.40 Its own merits, the success or failure of
its conflict with the passions and desires of the body, decide whether or not its lives shall lead it upwards to
a nobler type of existence. Its task is plain: it must free itself from its
impure companions, sensual Lust and the darkening of the powers of Reason. If it can
succeed in this it will find once more the “way upwards”41 which at last leads it into complete
immunity from renewed incarnation and brings it home again into the kingdom of everlasting
untroubled Being.
It is evident that in what he thus, clothing philosophy in the language of poetry, says
of the origin, destiny, and character of the soul, which though beyond time is yet placed
within time, and though beyond space is yet the cause of all movement within
space—that in all this Plato is following in the track of the theologians
of earlier times. Only in the poetry and speculative thought of theologi, not in
any physiologists’ doctrine, did he find the conception, imaginatively expressed and
pointing in the direction which he also followed, of a multiplicity of independent souls
whose existence had been from all time and was not first begun in the material world with
the creation of a living organism; of souls enclosed in the corporeal as though in a
foreign, hostile element, which survive their association with the body, passing through
many such bodies and yet preserving themselves intact after the destruction of each of
those bodies, immortal, endless (for they are without beginning),42 and alive from the very beginning of
Time. The souls, moreover, have life as distinct, complete, and indivisible personalities,
not as mere dependent emanations of a simple common Source of all life.
The theory of the eternity and indestructibility of the individual souls, of the
personal immortality of the souls, is difficult to reconcile with more specifically
Platonic doctrine—with the doctrine of the Ideas.43 And yet it is undeniable that from the
moment that he first adopted this theory—and adopted it, too, precisely in connexion
with the philosophy of the Ideas—he adhered to it steadfastly and without deviating
from its essential meaning. The process by which he arrived at it is not to be found in
the “proofs” by which he attempts in the Phaedo to establish the truth of the
soul’s immortality in which he himself already believed. Those proofs in reality do not
prove what they are intended to prove (and what considered as a fact of experience is
unproved and as an axiom necessary to thought is beyond proof); they cannot therefore be
the reasons that led the philosopher to hold his conviction. He has in fact borrowed this article of
his faith from the creeds which already contained it. He himself scarcely conceals the
fact. As authority for the main outlines of the soul’s history as given by himself he
refers us almost apologetically, and as though excusing himself for not providing a
philosophical proof, to the theologi and priests of the mysteries.44 And he himself
becomes the philosophical poet, completely and without concealment, when in imitation of
the poetry of edification he, too, gives a picture of the soul’s sojourn in an
intermediate station of its pilgrimage or describes the stages of its earthly existence45 that lead the soul
down even to the animal.
For such mythological expressions of the inexpressible the philosopher himself claims
no more than symbolical truth.46 He is fully in earnest, however, with the fundamental conception
of the soul as an independent substance that enters from beyond space and time into the
material and perceptible world, and into external conjunction with the body, not into
organic union with it; that maintains itself as a being of spiritual essence in the midst
of the flux and decay of the material world, though at the same time its pure brightness
is overshadowed through this conjunction and must purify itself from the effects; that
can disentangle itself,47 even to the extent of complete severance from the embrace of the
material and the perceptible. All that is essential in this conception he derives from the
theologians, but he brings it into close relationship with his own philosophy which
depends upon a conviction of the absolute opposition between Being and Becoming, and upon
the dualistic division of the world into matter and mind—a dualism that applies also
to the relations of soul and body and throughout the whole realm of Appearance. The soul
which stands half-way between the unity and unchangeability of Being and the ever-varying
multiplicity of matter has in this realm of fragmentary and subordinate validity, into
which it is temporarily exiled, the power to reflect the Ideas and represent them in its
own consciousness clear and unfalsified. The soul in its complete independence of
sense-perception and of concepts derived from the senses is alone able to pursue the
“Quest of Reality”.48 In this pursuit the body with which it is associated is nothing
but a hindrance and a serious one. The soul has a hard struggle against the tendencies of
the body in spite of its independence and aloofness. Just as, in the creation of the
universe, matter, though not a cause is at least a subordinate cause which by its
influence and exigencies gives
various hindrances49
to the “Mind” that shapes and orders the world, so, too, the soul finds in this ephemeral
and inconstant Matter, with its stirring and tumultuous unrest, a serious obstacle to its
own proper activity. This is the evil, or the cause of evil,50 which must be overthrown in order that
the mind may win its way to freedom and final rest and security in the realm of pure
Being. Plato often speaks of the katharsis, the purification, after which man must
strive.51 He takes
both the word and the idea from the theologians, but he gives it a higher meaning while
yet preserving unmistakably the analogy with the katharsis of the theologi
and mystery-priests. It is not the pollution which comes from contact with sinister
daimones and from all that belongs to them, that is to be avoided, but rather the
dulling of the power of knowledge and of willing what is known (regarded as a
simultaneously created power) due to the world of the senses and its fierce impulses.52 Man’s effort must be
directed not so much to ritual purity, as to the preservation of his knowledge of the
eternal from eclipse through the deceptive illusions of the senses; towards the
concentration and gathering together of the soul within itself;53 its withdrawal from contact with the
ephemeral as the source of pollution and debasement.
Thus, even in this philosophic reinterpretation of ritual abstinence in terms of a
spiritual release and emancipation, the effort after “purity” retains its
religious sense. The world of the Ideas, the world of pure Being, to which only
the pure soul can attain,54 is a world of divinity. The “Good” as the highest of the Ideas,
the loftiest pattern, the supreme aim to which all Being and Becoming tend, which is at
the same time more than all the Ideas—the first cause of all Being and all
knowledge—is also God.55 The soul for which, in its desire and longing for the full being
of the Idea, the knowledge of the “Good” is the “supreme science”,56 enters hereby into the closest communion
with God. The “turning away” of the soul from the many-coloured image to the sun of the
highest Idea, is itself57 a turning towards the divine, towards the luminous source of all
Being and Knowing.
Thus exalted, philosophic inquiry turns to enthousiasmos.58 The way which leads upwards from the lower levels of Becoming
to Being, is discovered by means of dialectic, which in its “comprehensive
view”59 is able to
unite the distracted ever-moving flood of multifarious Appearance into the ever-enduring
unity of the Idea which is reflected in Appearance. Dialectic travels through the whole
range of the Ideas, graduated one above the other, till it reaches the last and most universal of the Ideas. In its upward
course it passes by an effort of sheer logic through the whole edifice of the highest
concepts.60 Plato is
the most subtle of dialecticians; he almost carries subtlety to excess in his eager
pursuit of every intricacy of logic—and of paralogism. But he combined to a
remarkable degree the cold exactitude of the logician with the enthusiastic intensity of
the seer; and his dialectic, after its patient upward march step by step from concept to
concept, at last soars to its final goal in a single tremendous flight, in which the
longed-for realm of the Ideas reveals itself in a moment of immediate vision. So the
Bacchant in his ecstasy saw divinity suddenly plain, and so too in the nights consecrated
by the mysteries the epoptês beheld the vision of the Goddesses in the torch-lit
glare of Eleusis.61
To this loftiest height whence a view is obtained of “colourless, formless Being,
beyond the reach of every contact”, inaccessible to sense-perception, it is dialectic that
shows the way; and dialectic now becomes a way of salvation in which the soul finds once
more its own divine nature and its divine home. The soul is closely akin to godhead and
like it62—it
is itself something divine. The reason in the soul is divine,63 and comprehends everlasting Being
immediately by its power of thought. “If the eye were not sunlike, it could never see the
sun”;64 if the mind
were not akin by nature to the good,65 the highest of the Ideas, it could never comprehend the Good, the
Beautiful, and all that is perfect and eternal. In its power of recognizing the eternal
the soul bears within itself the surest proof that it is itself eternal.66
The “purification” by means of which the soul gets rid of67 the defacement that has overtaken it
during its earthly life reveals again the divine in man. Even on earth the philosopher is
thus rendered immortal and godlike.68 As long as he can continue in a state of pure intellectual
knowledge and comprehension of the everlasting, for so long is he living, already in this
life, “in the Islands of the Blest.”69 By expelling all traces of the corruptible and the mortal in and
about himself, he is more and more to “become like God”;70 so that when it is at last set free from
this earthly existence, his soul may enter into the divine, the invisible, the pure, the
eternally self-identical, and as a disembodied mind remain for ever with that which is its
kin.70a At this
point, language that can only make use of physical imagery becomes totally inadequate.71 A goal is set before
the soul that lies outside all physical nature, beyond time and space, without past or
future, an ever-present now.72
The soul can escape out of time and space and find its home in eternity, without at the
same time losing its own self in the General and Universal that stands above time and
space. We must not inquire what sort of personality and individual distinctness can yet
remain with the soul when it has cast off all effort, desire, sense-perception, and
everything related to the world of change and multiplicity, to become once more a pure
mirror of the eternal. Nor must we ask how it is possible to think of a spirit removed
above space and time and all the multiplicity of matter and yet personal and separate in
its personality.73
For Plato the Souls live on as they had been in the beginning—individual beings
conscious of themselves in a time that has no end and is beyond all time. He teaches a
personal immortality.
There is an “other-worldly” tone in this philosophy, and its doctrine of the soul. Far
beyond the world in which life has placed man lies the realm of pure Being, the good, the
perfect, and the unspoilt. To reach that realm at last, to free the mind from the unrest
and illusion of the senses, to be rid of the desires and emotions that would “nail”74 it down here below,
to sever its connexion75 with the body and bodily things—that is the soul’s highest
duty. The only reason why it is banished into this world is that it may all the more
completely separate itself from the world. To die—to be dead inwardly to all that is
visible, material, physical—that is the goal and the fruit of philosophy.76 “To be ready and fit
to die” is the hall-mark of the complete philosopher. For such, philosophy is the
deliverer that frees him for all time from the body77—from its desires, its restlessness,
its wild passions78—and gives him back again to the eternal and its
silence.
To be pure, to be free from evil, to die already in this temporal world—these are
the oft-repeated exhortations which the philosopher addresses to the immortal soul.
Ascetic morality here again demands from man what is essentially a quite negative
proceeding. But this denial of the world is only a step leading on to the most supremely
positive behaviour. Katharsis is only the gateway to philosophy; and it is
philosophy which teaches man how to reach what alone is positive, the only true and
unconditional Being; instructs him how to reach the clear and perfect understanding of the
only permanent good and how to merge himself utterly in that good.79 The soul of the thinker yearns after
Reality;80 death is for it not merely the annihilation
of the chains of the body that impede it, but a very positive “acquisition of intellectual
knowledge”81 to
which it is urged on by its proper nature—which is therefore also a fulfilment of
its proper task. So the turning aside from the physical and the ephemeral is at the same
time and without transition a turning towards the eternal and the divine. The flight from
the things of this world is in itself an entry into that other world, and a becoming like
to the divine.82
But the true realities are not to be found in this world. To grasp them plainly in its
thought—to recover the untroubled vision of its spiritual eye—the soul must
divest itself entirely of all the stress and distraction of the earthly. For this mundane
world, the mirage that encompasses the senses, the philosopher has nothing but denial.
Because it gives no foothold for true knowledge the whole world of Becoming has no
independent value for his science. The apprehension of that which is never more than
relative, which simultaneously manifests contrary qualities in itself, can only serve as
stimulus and invitation to the search for what is absolute.83 In this realm of doubtful shadows the
soul finds nothing but obscure reminders of that which it had once beheld plainly. The
beauty of the physical world which is apprehended by the noblest of the senses, the eye,
serves indeed to recall to the soul’s memory the Beautiful-in-itself, of which that other
is but a pale copy, and to disclose to the soul what is really its own property, what it
had brought with it ready made from an earlier existence beyond the bounds of all
matter.84 But the
observation of beauty here below must lead beyond itself at once and conduct the mind out
of the world of mere appearance to the pure forms of the Ideal world. The process of
Becoming tells us nothing about the nature of Being; the thinker learns nothing from this
source—in fact he learns no new knowledge or wisdom of any kind in this
world; he only recovers what he had before and always possessed in latent form.85 The treasure,
however, lies beyond the limits of this world. He must turn away his gaze from the
shadow-figures upon the wall of the cave of this world, and direct it towards the sun of
eternity.86 He is
placed in this world of perpetual change; to it his senses and his understanding are
directly referred; and yet he must disdain and rise superior to, and flee from, all that
this world offers, giving himself up immediately and entirely to the unseen, and taking
flight from this world to that where he will become like God, and be purified and
justified by the power and might of his knowledge.87
Earthly life as it actually is will remain strange to him, and he a stranger in earthly
life,88 despised as
a fool for his inaptitude in earthly affairs by the great majority of those who are so
versed in such things.89 He has something higher to think about—the salvation of his
own soul. He will not live for the community, but for himself, and his real task.90 Human interests seem
to him hardly worth troubling about,91 the state itself hopelessly corrupt, founded as it is upon
deception and passion and injustice. At the same time, he himself of course would be the
real statesman,92
the leader who could guide his fellow citizens to their true salvation—acting not as
the servant of their lusts, but as a doctor who gives help to the sick.93 It is “not ships and
harbours and walls and taxes and such trivialities”94 that he would give the city, but justice
and health and everything else which after this life can stand before the stern judgment
of the other world.95 This would be the best mode of life,96 and he could show them the way to it; no
worldly power or greatness can do as much—none of the great statesmen of the past,
Themistokles, Kimon, and Perikles, understood anything of all this; all their efforts were
nothing but blind error and wandering.97
At the climax of his life and of his philosophical development Plato completed an ideal
picture of the State, drawn in accordance with the principles and the requirements of his
own philosophy. It rests upon a broad foundation—the multitude of its inhabitants
divided strictly into classes that in themselves and their manner of life are to display,
like a beacon that can be seen afar, the virtue of Justice. At one period this had seemed
to include all that was necessary for the completion of the ideal State; but now, far
above that level, pointing upwards into the lofty aether above the earth, a final
consummation reveals itself to him, to which all mere mundane things serve but as support
and furtherance. A small minority of the citizens, the philosophers, form this last
pinnacle of the building. Here on earth and in this state that is organized in conformity
with justice, they will serve the state, as in duty bound and not for their own
satisfaction, and take part in government.98 As soon as duty is fulfilled they will return to the supramundane
contemplation which is the aim and content of their whole life’s activity. To provide a
place where these contemplatives may live, where they may be educated for their vocation,
the highest there is; to allow dialectic as a form of living to take its place in
the activity of worldly civilization as an object of men’s effort99—to bring about all this the Ideal
State is built up step by step. The
bourgeois social virtues and their firm establishment and interconnexion, which had once
seemed the real and sufficient reason for the erection of the whole edifice of the
state—seen from this elevation, these no longer retain their independent importance.
“The so-called virtues” all pale before the highest capacity of the soul, which is the
mystic beholding of the eternal.100 The chief mission of the perfect wise man is no longer to fulfil
his obligations to the others that stand without. To make his own inner life fit and ready
for self-emancipation is now his real and immediate task. Mysticism aims at a personal
salvation such as the individual can only obtain for himself. Good works are no longer
necessary when the mind has no further connexion with earthly life and conduct. When it
comes to dealing with practical earthly affairs he who possesses the highest virtue will
have all these others added unto him.101 Virtue belongs to him; it is his real condition of being; but
the particular virtues he will rarely need to use.
This lofty pinnacle is accessible to but a few. God alone and a small102 company of
mortals are able to approach in pure thought to the everlasting Reality, the sole object
of certain, plain and unchanging Knowledge. The majority of men can never become
philosophers.103
And yet, according to this philosophy, the crown of all life belongs to the philosopher.
This is no religion for the poor in spirit. Science—the supreme knowledge of the
highest Being—is a pre-condition of salvation. To know God is to become like God.104 It is easy to see
why such a message of salvation could not attract a wider community of believers. It could
not have done so without being false to its own nature. To a few lofty spirits among
mankind, it offers a reward that beckons from eternity. Freedom from life in the
corruptible body is the prize it offers; that and a never-ending union with true
Reality—a return to what is everlasting and divine. A symbol of what the philosopher
has achieved after his death will be provided by the community by whom the departed will
be honoured as a Daimon.105
Such then is the ideal vision of a civilization in which the belief in the soul’s
immortality and its vocation to an everlasting life in the kingdom of the gods was held
with profound and serious conviction. The belief in immortality here becomes the
corner-stone of a building, the architect of which regards all earthly things as only
valid for the moment, and therefore of profound unimportance. For him only the Heaven of
the spiritual world with its everlasting laws and patterns seriously matters. He discards without a regret the
whole of Greek culture as it had expressed itself in state and society, custom and
art—an art that will last as long as humanity itself. He demands an aristocracy, and
an aristocracy measured by a standard of what is the “best” that was quite beyond the
reach of any possible human society even though it were as deeply impregnated with
aristocratic ideas as Greek society always was. And the final aim and ideal sought by this
organization of life on earth was to be the superseding of all earthly life . . .
The mind of Plato, equally ready to receive as to give, was not likely to become
immobilized for ever in a mystic rapture of vision. Even when he had finished the
Republic he did not cease to reshape his system at many points and in many
directions, while some special problems were taken up again for further and repeated
study. Even a second sketch of a political system was left behind by him in which he
sought to lay down rules for the guidance of life among the multitude who are still
regarded as completely shut out from the realm of the everlasting Forms. To this end the
highest aims of human endeavour are almost left out of sight and practical rules for
reaching the attainable “better” are supplied for the benefit of the majority. He had
learnt resignation at many points. Nevertheless, the profound conviction of all his
thoughts remained unchanged; the claims that he put before the world and mankind remained
essentially the same. For this reason after generations have not been mistaken in seeing
in him the priestly man of wisdom, who with warning finger points the immortal spirit of
man on its way from this feeble world upwards to the everlasting life.
CHAPTER XIV THE LATER AGE OF THE GREEK WORLD PART I P HILOSOPHY — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — § 5 — § 6 — NOTES TO CHAPTER XIV PART I
Plato and the Platonic account of the nature, origin, and destiny of the soul closes a
period. It marks the end of that theological and spiritualist movement to the force and
significance of which nothing bears clearer witness than the fact that it could have such
a conclusion. After this point its development ceases—at least it disappears from
the surface of Greek life: like one of those Asiatic torrents with which the ancients were
familiar it buries itself underground for a long stretch of its course, only to reappear
eventually, with all the greater effect, far away from the place of its origin. Even
Plato’s own school almost immediately after the death of its master and directing spirit
turned its attention in a direction quite other than that which he had given it.1 To have retained the
Platonic outlook would have made his pupils even more isolated in their very different age
than Plato himself had been in his own.
Greece entered upon a new and final phase of her development. The ominous breakdown of
the older political fabric at the end of the fourth century might have seemed likely to
put an end to the natural vitality of the Greek peoples. With the conquest of the East by
Macedonians and Greeks, however, new tasks were set before that people and with the new
task they acquired new faculties. The polis, indeed, the purest expression of Greek
constructive ability, could not be restored to life. Such of the old and narrow
city-republics as had not perished completely in that stormy period only languished in a
stagnant peace. Rare, indeed, are the exceptions in which (as particularly in Rhodos) a
more vigorous and independent life asserted itself. The new and swollen cities of the
Macedonian Empire, with their motley populations drawn from many nationalities, could not
make good the loss. The Leagues in which Greece seemed to be making an effort to find a
political organization of a wider compass soon broke down under the effects of inward
corruption and external violence.
Even in its deepest and most essential character the old national spirit of Greece, which
had drawn its strength from its clear-cut individuality, seemed to be suffering damage
through the unlimited extension eastwards and westwards of Greek life. It did not cease to
be an immeasurable advantage to be a Greek, but a Greek now meant anyone who had a share
in the one thing that still distinguished and characterized the Greeks, namely, Greek
culture—and Greek culture was no longer confined to a single nation. It was no fault
of this Greek humanism that not a single one of the vast populations of the East (and in
the West at last Rome stood alone) was able to make their own this culture so generously
offered to the whole world, so that there, too, all should become Greek who were
capable of becoming free human beings. Nevertheless, from all countries and nationalities
uncounted multitudes of individuals entered into the circle of this extended
Hellenism. The way was open for all who could live without the need of a way of life and
thinking modelled strictly upon national lines: for the culture which now united all
Greeks and Greek communities was based upon science—and science knows nothing of
national frontiers.
The science which could thus present itself as the guiding principle of such a large
and heterogeneous mass of cultured people, must at any rate have reached a condition of
stability if not of completely rounded finality. After all the stir and controversy of the
previous centuries it had at last arrived at a period of contented enjoyment of its own
resources: the long drawn-out struggle, the restless years of search were now held to have
borne fruit. In philosophy at least there was a distinct slackening of the insatiable zeal
and boldness of individual thinkers in posing new questions and wresting answers or in
seeking for fresh solutions to old problems. A few great systems, formulated in accordance
with the fixed tenets of the various schools of thought, still offered a refuge to those
who demanded fixity and definition in their opinions; for centuries they kept up their
special traditions without serious alteration until they, too, fell in pieces at last. A
greater measure of independence and variety was displayed by the special sciences which
since they had now been completely released for the first time from the leading-strings of
philosophy proceeded to develop freely in accordance with their own principles. Art, too,
was by no means devoid as yet of originality and attractiveness, and in spite of the
overwhelming achievements of the past refused to be driven into a position of subservience and imitation. But it was no
longer, in conjunction with the peculiar customs and manners of a people, the mistress and
dispenser of wisdom and knowledge of the world. Art becomes a plaything and an incidental
diversion: it is science that determines the general character and content of culture. But
this scientifically minded culture shares in the natural temper of all science. Science
has its feet firmly planted in life itself: it keeps men’s minds actively employed in this
world; it has small temptation to leave the firm ground of what is knowable and can never
be too well known, to voyage out into the region of the intangible which can never be a
subject of scientific inquiry. A cool rationalism, a calm adherence to the intelligible
and thinkable, without any leanings to the gloomy terrors of a mysterious world of the
unknown—such is the temper that marks the science and culture of the Hellenistic age
and marks it more distinctively than any other period of Greek culture. Such mysticism as
was still vigorous and effective kept itself timidly in the background at this time; in
the everyday world it is rather the direct contrary of mysticism that we are made aware
of; the unlovely results of the prevailing rationalism, a bleak reasonableness, a knowing
and prosaic common sense such as stares dully at us from the pages of Polybios’ History as
the point of view of the narrator himself and of those of whom he writes. It was no age of
heroes or of the heroic. A weaker and more delicate generation holds the field. The
breakdown of political life and the disappearance of its obligations made it more possible
than it had ever been before for the individual to lead his own life in his own way.2 And he makes the most
of his freedom, his culture, the treasures of an inward, private life enriched with all
the brilliance and charm of an old and perfected civilization. All the past had thought
and laboured on his behalf; he is not idle, but he is busy without ever being in a hurry,
enjoying his heritage and taking his ease in the cooling sunlight of the long drawn-out
autumn of Greek life. And he is little concerned to inquire what may follow when this
brilliant, many-coloured world that surrounds him shall have vanished from his gaze. This
world is all in all to him. The hope or fear of immortality has little effect upon the
educated people of the age.3 Philosophy to which in one form or another they are all more or
less closely attached teaches them according to its particular mood to cherish that hope
or calmly to set it to one side: in none of the popular sects had the doctrine of the eternity or imperishable nature of the
soul any serious significance as the central doctrine of a system. Natural science ruled
the day, while theology remained in the background and could only obtain a doubtful
hearing (if it was even listened to at all) for its proclamation of the divine origin and
everlasting life of the souls.
At the outset of this period, and illuminating a long stretch of it with the light of
his genius, stands the figure of Aristotle. In what this master di color’ che sanno
had to say of the soul’s nature and destiny two voices are distinctly audible. The soul,
he instructs us, is that which in a living and organic physical body brings the
potentially existing to actual existence. It is the form to the body’s matter,
the culmination of the capacities of independent life residing in the particular body.
Bodiless and immaterial itself, it is not the outcome of the mixture of the various parts
of the body; it is the cause, not the resultant, of the vital functions of its body which
exists for the soul’s benefit as its “instrument”.4 It dwells within a natural organism and
though it is itself unmoved it moves that organism as the source of its growth and
nourishment, of its desires and locomotion, of its feeling and perceiving; while in the
higher organisms it acts as the combination of all these faces. It is as little to be
thought of as separate from the body—its own body—as the power of vision is in
separation from the eye or as its shape from the moulded waxen image.5 Theoretically, indeed,
it is possible to distinguish between body and soul, but actually and in the animated
organism they cannot be distinguished. When the living creature dies the matter of which
it was composed loses it special adaptation to a purposeful organism, and this adaptation
was its life; without it there can be no independent “Substance” (οὐσία).6 The Form, the functional power of the once living organism, its
“soul”, has no longer any independent existence.
This is the voice of Aristotle the physicist when he is speaking from the standpoint of
a physical doctrine which includes the study of the soul “in so far as it occurs not
without matter”.7
Aristotle the metaphysician takes us further. In the soul of man, besides the vital powers
of the organized individual, there lives a spiritual being of more than natural character
and origin, the “Mind”—“that in us which thinks and conceives”.8 This thinking mind is
not bound to the body and its life.9 It does not come into being with the creation of the human
organism which is completed by the addition of Mind. It has no beginning and was uncreated
from eternity:10 it
enters into man at his creation “from without”.11 Even while it lives within the body it
remains unmingled with the body and its powers and uninfluenced by them.12 Enclosed within
itself it lives its separate life as something quite other than the “soul” (of which it is
nevertheless called a “part”13) and separated from it by a gulf. Comparable with the God of
Aristotle’s world it transcends what might be called its “little world”,14 the living human
organism. It influences that organism without being influenced in turn. It is akin to God;
it is called the “divine” in man.15 Its activity is the same as that of God.16 God—pure substance, unlimited,
highest, everlasting actuality—is absolute and perpetually operant thinking.17 All practical
activity, doing and creating, is far removed from God.18 So, too, the “Mind” is entirely occupied
in thinking (though here there is some alternation perhaps between the potential and the
actual).19 It
grasps, in an intuition of the intellect that is beyond failure and error,20 the “unmediated”
first principles, the first and highest concepts, immediately certain and not deducible
from still higher concepts, from which all knowledge and philosophy is derived.21
In its association with the body and its “soul” this thinking Reason lives as “the
ruling”22 element
over both—not, however, as the “realization” of this particular individual creature.
The Mind is indeed said to be that which the individual man “is”,23 and without the addition of Mind the man
could not exist, but the special and personal character belonging to the individual is not
to be found in this reasoning Mind.24 Mind is totally devoid of distinguishable qualities and is
identical in every case where it appears; it is invariably foreign to the separate and
individual character of the man to whom it is added, and hardly seems to be his
peculiar property.
When death occurs the thinking “Mind” is not involved in the destruction which
overtakes the human organism with which it was associated. Death does not affect it. Like
everything that is without beginning it is indestructible.25 It returns again to its separate
existence. Like the great World-Mind, God, and in company with it—for it has not
sprung from God and does not merge again into God—the individual Mind of man
continues in unending life.26 It
disappears now into impenetrable darkness. The separate existence of the Mind is beyond
not merely our perception but our conceiving as well—persisting for itself alone,
Mind has no mental activity, no memory and no consciousness; indeed, it is impossible to
say what special qualities or activity can be attributed to it beyond the simple predicate
of existence, of being.27
In the doctrine of this thinking Mind which is associated with the human soul “from
without” and never merges into it, of its pre-existence from eternity, its kinship with
God and its imperishable life after its separation from the human organism—in all
this Aristotle preserves a mythological element taken from the dogmatic teaching of
Plato.
There was a time when he had been a complete Platonist precisely in his doctrine of the
soul. In his youth, like other members of the Academy, he had yielded28 to the fascination
of clothing in artistic and perfected language brilliant fantasies about the origin,
nature, and destiny of the soul—the divine daimon29 inhabiting the mortal frame of man.
Later, however, it seemed inconceivable to him that “any soul may inhabit any body”.30 He could only
conceive of the “soul” of the individual man as a realization of the life of this entirely
distinct and physical organism, to which it is indissolubly bound as the purpose and form
of the particular instrument. All the vital powers as well as appetite, perception,
memory, and reflective thought, appeared to him merely as the modes of activity manifested
by the animated body which is itself unthinkable apart from its “soul”. And yet he still
preserved a relic of the old dualistic opposition between the body and the independent
substantial soul—the same conception of the soul, in fact, as that which Plato had
himself, in the later period of his philosophical development, alone retained. This was as
the contemplative Mind which is occupied in apprehending the highest truths in
intellectual intuition; and this mind is, according to Aristotle, not to be included in
the “soul”, but to be separated from it as a special being that has descended from the
heights of divinity and has been coupled with the soul from without and for its limited
period of life. The origin of this conception of a reduplicated soul is plain: it is
derived from memories of Plato and beyond that from theological doctrine which was itself
in the last resort but a spiritualized restatement of primeval popular fancies of the
psyche that dwells in the living body. But though he took over the doctrine he did not
take over the special sense that the
theologians had given to it: he omitted both the conclusions they drew and the
exhortations they based upon it. We hear no more of the “purification” of the divine Mind
within mankind. It has nothing impure or evil in it nor can any breath of pollution affect
it from without. The effort towards the “other world” of purity, the denial and rejection
of its earthly partner the living body, are foreign to the “Mind” of Aristotle.31 It has no impulse to
“deliverance” or self-emancipation; it knows of no peculiar task that points beyond this
world. The presence of this “separable” Mind in the living man is an assured fact, and
nothing more: no purpose in life is deducible from it. The fact itself seemed to be
evident from the power that man possesses of grasping immediately a highest form of
knowledge that is beyond demonstration, not as the result of the mental activity of his
soul, for the apprehension is prior to the soul, but by means of a higher spiritual
faculty, a special intellectual being that seemed to proclaim its presence and existence
within man in this way. It is thus by way of a theory of knowledge not of a theological
doctrine that we arrive at the distinction between “Mind” and “Soul”. But the doctrine
thus reasserted was in reality nothing but the old doctrine of the theologians. This
“Mind”, too, seems to the thinker to be a being akin to God. The pure contemplative
existence, a life consisting in the contemplation of the final objects of intuition is
counted as a privilege of the divine and of all divine beings, as the true purpose of
vital energy and of its manifestation; and in the description of this state the sober
reserve of his lecture style seems to be uplifted and almost illuminated with the warmth
and brilliance imparted by a genuine glow of personal experience.32 This pure activity of contemplation,
finding its deepest satisfaction in itself, belongs to the divine in man—to the
Mind; its whole life lies in this. This activity, however, the Mind performs and finishes
in this life, while it is united with the body and the body’s “soul”. There is nothing
left that can be thought of as forming the content of the life and activity of the Mind in
its separate existence after the completion of its period of life on earth. Mind and the
man with whom it is associated can hardly have a very urgent desire for that emancipation
in “another world” which is thus left blank and without content for our thought. The
thought of immortality cast in this form could no longer possess any real value or ethical
significance for man.33 It arises from a logical deduction, from metaphysical
considerations, not from a demand of
the spirit. It lacks not only the distinctness that might have appealed to the senses and
given direction to the imagination, but the power (or the intention) of playing a leading
part in the conduct or direction of life on this earth. There is no inspiration in this
doctrine—not even for the philosopher, though it was to him and his activity and his
efforts that the picture and panegyric of “Mind”, the philosopher in man, had really
referred.
It was quite possible to abide by the teaching and philosophy of Aristotle, directed as
it was to the observation and interpretation of the things of this world, while abandoning
the advanced post of the doctrine of Mind—that Being which has sunk to the level of
this world from the other world of divinity, which separates itself, with the death of
man, once more to everlasting divine life though hardly to a continuation of individual
existence. On this point in particular free discussion of the master’s teaching maintained
itself in his school: some, and by no means the weakest, of Aristotle’s successors denied
altogether and in every form the doctrine of immortality.34
The dogmatic teaching of the Stoics on the subject of the human soul is closely bound
up with the materialistic pantheism by means of which they explained all the phenomena of
life, of being and becoming upon earth. God is All, and divinity is nothing outside this
“all”, which forms the world: the Universe is God. God is thus not only the matter but the
form, the life and the power of the world. Divinity is the original matter, the etherial
Fire, the fiery “breath” which maintains itself or changes and in innumerable
metamorphoses creates the world. God is also what supplies a purpose to this world and is
the purposeful force—the reason and law of the world. The universal deity which is
thus at once matter, mind, and formative principle sends out from itself at varying
periods the multiplicity of Appearance and then again at another time takes back the
multifarious and the divided into the fiery unity of its own breath of life. Thus, in
everything that has shape, in everything that lives and moves, the content and the
unifying form is God: he is and works as their “state” in inorganic things, as “nature” in
plants, as “irrational soul” in the other living things, as rational and thinking soul in
man.35
The soul of man, thus endowed with reason, is a fragment of the divine,36 and is itself divine
like everything else in the world but in a purer sense than all other things. It has
remained closer to the first and original essence of the divine, conceived as “creative
fire” (πῦρ τεχνικών), than the
earthly fire which has lost much of its original purity and refinement. It is closer37 than the lower
matter that in all its changeful forms degenerates progressively as it gets farther and
farther away from the divine fire by gradual loss of the tension (τόνος) that had once been living and active in the primeval fire;
closer even than the material of its own body in which it dwells and rules. As something
essentially distinct from the body, then, the individual soul comes into being among the
elements of its body when that body is conceived, and it develops its full nature after
the birth of the individual.38 But even in its individual, separate existence it remains
incompletely detached from the universal life that is present in it; it remains subject to
the “universal Law” of the world, which is God, and fast bound by “fate”, the “destiny”
(πεπρωμένη,
εἱμαρμένε) which decrees the course of their existence for the totality of all Life
and the individual lives.39 Nevertheless, the soul has its special gifts and special
task—it is capable of self-determination and is responsible for its own decisions
and acts. Though it is a pure emanation from the universal Reason and bound down to no
irrational elements, it has the power of irrational choice and can resolve upon what is
evil. Though they have all sprung from one and the same original source the individual
souls are of very different character, intellect, and propensity of will. Unreason in
thought, will, and conduct is common in the world; those who have real insight are few; in
fact, the Wise Man, the man who keeps his own will in complete harmony with the universal
and divine direction of the world, is but a picture of imaginary perfection, naturæ
humanæ exemplar, never fully and perfectly realized in actual life.
Ethical interests demanded the freedom and independence of the moral personality and
its will, which can only fulfil the requirements of duty by self-mastery and the overthrow
of base impulses; but this independence was in conflict with the essential principles of
Stoic metaphysics. The Stoics taught that the world (and the soul included in it) is only
the necessary self-development of a single and absolute Being that excludes all
independent and separate multiplicity. Nor could they recognize any principle of Evil, an
anti-rational principle answering to the purity of divine power, working evil and suggesting it, and making the
individual capable of wilful disobedience to the laws of all-embracing divinity. Pure
pantheism, uniting God and the world in indissoluble unity, cannot imagine a real conflict
between humanity and divinity; it cannot postulate a principle of Evil through the
overthrow of which a lost unity with God is to be restored. Pantheism makes no claims of
an ethical or religious kind. The ingenuity of the Stoic doctors was exercised in vain in
the attempt to find a way out of this dilemma.40
From the very origin of the school two tendencies were discernible in the teaching of
the Stoa, derived as that teaching was from such different sources. On the one hand, the
ethical doctrine of the Cynics, to whom the Stoics owed the greater part of their
practical teaching, threw the individual back upon his own resources and made everything
depend upon the determination of his own will. It thus pointed in the direction of the
most self-sufficient individualism—to an ethical atomism. The physical doctrine
derived from Herakleitos, on the other hand, merged the individual completely into the
omnipotence and omnipresence of the All-One; and therefore, as its ethical counterpart,
demanded that this relation of the individual to the universal Logos of the world should
find expression in a life lived completely ex ductu rationis, in unconditional
abandonment of the individual will to the Universal Mind that is the World and God.41 In actual fact it
was Cynicism that had the profounder influence in ethical matters. The universal Law and
order of the world, embracing both universe and individual in its absolute decrees, threw
its net too widely to be able to answer closely enough to the needs of narrow and
individual existence. No practical ethics could possibly unite this distant and final aim
with the individual man in a single nexus of ordered self-determination. The intermediate
link between the universe and its laws, on the one hand, and the individual with his
private will, on the other, had formerly been the Greek polis with its law and
custom. But it was a cosmopolitan age, and for the Stoics as well as for the Cynics before
them the city-state had lost most of its educative force. The individual saw himself more
and more left to his own devices and forced to depend upon his own strength—his life
had to be ordered on self-erected standards and guided by self-found rules. Individualism,
which gave its tone to the age more decisively than in any past period of Greek life,
began to win a footing even in this pantheistic system. The “Wise Man” who is a law to
himself in perfect
self-determination,42 and feels himself bound only to those like himself,43 is individualism’s
fairest flower.
But the soul, thus elevated to a height where it was capable of much that was
impossible for or only incompletely within the reach of its weaker sisters, began more and
more to seem like something rather different from a mere dependent offshoot of the One
divine power that is the same everywhere. It is, in fact, regarded as an independent,
divine, and self-enclosed creature in those passages where in Stoic literature, as in the
older literature of the theologians, the soul is called a “daimon”—the daimon
dwelling within the individual man, and given to him as his associate.44 Death, too, is
regarded by this professedly monist system as a separation of soul from body45 in accordance with
what was really a naive or a conscious spiritualism. In death, then, this soul-essence
whose independence had been so marked even in life, does not perish with the body—it
does not even lose itself again in the One from which it had taken its origin. An
infinitely extended individual life is indeed not attributed to the individual souls: only
God, the one Soul of the World, is eternally indestructible.46 But the souls which have arisen by
separation from the one and all-embracing divinity, survive the destruction of their
bodies: until the final dissolution, in the Conflagration that will make an end of the
present period of world-history, they persist in their independent life; either all of
them (as was the older teaching of the school) or, as Chrysippos, the master of Stoic
orthodoxy, taught the souls of the “Wise” only, while the others have been lost in the
general life of the Whole some time previously.47 The stronger ethical personality is held
together in itself for a longer time.48
From the point of view of physical science and materialist doctrine49 it was also hard to
see why the soul, composed of pure fire-breath, which even in life had held the body
together and had not been held together by the body,50 should disappear at once when that body
was disintegrated. As it had once held the body together, so it might well and all the
more easily hold itself together now. Its lightness carries it upwards into the pure air
under the moon, where it is fed by the breath that rises upwards and where there is
nothing that can put an end to it.51 An “underworld” region like that of popular imagination and
theological teaching, was expressly denied by the Stoics.52 Their imagination preferred to exercise
itself in an imaginary extension of life in the Aether, which was their region of the souls;53 but as a rule it appears that such
flights of fancy were avoided. The life of the souls after death—that of the wise as
well as of the unwise—remained indistinct and without content54 in the imagination of those whose life
was still upon earth.
Thus, the doctrine of the soul-personality and its continued existence (never simply
expanded into personal immortality), which was in reality not required by the metaphysical
principles of Stoicism, and could indeed hardly be reconciled with them, had in fact no
serious significance for the general intention and substance of Stoicism—least of
all for Stoic ethics and conduct of life. The philosophy of Stoicism is directed to the
study of life, not of death. In this life on earth and only here can the purpose of human
endeavour—the reproduction of divine wisdom and virtue in the human spirit—be
fulfilled in manful contest with contrary impulses, fulfilled, that is, in so far as such
a thing is possible for lonely and isolated fragments of divinity.55
But virtue is sufficient in itself for the attainment of happiness—a happiness
which loses nothing through the brevity of its duration and to which nothing would be
added by the prolongation of its span.56 Nothing in the doctrine of Stoicism points man, or the Wise Man,
to another world beyond the life of the body and outside this earthly theatre of conflict
and duty, for the fulfilment of his being and his task.
The limited doctrine of immortality which, as we have seen, was not an essential part
of the teaching of Stoicism, began to be called in question as soon as the rigid dogmatism
of the school was subjected to the too-searching criticism of other schools of thought. In
the clash of opinions Stoicism began to be doubtful of the absolute validity of its own
teaching. The boundaries of orthodox doctrine once so firmly drawn now became more fluid;
exchange and even compromise became common. Panaitios, the first writer among the pedantic
professors of Stoicism to achieve a wider popularity for his writings, became the teacher
and friend of those aristocratic Romans who found in Greek philosophy the impulse to a
humanism that the barren soil of Rome could never have produced unaided. And Panaitios
differed in more than one point from the strict orthodoxy of the older Stoicism. For him
the soul is formed of two distinct elements57—it is no longer simple and undivided, but compounded of “Nature” and “Soul” (in the
narrower sense).58
In death these two elements separate and change into other forms. The soul having had its
origin at a particular point in past time now perishes in time. Being capable of grief and
subject to the destructive influence of the emotions it falls a victim at last to its own
pains. Panaitios, while remaining a Stoic, taught the dissolution of the soul, its death
and simultaneous destruction with the death of the body.59
His pupil Poseidonios, who as a writer possessed an even greater influence than
Panaitios with the great majority of cultivated readers who belonged to no special school
of thought, returned to the older Stoic doctrine of the simple and undivided nature of the
soul as fiery breath. He distinguished three faculties but not three separate and
independent elements in the human soul, and as a consequence of this view had no further
need to believe in the dissolution of the soul into its component parts at death. He also
denied the origin of the individual soul in time, from which the doctrine of its
destruction in time had seemed to follow by a logical necessity. He returned to the old
theological idea of the pre-existence of the soul, its life since the beginning of the
created world; and could therefore go on to assert its continued existence after
death—at least till the time of the next destruction of the World at the hands of
omnipotent Fire.60
It was not an inward and private necessity that led to this transformation of the old
teaching of the School. Doubts and criticisms levelled at it from outside—from the
Sceptics in particular—had necessitated the change. While some gave up the struggle,
others sought refuge in a re-arrangement of the figures of the dialectical game and by the
introduction of fresh characters.61 Immortality might be abandoned to criticism or reaffirmed in
either case with equal indifference. The Platonic and poetic version of Stoicism provided
by Poseidonios may have found a wider response among the readers of a highly cultivated
society who felt the need of a doctrine of immortality more as a satisfaction to the
artistic fancy than from any deeper or more temperamental causes. Cicero, the most
eloquent representative of the Hellenized Roman culture of the time, may perhaps give us a
picture of the refined and æsthetic partiality with which these ideas were taken up. In
the Dream of Scipio and the first book of the Tusculans, he gives an
account, mainly based on Poseidonios, of the belief then held of a continued life of the
soul in the divine element of the Aether.62
Stoicism had a long and vigorous life. More than ever during the first and second
centuries of our era did it fulfil its real task of acting as a practical guide to
conduct, not as a mere museum of dead erudition. It made good its claim to provide its
adherents with the autonomous freedom and independence of a mind at peace with itself,
whose virtue was proof against the tribulation and failure of life, and not corrupted by
its plenty. It was not always blind imitation of a literary fashion or the love of
displaying virtuous paradoxes that attracted the noblest of the higher Roman aristocracy
to the doctrines of Stoicism. Not a few of them guided their lives in accordance with its
principles and even died for their convictions. Not entirely “without tragic emotion”, as
the Stoic Emperor would prefer it, but at any rate with conscious and deliberate
purpose—not in mere unreasoning stubbornness63—did these Stoic martyrs go to their death. Nor was it the
unquestioned certainty of a continued life in a higher existence that made them so ready
to give up life upon this earth.64 Each in the special manner dictated to him by his own temperament
and the circumstances of his life, they still speak to us, these leaders of Roman
Stoicism—Seneca the philosophic director of the world’s conscience, Marcus Aurelius
the Emperor, and those instructors and patterns of the aspiring youth of Rome, Musonius
and Epictetus. The eager and unswerving effort of these wise men to educate themselves to
the attainment of freedom and peace, of purity and goodness of heart, wins our
admiration—not least in the case of Seneca in whom the struggle for self-mastery and
philosophic calm must have been a continual war with his own too-receptive and imaginative
nature. But just as they looked for no supernatural helper and redeemer but trusted to the
power of their own spirit for the assurance of success, so they required no promise of a
future crowning of their labours in an after-life of the soul. The whole scope of their
endeavour lies within the limits of this world. The old Stoic belief in the continued life
of the individual soul until the annihilation of all separate creation in the World
Conflagration65 is
regarded at the best as one possibility among many66—it is perhaps but a “beautiful
dream”.67 But
whether death is a transition to another form of being or a complete termination of
individual life—to the wise man it is equally welcome, for he measures the value of
life not by the number of its years
but by the richness of its content. At bottom Seneca is inclined to the view that death is
the end of all things for man, after which “everlasting peace” awaits the restless
spirit.68
The Stoic Emperor is uncertain whether death is a dissipation of the elements of the
soul (as the atomists teach) or whether the mind survives in a conscious or an unconscious
existence that must yet disappear eventually in the life of the Whole. All things are in
perpetual flux—so the Law of the universe has willed it—nor shall the human
personality maintain itself untouched and unchanged. But even supposing that death is a
“putting out” of his small individual candle, the wise man is not afraid: to the
melancholy that is the prevailing mood of his gentle, pure, and high-strung character
Death, the annihilator, seems to beckon like a friend.69
The tougher spirit of the Phrygian slave and freedman needed no conviction of personal
survival to enable him to face the battle of earthly life with courage and intrepidity.
What has been made must be unmade: without hesitation and without regret the wise man
gives himself up to the laws of the rationally-ordered universe in which the present must
make way for the future—not indeed to be lost entirely, but to be changed and to
merge its individuality, its unimportant self in new manifestations of the creative stuff
of Life. The Whole does not perish, but its parts change and alter their relations among
themselves.70 The
pantheistic principles of the school which had been taken over from Herakleitos and which
made it permanently inconceivable that the diminutive individual spark of life could
achieve a lasting separation from the central fiery mass, had become a settled conviction.
The passionate abandonment of the personal, short-lived self to the everlasting Whole and
One had become a fixed habit of mind. No longer did it seem intolerable that the
individual existence should pass away after a brief span of life; it was possible to
remain a Stoic and yet assert expressly, like Cornutus the teacher of Persius, that with
the death of its body there is an end, too, of the individual soul.71
The atomist doctrine renewed by Epicurus demanded in the most emphatic manner of its
adherents that they should abandon the belief in personal survival.
For the atomist the soul is corporeal, a compound made up of the most mobile of the atoms which form the plastic
elements of air and fire. It occupies all parts of the body, and is held together by the
body, while at the same time, and in spite of this, holding itself in essential
distinctness from the body.72 Epicurus also speaks of the “Soul” as a special and enduring
substance within the body, a “part” of the corporeal, not a mere “harmony” resulting from
the association of the parts of the body.73 He even speaks of two parts or modes of manifestation in the
“soul”; the irrational, which holds the whole body in its sway as its vital force, and the
rational, situated in the breast, which exercises will and intelligence and is the last
and most essential source of life in living things, without the undivided presence of
which death occurs.74 Anima and animus (as Lucretius calls them),
distinct but not separable from one another,75 come into being in the embryo of man and
grow to maturity, old age and decay, together with the body.76 If death occurs it means that the atoms
belonging to the body are separated and the soul-atoms withdrawn—even before the
final dissolution of the body, the separable “soul” disappears. No longer held together by
the body, it is blown away in the wind, it disappears “like smoke” in the air.77 The soul, this soul
that had animated the individual man, is no more.78 The material elements of which it was
composed are indestructible; it is quite possible that they may at some future time
combine together with the life-stuff to produce new life and consciousness of exactly the
same kind as had once been joined together in the living man. But, if so, it will be a new
creature that thus comes into being: the original man has been annihilated by death; there
is no bond of continuous consciousness uniting him with the fresh creation.79 The vital forces of
the world are continuous, undiminished, indestructible, but in the formation of the
individual living creature they are only lent temporarily, for this occasion and for a
brief period, after which they are withdrawn for ever from the particular creature.
Vitaque mancipio nulli datur, omnibus usu.
After his death the individual is unaffected by the fate of his inanimate body;80 nor should he be
troubled by the thought of what may happen to the atoms of his soul. Death does not
concern him at all; for he only is when death is not; where death is, he is no longer
there.81 Sensation
and consciousness have left him at the dissolution of body and soul; what he cannot
possibly feel affects him no longer. Epicurean maxims are never tired of driving home
this proposition: death is nothing to
us.82 From every
possible direction, from abstract principle and practical experience in actual life,
Lucretius labours to demonstrate the truth of this view83 as ardently as other philosophers seek to
prove its opposite. Physical science has no more valuable service to render than that of
convincing us of its truth.84 Just as the wisdom of Epicurus has no other purpose than to
protect man, of all creatures the one most sensitive to pain, from distress and
anguish—and even pleasure is but the removal of pain—so more particularly, in
putting an end to the fear of death and the craving after unceasing life, it serves this
finite life itself,85 that is committed to us once and for all and never repeated.86 If a man has once
succeeded in realizing that he will cease to be in the moment of death’s coming, he will
neither be oppressed with terror at the threatened loss of self-consciousness nor will the
terrors of eternity87 or the fabulous monsters of the spirit-world below the earth88 darken his existence
by casting their dark shadow over all his life.89 He will devote himself to life without
repining, neither fearing death nor seeking it.90
He alone—the ideal Wise Man of the Epicurean faith—will know how to live as
the true artist of his own life;91 he will not waste the precious time in vain preparations for the
future,92 but will
cram every moment to the full so that his brief span of existence will have all that a
long life could give. Long life, in fact, even life without an end, would not make him any
happier or any richer. What life has to offer it has already offered—anything
further must only be a repetition of what has gone before: eadem sunt omnia
semper.93 The
Wise Man has no reason even to look for an eternity of life.94 In his own personality, in this present
“now”, he possesses all the conditions necessary to happiness. The very transience of this
supreme happiness to which mortality can attain makes it seem the more valuable to him. To
the development and the enjoyment of this, the only life that belongs to him he will
devote himself exclusively. In ethical matters, too, the atomist doctrine holds good.
There is no such thing in nature as an essential community of human beings—still
less of humanity—there are only individuals.95 In associations entered into by free and
unforced choice the individual may attach himself to the individual as one friend to
another; but the political societies that men have invented and set up among themselves
have no obligations for the Wise Man. He is himself the centre and indeed the whole
circumference of the world surrounding him. State and society are valuable, and indeed only exist for
the protection of the individual and to make it possible for him under their enfolding
care to develop his own personality in freedom.96 The individual, on the other hand, does
not exist for the state, but for himself. “It is no longer necessary to save the Hellenes
or to win crowns of victory from them in contests of wisdom.”97 Such is the decision reached with a sigh
of relief by a civilization that has attained the highest point of its development and is
now overcome by a lassitude in which it no longer sets itself new tasks, but takes its
ease as age may be permitted to do. In its lassitude it no longer hopes, and in all
honesty no longer cares, to extend the period of its existence beyond the limits of this
earthly life. Calm and untroubled it sees this life, dear though it may once have been,
fade away, taking its leave and sinking into nothingness without a struggle.
CHAPTER XIV PART II P OPULAR B ELIEF — § 2 — § 3 — § 4 — § 5 — § 6 — NOTES TO CHAPTER XIV PART II
Philosophic teaching and the philosophic outlook were at this time by no means confined
exclusively to the narrow circles dominated by particular schools. Never more widely or
more effectively than in this Hellenistic period did philosophy in one shape or another
provide the basis and common medium of a culture that no one of moderate wealth and
leisure would willingly be without. Such ideas as educated people of the time generally
possessed, dealing in a more connected and definite form with the things of this life and
existence that lie beyond the scope of immediate perception, were all drawn from the
teaching of philosophy. To a certain extent this is true also of the current views as to
the nature and destiny of the soul. But in the region of the unknowable philosophy can
never entirely replace or suppress the natural—the irrational beliefs—of
mankind. Such beliefs were in their natural element in dealing with such subjects. They
influenced even the philosophically enlightened and their authority was supreme with the
many who in every age are incapable of understanding the disinterested search for
knowledge. Even in this supreme period of universal philosophic culture, popular beliefs
about the soul still remained in force, unmodified by the speculations or the exhortations
of philosophers.
They had their roots—these beliefs—not in any form of speculative thought
but in the practice of the Cult of Souls: and that Cult, as it has been described1 for an earlier stage of
Greek life, still went on unaltered and with undiminished vigour. This may be asserted
with confidence, though we can produce no very important evidence from the literature of
this later period. The character and content of that literature is such that we should
hardly expect to find such evidence in it. But for the most part the literary evidence
from which we were able to illustrate the Cult of Souls in an earlier period may be taken
to apply equally to the age with which we are now dealing. Even in its final years
Lucian’s pamphlet On Mourning bears express witness to the survival of the ancient
and sanctified usages in their fullest compass. We hear again of the washing, anointing,
and crowning of the dead, the
ceremonious lying-in-state upon the bier, the violent and extravagant lament over the dead
body, and all the traditional customs that are still in full force. Last comes the solemn
interment of the body—the articles of luxury burnt together with the corpse of the
dead man or buried with him in the grave—articles that had once belonged to him and
which he is supposed to enjoy even in death—the feeding of the helpless soul of the
dead with libations of wine and burnt-offerings—the ritual fasting of the relatives
only broken, after three days, in the Banquet of the Dead.2
The dead man must not be deprived of a single one of “the customary things”—only
so can his well-being be fully secured.3 The most important of these is the solemn interment of the body.
This is carried out not only by the family of the dead man, but in many cases also by the
society to which he may have belonged.4 In these times when the cities sought to make up for the loss of
more serious interests in their life by an often touching care for the immediate and the
insignificant, deserving citizens were frequently honoured with elaborate funeral
processions in which the municipality took part;5 the city fathers would then probably decree
that representatives should be sent to the survivors and commissioned to express the
sympathy of the city in their loss and distract their minds from their grief by a
speech.6
The ritual act of burial, the object of so much pious zeal, was the very reverse of the
indifferent matter that philosophy loved to represent it.7 The sanctity of the place where rests the
dead is also a matter of great importance, not only for the dead man himself but for the
rest of the family which desires to be still united in the life of the spirit world, and
so inhabits a common burial-ground (generally outside the city, very rarely within,8 but sometimes, even
yet, actually inside the house).9 The founder of a family-grave desires the members of it to be
joined together in the same grave for at least three generations.10 Those who have a right to be buried there
take steps—religious and legal or municipal—against the profanation of this
family tomb and sanctuary by the burying in it of strangers or the pillaging of the
vault—a practice that became increasingly common in the final period of the antique
world.11 There are
innumerable grave-notices threatening money penalties in accordance with the ancient law
of the city, to be paid into the public treasury by those who violate the peace of the
grave.12 No less
common are the inscriptions which place the grave and its sanctity under the protection of the underworld
deities, invoking at the same time the most shocking curses—torments and calamities
both temporal and eternal—against profaners of the holiness of the tomb.13 Especially the
inhabitants of certain districts of Asia Minor, only very superficially Hellenized, give
themselves free rein in the accumulation of such violent execrations. In their case the
dark superstitions of ancestral and native worship of gods or spirits may have infected
the Hellenes also—it is often the Greeks who become barbarian rather than the
barbarians who are Hellenized in the history of Greek relations with these stubborn and
barbarous native populations.14 But even in lands where the Greek population has maintained
itself without admixture such execrations are occasionally to be found in graves.
As time went on and the sanctity and peace of the grave began to be more and more
seriously threatened, measures of all kinds were taken for its protection. The grave is no
mere chamber of corruption; the souls of the dead dwell there,15 and therefore is it holy; as a sanctuary
it becomes completely sanctified when it has received the last member of the family, and
is enclosed for ever.16 The family so long as it lasts continues to pay the regular
Soul-Cult to its ancestors;17 sometimes special foundations ensure the payment for ever18 of the Soul-Cult of
which the dead have need.19 Even those whose burial place lies far away from the graves of
their own family20
are not entirely deprived of benevolent care and cult.
The pre-supposition of all Cult of Souls—that the dead survive to enjoy at least
a gloomy sepulchral existence in their last resting-place—is everywhere vividly
implied. It speaks to us with archaic simplicity from those grave-stones upon which the
dead, as though still accessible to the sounds of the human voice and able to understand
the words of the living, are addressed with the customary words of greeting.21 Sometimes the dead
man himself is provided with a similar greeting which he is supposed to address to the
passers-by22—between him, confined to his grave, and the others who
still walk about in the daylight a dialogue takes place.23 The dead man is not entirely cut off from
the affairs of the upper world. He feels an access of fresh life when he is called by the
name that he had once borne in his life-time, and the memory of which is now preserved
only by his gravestone. His fellow-citizens call upon him three times by name at his
burial;24 but even
in the grave he is capable of hearing
the precious sound. On a gravestone at Athens25 the dead man enjoins upon the members of
the actors’ guild to which he had belonged to call upon his name in chorus whenever they
pass by his grave, and to gladden him with the sound of hand-clapping, to which he had
been accustomed in life. At other times the passer-by “kisses his hand”26 to the dead man; a
gesture which denotes the honour paid to a Hero.27 The soul is not merely alive; it belongs
now, as primitive and age-long belief expressed it, to the Higher and Mightier Ones.28 Perhaps this
exaltation of the wrath and power of the dead is the meaning of the custom by which the
dead are called the Good, the Honest (χρηστοί). This usage must have become established at an
early period,29 but
it is not until these later days that it is first employed as an addition to the simple
words of greeting addressed to the dead on gravestones. In this use it is not uniformly
current; it is rare in Attica (at least, on graves of natives of that country); whereas in
Boeotia, Thessaly, and the countries of Asia Minor it is frequent and almost universal.30 In fact it is
natural to suppose31
that this mode of address, originally a euphemistic title addressed to the ghosts of the
dead who were conceived as quite capable of acting in a manner the very reverse of that
attributed to them by the word, was intended to suggest the power belonging to the
personality so addressed as one who has risen to a higher form of existence—and to
venerate him with becoming awe.32
The conception of the departed spirit as one who has been raised to a higher state of
dignity and power receives clearer and more conscious expression where the departed one is
called a Hero.
This class of intermediate beings standing on the border line between mankind and
godhead—the world of the Heroes—was in no danger of extinction at this period
of Greek religious belief. The attitude of mind that could think of certain special souls
as withdrawn from the limitations of visible existence and raised to a higher spiritual
state remained still vigorous and was even able to give birth to new conceptions.
In its original and proper sense the name Heros never indicated an independent
and self-sufficient spirit. Archegetes, “leader” or “originator”, is his real and
distinctive title. The Heros stands at the beginning of a series, taking its origin
from him, of mortal men for whom he
is the leader and “ancestor”. The genuine Heroes are the ancestors, whether real or
imaginary, of a family or a house; in the “Heroes”, after whom they wish to be called, the
members of a society, a clan, or even a whole race honour the archegetai of those
groups. They are always men of power and influence, prominent and distinguished from other
men, who are regarded as having thus entered into the life of Heroes after their death.
And even in later times the Heroes of a more recent elevation, though they may no longer
be the leaders of a train of descendants taking their origin from them, are yet regarded
as distinguished from the people who worship them by their peculiar virtue and dignity. To
become a Heros after death was a privilege reserved for a few great and uncommon
personalities who even in their lifetime were not as other men were.
The companies of these old and specially chosen Heroes did not suffer the fate of
forgetfulness which would have been their second and real death. The love of country and
city, undying among the Greeks, attached itself in reverent memory to the illuminated
spirits of the past who had once protected and defended their native land. When Messene
was refounded in the fourth century the Heroes of the country were solemnly called upon to
become inhabitants of the city as they had been before—more particularly
Aristomenes, the never-forgotten champion of Messenian freedom.33 Even at Leuctra he had appeared in the
melée of the fight, doing battle for the Thebans.34 Before the battle, Epameinondas had
secured the favour of the Heroines of the place, the daughters of Skedasos, by means of
prayer and sacrifice.35 These were events of the last heroic age of Greek history, but
the cult and memory of the local Heroes of the Greek countries survived into a much later
age. Leonidas was worshipped by the people of Sparta for many centuries,36 and the champions of
the Persian Wars, the saviours of Hellas, were worshipped by their remote descendants.37 Even in imperial
times the inhabitants of the island of Kos still worshipped those who had fallen to secure
their freedom centuries before.38 Such individual cases allow us to see what was the general rule:
the memory and cult of a Hero lived on as long as the community remained in existence
whose duty it was to maintain his worship. Even those Heroes—a class by
themselves—who have secured their immortality through their fame in ancient poetry39 still retained their
cult undiminished. The heroic figure
of Hektor still preserved life and reality for his worshippers in the Troad or at
Thebes.40 Even in
the third century of our era the district of Troy and the neighbouring coasts of Europe
still kept fresh the memory and the cult of the Heroes of Epic renown.41 Of Achilles, who had
a special fate, we must speak in another connexion.42
Nor did less splendid figures vanish from the memory of their narrower associations of
worshippers. Autolykos the founder of Sinope retained his cult even in the time of
Lucullus.43 At a
quite late period the relics of the specially popular Heroes of the Pan-Hellenic games
were still the subject of many superstitions44 that bear witness to their continued
influence. Heroes to whom healing powers were ascribed continued to do works of healing
and to be worshipped, and their number was even extended.45 Mere local spirits, whose very names had
been forgotten, nevertheless lost none of the honour that came to them from their
beneficent miracles; such were, for instance, that Philopregmon of Poteideia who was
celebrated by a late poet,46 or the Hero Euodos of Apollinopolis in Egypt who dispensed “good
journey” to those who honoured him in passing by his monument.47
But all Heroes were not yet reduced to such casual salutations from occasional
passers-by. In many places48 the regular festivals and sacrifices to Heroes still
survived—even human sacrifice was still sometimes made to spirits who were held
capable of special exhibitions of power.49 In a few cases the festivals of Heroes are the chief feasts in
the annual calendar of a city.50 The names of Heroes quite as much as of Gods were used in
oath-taking51 at
treaties made by Greek cities so long as they retained their independence. Foundations
were dedicated to the honour of Gods and Heroes together.52 Cult associations called themselves after
the Heroes they met to worship.53 Special priests of certain Heroes were regularly appointed.54 Even in the second
century, in his book of travels, Pausanias is able to inform us of not a few Heroes whose
cult, as he distinctly says, had gone on unbroken in their cities down to his own day.55 The annual festival
of the Heroes who had fallen at Plataea was still celebrated with the greatest pomp in the
time of Plutarch, who describes every detail of its archaic ceremonial.56 And at Sikyon, at
the same time, the Heroic festival of Aratos, the founder of the Achæan League, was still
celebrated, though here the centuries had robbed the occasion of many of its former
glories.57
In all such ceremonies it was to a single and definite spirit-personality that the
devotion of men was offered. Each of them received the cult that was due to him by the
terms of some old-established and sanctified foundation. Nothing was further from men’s
minds than the loose and vague conception, expressed sometimes by ancient writers, that
all brave men of the past or all outstanding individuals of whatever time are to
be regarded forthwith as Heroes.58 It was still clearly and consciously felt that elevation to the
rank of Hero was not a privilege that belonged as a matter of course to any particular
class of mankind, but, wherever it occurred, was essentially a ratification of quite
exceptional worth and influence displayed already in the lifetime of the Hero. Following
this conception even the Hellenistic age added to the number of the Heroes by drawing upon
the great men of the present. A little earlier Pelopidas and Timoleon had been honoured in
this way, and now the figures of Leosthenes, Kleomenes, and Philopoimen were raised to
heroic glory.59 Even
Aratos, the very incarnation of the sobriety of a too matter-of-fact age, at the end of a
life devoted with ardour but without enduring success to the service of his country, was
supposed by his countrymen to have passed over in a mysterious manner into the realm of
heroic semi-divinity.60
As in these cases whole populations honoured individuals so also did narrower and much
humbler associations, even in this rationalist age, elevate their helpers and protectors
to the rank of Hero and honour them as such. The slaves of Kos thus honoured their former
comrade and leader Drimakos;61 at another place there was a Hero who protected all refugees who
took shelter with him;62 at Ephesos there was a Hero who had been a simple shepherd.63 At the time of
Augustus, a benefactor of his city, Athenodoros, the philosopher, had been made a Hero by
grateful Tarsians after his death.64 It sometimes happens that a Hero of the distant past may find
himself confused with a descendant of the same name whom his contemporaries put in the
place of his own ancestor and worship in his stead.65
So little were men grown out of the ideas centred round the cult of Heroes that,
accustomed to the ever-increasing adoration of the “Mightier and Better”, every age was
eager to add to their number from the men of the present. They did not always wait for the
death of the individual so honoured before beginning to address him as Heros; even
in his lifetime he must enjoy a foretaste of the honour that was destined to be his after his departure from this
life. Thus, Lysander was saluted as a Hero after his victory by the Greeks whom he had
liberated from the despotism of Athens; and in the Hellenistic age many a fortunate army
commander or mighty king received the same honour. Of the Romans Flamininus the friend of
the Greeks was the first to receive it.66 This misapplication of the cult of Heroes to the living then
became still further extended.67 It may be that sometimes it was a real feeling of unusual merit
that fired the impulsive temperament of the Greeks; but in the end the custom became
almost a meaningless convention; even private individuals were thus called Hero in their
lifetime68 and
heroic honours—even the foundation of annual athletic games—were granted to
living persons almost indiscriminately.69 And at last when it was necessary to honour an individual whom
the love and passionate regret of a monarch elevated to the rank of Hero after his death
then, indeed, the age could hardly do enough in the hyperbole of pomp and ceremony. The
funeral honours paid to the dead Hephaistion are an extravagant example of this.70
If in such cases the limits between the worship of a Hero and the adoration of a god
seemed almost to have disappeared, we still have evidence of individual cases in which the
survivors, without actually naming them Heroes, offer to their much-loved dead a memorial
cult that hardly falls short of full heroic honours.71 Nor is it only in such cases as these
that we perceive the signs of a tendency to exalt the Cult of Souls everywhere and to
approximate it to the worship of ancestors in the ancient Cult of Heroes. It emerges
clearly enough, for all the brevity of their language, from the multitude of epitaphic
inscriptions in which members of simple citizen families are addressed with the title of
Heros. At any rate, it betokens an increase in the importance and dignity of the
dead when a tombstone expressly announces that an individual citizen has been “heroized”
by the city after his death. And this is what not infrequently happened—early in
Thera and later on in many other places as well.72 The same conclusion must be drawn when we
hear of associations declaring a dead member to be a Heros;73 or when a society recognizes a dead man
as Heros on the formal motion of an individual.74 Families, too, become accustomed to
giving the name to those of their number that have died before the rest; and a son will
thus speak of his father, parents of a son, and a wife of her husband—either
informally or by a formal declaration naming the dead one as Heros.75 A higher and mightier form of existence
after death must be imagined for the departed when he is thus distinguished so explicitly
from the ordinary multitude of the dead—still more so in those cases when the dead
man, elevated to a mystic communion with higher forms of life, loses his own name and
receives in exchange that of a Hero of long-standing honour, or even that of a God.76
In every case that is known to us, the “heroizing” of a dead person by the city or a
society or the family is carried out entirely on the independent authority of those
bodies. The Delphic Oracle, without whose deciding voice it was hardly possible in early
times for the company of the elect to receive any addition,77 was, in these days when the prestige of
the oracle had sunk almost to nothing, no longer applied to for its sanction. The
consequence was hardly avoidable that the licence thus accorded to corporations and
families should widen still further the bounds of the Heroes’ kingdom. In the end, these
boundaries broke down entirely. There were cities and countries where it became the custom
to apply the title of “Hero” as an epithet of honour belonging to all the dead without
distinction. It seems that this extension of “heroizing” to all the dead first became
common in Boeotia,78
though here it was not quite universal—Thespiai was an exception.79 Thessalian
grave-inscriptions give the fullest evidence for the heroizing of the dead of every age
and description. But the custom spread to every country populated by Greeks;80 only Athens is less
unrestrained81 in
the bestowal of the title of Hero upon the dead—a title which retained no more of
the old and essential meaning of the word (which perhaps survived longest in Athens) than
to say that the dead were really now dead.82
In spite of such indiscriminate application the name “Hero” still continued to be
something of a title of honour. An honour, indeed, that was thus accorded to everyone
without distinction was in danger of becoming the reverse of an honour. But isolated
phrases of a naive and popular character make it clear that a difference was still felt to
exist between the “Hero” and those who were not honoured with this distinguishing
epithet.83 When the
name of Hero was thus applied to all the dead, not in exceptional cases but as a rule, the
glory and distinction of which the idea of the “Hero” was thus deprived must have fallen
in some measure upon the individual dead, if they and the Heroes could meet on common ground. Thus, even the
dissipation of the heroic honour and its indiscriminate application to all the dead is in
reality but another indication of the fact that even in the decline of the ancient world
the power and dignity of the departed soul had not declined too, but had, on the contrary,
grown greater.
The souls of the departed show their power and the fact that they are still alive more
particularly in the effect that they have on this life and on the living. For the purposes
of the Cult of Souls they are regarded as confined to the region of the inhabited earth;
they continue in the grave or near it, for a time or permanently, and can therefore be
reached by the offerings or the prayers of their living relatives. There can be no doubt
that at this time men still believed, as they had done since the earliest times, in a
kindly relationship between the family and its departed members, an exchange in which
offerings were made at the grave by the living and blessings vouchsafed by the Unseen. It
is true, however, that we only have imperfect records of such calm and comfortable family
belief in the survival of the departed and of the part they continue to play in the daily
life of their descendants.
But there is a more sinister variety of intercourse with the souls or spirits of the
dead. They sometimes appear unsought to the living; they can be compelled by the force of
magic to use their powers in the service of the living. Both these possibilities apply
more particularly to those unquiet souls whom fate or their own hands have deprived of
life violently and before their time; to those who have not been consigned to the peace of
the grave by ceremonious burial.84 The enlightened of the time do indeed refuse to believe in ghosts
and haunting spirits of the dead that wander without rest about the place of their tragic
fate, and make their presence disagreeably felt by the living.85 But the populace, even in such
enlightened days, gave the fullest credence to stories in which the existence of a
spirit-world seemed to reveal its sinister reality, trespassing at times upon the world of
the living. Regular folk-tales of spectral apparitions, vagrant ghosts of unfortunate
souls, vampire-like spirits of the grave,86 are preserved to us in some numbers—chiefly such as
appealed to a perverted philosophy, the insaniens sapientia of an outworn age, as
seeming to confirm its fancies of an invisible world between heaven and earth. In Lucian’s
Lover of Lies the grey-beard
philosophers entertain each other in portentous seriousness with such communications from
the spirit world.87
Plutarch himself is quite seriously convinced of the reality of some ghostly
appearances.88
Philosophy, which at this time was going back to Plato, found in its system of demonology
a means of making such old wives’ tales intelligible and credible to itself.
Finally, the time arrives when the violent and arbitrary interference with the unseen
world—sorcery and spirit-raising—becomes a part of orthodox philosophy. The
popular imagination of the Greeks did not have to wait for instruction from their
barbarian neighbours, who had reduced the irrational to a system, before they could
believe in the summoning of spirits from the deep. Magic in this sense was of extreme
antiquity in Greece.89 But in the fusion and intermixture of Greeks with barbarians
which marked the Hellenistic age similar and cognate superstitions from all the corners of
the earth met together and acquired strength from their union. It was foreign sources
rather than Greek which chiefly contributed to swell the turbid and noxious stream of
sorceries and spirit-raisings, the practical application of an irrational theory of the
nature and being of the soul in separation from the body. The lofty heaven of the old
Greek gods was beginning to grow dim before the troubled vision of this later age; more
and more their place was taken by a mob of idols and an obscure rabble of lesser devils.
In this chaotic medley of Greek and barbarian demonology the companies of unquiet souls
and ghosts of the dead easily found a place. The ghost was no longer an alien when the
Gods themselves had become ghostly. When both Gods and spirits have to answer to the
spells of the sorcerer the souls of the dead are seldom left in peace.90 We possess some
relics of the art of spirit-raising in the Græco-Egyptian magic books; and we can now see
with our eyes specimens which illustrate the practical outcome of this delusion in the
magic charms and exorcisms that were scratched on tablets of lead or gold and placed in
the graves—as the natural abode of the spirits which were to be
compelled—where they have been found in considerable quantities in modern times.
Among the sinister influences that are thus conjured to do the work of vengeance,
punishment, or destruction upon the conjurer’s enemy, the unquiet souls of the dead are
also regularly mentioned. To them is attributed the power and the will to intervene with
malevolence and obstruction in the life of men, no less than to the other spiritual powers of heaven and hell in company with
whom they are summoned.91
The Cult of Souls for all its expansion gave no assistance to the picturing of what
might be the condition of the departed souls independently of their connexion with the
living. Those who troubled themselves about such matters and sought further information
were obliged to have recourse, if not to the systems of theologians and philosophers, then
to the imaginative accounts and pictures of ancient poetry and legend.
The idea of a distant realm of the souls into which the strengthless shadows of those
who had departed this life disappeared had not lost its hold on the popular imagination
even of these later ages—difficult as it might be to reconcile92 such an idea with
the pre-suppositions of cultus with its customary worship and sustenance of the souls
confined within the grave. The belief in a distant kingdom of the dead could not but
continue to be current among men for whom the Homeric poems remained the earliest manual
and school-book in the hands of youth and the source of instruction and entertainment to
every age. The passionate indignation with which philosophers of the Stoic as well as the
Epicurean faith attacked the beliefs resting on the teaching of Homer cannot be explained
except by supposing that Homer and his picture had remained a guiding force with the
masses who were uninstructed in philosophy. And, in fact, ancient writers use language
which shows that the ancient conception of Hades was by no means discarded but on the
contrary was still vigorously alive among the populace.93
As to what might go on down below and the general appearance of the
underworld—these were questions that the invention of theological and
semi-philosophic fancy, each according to its special lights and preconceptions, strove to
answer in eager competition.94 But such attempts to picture the condition of things in the
kingdom of the souls—attempts which reached their highest point in the elaborate
chiaroscuro of Vergil’s Hades—remained the exercises of ingenious fancy and rarely
pretended to be anything else. A distinct and authoritative popular system of belief on
these points was scarcely possible when the orthodox religion of the state formally and
dogmatically rejected everything of the kind.
It would, indeed, have been more natural if in connexion with the idea of the
congregation of souls enclosed in the
kingdom of the underworld deities a belief in a compensatory justice to be found in this
after-life of the dead, had grown up and obtained popular currency. The oppressed and
needy who feel themselves deprived of their share in this world’s goods think only too
easily that somewhere there must be a place where they too will some day enjoy the fruits
that others alone are allowed to pluck upon earth—and place that “somewhere” beyond
the boundaries of this world and of reality. Pious belief in the gods expects to obtain
the prize, so often denied upon earth, in a realm of the spirit. If indeed such a
conviction of a compensatory justice to come95—reward of the virtuous and
punishment of the wicked in a hereafter—was really more widely and seriously held in
this age than it had been before,96 then the cult of the underworld deities as it was practised in
the mysteries of the states and the various religious societies must have contributed in a
large degree to bring this about. And contrariwise, the belief that the punishing and
rewarding omnipotence of the gods would be felt in a hereafter must have brought an
unbroken stream of adherents to those mysteries which in fact offered their help and
mediation in the life to come. Those only could imagine that they had detailed knowledge
of the enigmas that lie beyond the reach of all experience, who could surrender themselves
entirely to the dogmatic teaching of a closed sect. We may in fact take leave to doubt
whether the gruesome pictures of a place of torment in Hades, with its undying punishment
in devouring flames, and the similar fancies that later authors sometimes express, were in
reality anything more than the private imaginations with which exclusive and superstitious
conventicles sought to terrorize their members.97 The charming pictures of a “Land of
Arrival” to which death sends the much-tried children of men, may have been more widely
accepted. Homer, the universal instructor, had stamped them upon men’s memories. For the
poet the Elysian plain had been a place situated upon the surface of the earth to which
the occasional favour of the gods was able to translate a few of their dearest favourites,
that they might there enjoy, without seeing death, unending bliss.98 In imitation of the Homeric fancy, the
poetry of the following ages had imagined the translation of many other Heroes and heroic
women of the legendary past to a secret life of bliss in Elysium or in the Islands of the
Blest.99 Later
fancy, which saw in Elysium the Land of Promise to which all men who had lived in a manner
pleasing to the gods would be taken
after their death,100 now placed its Elysium or Islands of the Blest in the interior
of the earth beyond the reach of all save disembodied souls. In later times this became
the currently accepted view, but the subject remained undefined and subject to variation.
Men must still, in fact, have imagined The Isles of the Blest, the abode of privileged
spirits, to be situated upon the surface of the earth (though, indeed, far away beyond the
limits of the discovered countries of the globe), when attempts could be made to find the
way there and to bring back news to the living. The attempt attributed to Sertorius was
only the most famous of such voyages of discovery.101 Why, indeed, should these magic Isles
remain for ever undiscovered upon the borders of the inhabited world that yet offered so
wide a field for discovery, when everybody knew of the island in the Black Sea, often
visited by living men, where Achilles, the supreme example of miraculous translation,
lived for ever in perpetual enjoyment of his youth? For centuries the island of Leukê, the
separate Elysium of Achilles and a few select among the Heroes, was visited and reverenced
with religious awe.102 Here men thought they could discern in immediate perception, and
in actual physical contact, something of the mysterious existence of blessed spirits. The
belief in the possibility of miraculous translation to an eternity of unbroken union of
body and soul, thus palpably and visibly substantiated, could not completely die even in
this prosaic age. The educated did indeed find this conception so strange and
unintelligible that when they come to speak of translation legends of the past they
profess themselves unable to say what exactly the ancients had supposed to occur when such
miracles took place.103 But the populace, which finds nothing easier to believe in than
the impossible, once more naively accepted the miracle. Did not the examples of Amphiaraos
and Trophonios plainly establish the fact of translation to underground retreats? And to
them as being still alive in their caves beneath the earth a cult was offered until an
advanced period.104 The translation of beautiful youths to everlasting life in the
kingdom of the nymphs and spirits was the subject of many folk-tales.105 Even in
contemporary life the miracle of translation seemed not altogether impossible.106 When the kings
and queens of the Macedonian empire of the East began to receive divine honours in
imitation of the great Alexander himself, it was not long before men ventured to affirm
that at the end of his earthly existence the Divine Ruler everywhere does not die but is merely “carried away”
by the gods and still lives on.107 It is the peculiar property of divinity, as Plato clearly
expresses it,108
to live for ever in the indivisible unity of body and soul. A court-bred theology could
the more easily make such demands upon the belief of subject peoples in the Semitic East,
and possibly in Egypt too, because native109 legends had already told of the translation to immortal life of
individual men dear to the gods and akin to the gods in nature; just as similar stories
became common in Italian legends too,110 though possibly only under the influence of Greek models.
Indeed, quite apart from obsequious courtliness, Greeks and half-Greeks were quite capable
of entertaining the idea111 that the darlings of their fancy, such as Alexander the Great,
had not suffered death but had been translated alive to the realm of imperishable physical
existence. This is shown clearly enough by the success which attended the appearance, in
Moesia at the beginning of the third century A.D., of another
Alexander. This imposter travelled from land to land with a great train of Bacchants, and
everywhere men believed in his identity with the great monarch.112 A little earlier they had believed with
equal credulity in the reappearance upon earth of the Emperor Nero,113 who, it was
thought, had not died but had merely disappeared. When Antinous, the beautiful youth
beloved by the Emperor Hadrian, sank and disappeared in his watery grave he was at once
regarded as a god who had, in fact, not died but had been translated.114 The miraculous
translation of Apollonios of Tyana is reported with the utmost seriousness;115 like the other
marvels and mysteries in the strange and enigmatic existence of this prophetic figure, it
found believers enough.116
But such unbroken continuance of the united life of body and soul, begun upon earth and
carried on in a mysterious abode of bliss (the oldest form taken by the idea of human
immortality in the Greek mind), was never attributed to more than a few specially favoured
and specially gifted individuals. An immortality of the human soul as such, by virtue of
its nature and composition—as the imperishable force of divinity in the mortal
body—never became a real part of the belief of the Greek populace. When
approximations to such a belief do occasionally find expression in popular modes of
thought, it is because a fragment of theology or of the universally popular philosophy has
penetrated to the lower strata of the uninstructed populace. Theology and philosophy
remained the sole true repositories of the belief in the immortality of the soul. In the meeting together and
conjunction of Greek and foreign ideas in the Hellenized Orient it was not Greek popular
tradition but solely the influence of Greek philosophy, that, finding favour even outside
the limits of Greek nationality, communicated to foreign nations the arresting concept of
the divine, imperishable vitality of the human soul—upon the impressionable Jewish
people, at least, it had the profoundest and most deeply penetrating influence.117
All the various modes of conceiving the life enjoyed by the soul after the death of the
body, as they had been explored, modified, and developed in the course of centuries, were
admitted on an equal footing to the consciousness of the Greeks in this late period of
their maturity. No formulated body of religious doctrine had by a process of exclusion and
definition given the victory to any one conception at the expense of the others. But where
so much was permitted and so little proscribed it is still possible to ask how these
various formulations of belief, expectation, and hope stood in relation to each other.
Were any more popular and more readily received than others? To answer this question it is
natural to suppose that we have only to turn to the numerous inscriptions from the
gravestones of the people. Here, especially in these later times, individuals give
unhampered expression to their own feelings and thus reveal the extent and character of
popular belief. But information derived from this source must be carefully scrutinized if
it is not to lead to misconception.
If we pass in imagination through the long rows of streets in which the Greeks placed
the memorials of their dead, and read the inscriptions on the tombstones—they now
form part of the accumulated treasures of Greek Epigraphy—the first thing that must
arrest our attention is the complete silence maintained by the enormous majority of these
inscriptions with regard to any hope—however formulated—or any expectation of
a life of the soul after death. They content themselves with recording the name of the
dead, adding only the name of the father and (in the case of a foreigner) the country of
the deceased. At the most, the custom of some localities may add a “Farewell”. Such
stubborn silence cannot be satisfactorily explained simply on the grounds of an economy
practised by the surviving relatives
of the deceased (though in some cases a municipal regulation against wordy inscriptions
may have given countenance to such economies).118 The very silence of this people that
was never at a loss for words to express its meaning whether in verse or in prose, is in
itself expressive. Where so little need was felt to give utterance to hopes of comfort,
such hopes cannot have been of very vital consequence or matters of much assurance. Men
rescued from forgetfulness only what had been the exclusive property of the
individual—his name; the appellation which had distinguished him from all others in
his lifetime and has now become the barest and emptiest envelope of the once living
personality. Inscriptions in which precise hopes of a future life are expressed form a
very small proportion of the great mass of epitaphic records. And of these very few again
are in prose. Not as simple records of plain and authentic fact do such provisions and
announcements of a blessed and hoped-for futurity present themselves. They need the
artistic pomp and circumstance with which poetic fancy and extravagant affection clothe
their inspired voyagings beyond the region of cold and matter of fact reality. This is
certainly significant. Even among the poetic epitaphs the majority allude only to the life
which the deceased has now done with, looking back upon the circumstances of his
life—his fortunes and activities and character; giving expression, often with the
most convincing sincerity, to the regret and dependence of the survivors; fixing attention
exclusively upon things of this world. Wherever, at last, allusion is made to a future
life, the tendency is rather to let fancy roam far beyond the limits of experience and
sober reflexion to a vague and visionary land of promise. Such lofty aspirations needed
more than any others the elevated language of verse. But we should run the risk of falling
into grave error if we concluded from the preponderance of such aspirations among the
metrical epitaphs that these were the normal views of the city folk who were their
contemporaries.
The simple and archaic conception which perpetuates the old Homeric attitude and views
without a complaint or a regret the disappearance of the soul of the departed into Erebos,
is of the rarest occurrence among these sepulchral verses.119 More commonly we have the prayer that
the departed may “rest in peace”, expressed in the traditional formula120—a formula
that really refers to the dead man lying in his grave but also contains a further allusion
to the “soul” that has departed to Hades.121 The idea is not yet dead that there is a realm of the souls which receives the
departed—Hades, the world ruled over by the Underworld deities, the “Chamber” of
Persephone, the seat of primeval Night.122 Here a state of semi-conscious existence is conceived to
prevail, under the empire of “Forgetfulness”, drinking of which123 the consciousness of the soul is
darkened. Here “the majority”124 are assembled, and the dead man is visited by the reassuring
thought that he may greet once more the souls of those who have gone before him.125
But sterner conceptions also occur. There is occasional reference to a judgment126 that separates
the souls in the world below, dividing them into two and sometimes three127 classes in
accordance with the deserts which they have earned on earth. There is no lingering over
the pains of the damned,128 in the description of which the theological imagination had
indulged so frequently. A more simple-minded fancy did not need such pharisaical
satisfaction in the misfortunes of sinners in order to heighten its own assurance of
superiority. There is no trace of a sentiment of penitence and terror indulged in for its
own sake. The soul hopes to come by its rights;129 to reach the “Blessed”, to arrive at
the Isles or the Island of the Blest—to Elysium, the abode of Heroes and
demi-gods.130 Such
hopes are very commonly expressed, but as a rule only in a brief phrase of confidence and
hope. We rarely meet with any elaborate or alluring picture of the abode of the blessed.131 That abode is
generally placed within the limits of the underworld kingdom of the souls,132 and such
anticipations, when particularized, refer commonly to a “Place of the Good”, which in
various forms is represented as the hoped-for dwelling-place of future life.133
But we also meet with the view that the company of the good is entirely removed from
the region of underworld darkness.134 For many individuals the hope is expressed or the certainty
announced that after death they will have their dwelling in the sky—in the shining
Aether, among the stars. This belief in the elevation of the disembodied soul to
the regions above the earth is so frequently repeated in various forms in this late period
that we must suppose that among those who entertained precise conceptions of the things of
the next world this was the most popular and widely held conviction.135 This belief that
the soul rises to the neighbourhood and even the community of the heavenly deities136 has its origin
both in religious aspiration and in philosophy. Its roots, indeed, stretch back to a much
earlier period137 and we may
suppose that even in these later days it was derived from and very largely supported by
the popular conception, disseminated by Stoic writers, of a living “breath”, which
composes the human soul, and its effort upwards to the heavenly regions.138
But such language is in many cases plainly nothing more than a conventional formula
which has already lost all vital significance; it rarely goes further than the expression
of a hope that the soul will mount upwards to the heavenly heights. Very occasionally, in
the adjective “immortal”139 applied to the soul (which only sleeps in death),140 we may detect the
influence of mixed philosophical and theological ideas. We soon come to an end of the
inscriptions which give expression to the doctrines of theology and of theologically
minded philosophy as to the divine nature of the soul, its brief pilgrimage through
earthly life and destined return to its true home in a divine incorporeal existence.141 There is no
certain mention of a belief in the transmigration of souls.142 Of the specifically Platonic doctrine
or its influence there is scarcely a trace.143
Another type of belief derives its strength not from the teachings of philosophers but
from the usage and popular practice of religion. This is the belief of those who hope to
be conducted after death to a blessed life by the special care of a god, presumably the
god to which in their life-time they have offered particular devotion. Such a god will
lead them by the hand, they hope, and conduct them into the land of bliss and purity. One
who has thus “obtained a god as his leader”144 may face the future with equanimity.
Together with Hermes the “messenger of Persephoneia”,145 Persephone herself is most frequently
mentioned among these conducting deities.146 Perhaps in this we may see a reminiscence of the hopes awakened
and cherished in the Eleusinian and other related mysteries147—hopes otherwise expressed on
these tombstones with striking rarity. On the epitaph—certainly a late
composition—of a Hierophant of Eleusis who “goes to the Immortals”, the dead man is
made to commend, as a mystery revealed by the gods, the ancient opinion illustrated by
stories like that of Kleobis and Biton148 “that death not only brings no evil to mortals, but is rather a
blessing”.149 A
gloomy philosophy has in these latter days of the old religion and worship of the gods
taken hold of the mysteries themselves and given them an attitude of hostility to human
life that was not originally theirs.150 We are reminded of the mysteries again when we find prayers
or promises that the dead shall not
drink of the water of forgetfulness in the realm of the souls, but shall be given the
“cold water” to drink by the God of the lower world; that he shall be refreshed at the
spring of Mnemosyne, the bath of immortality, and so preserve intact his memory and
consciousness, the necessary conditions of full and blessed life.151 Here there appears to be a reference to
the promises made by particular secret cults in which the departed has specially
recommended himself to the powers of life and death. This must plainly be the case when,
instead of the Greek Aidoneus, there is mention of Osiris, the Egyptian Lord of Souls.
“May Osiris give you the cold water” is a common prayer expressed in a formula that is of
frequent and significant occurrence in late epitaphs.152 Of the numerous secret cults of these
later times that promised a blessed immortality to their adherents, there is but
infrequent mention in the grave-inscriptions: occasionally at the most there is an
allusion to the special favour, reaching even beyond the grave, which belongs to the
initiated in the mysteries of Mithras.153
No doubtful promises, but real and practical experience forms the basis of the belief
of those to whom the dead has appeared visibly in a dream to assure them that his “soul”
has not been annihilated by death.154 The oldest proof of the continued existence of the soul remains
in force the longest. The pupil hopes for something higher from the master whom death has
taken away from his sight: he prays to him that, as he had once in life, so he will now
continue to stand by his side, assisting him in the pursuance of his profession as a
physician—“Thou canst, for now thou hast a more divine part in life.”155
Expectations of an energetic after-life of the departed soul, expressing themselves in
many forms, are widely current; but such expectations never achieve a unified, dogmatic
form. Nor was anyone forbidden to cherish for himself and inscribe upon his grave-stone,
unorthodox opinions of every kind—even though they should point to the very opposite
of such expectations.156
A dubious “If” precedes on many epitaphs the anticipation of a conscious life of the
dead in full possession of the senses, or a reward of the dead in accordance with their
deserts: “if anything yet remains below”. Such phrases are of very frequent occurrence.157 Indeed the doubt
itself is set aside when it is distinctly asserted that after death nothing of the man
remains alive. All that men say of Hades and its terrors or its consolations is the fabled
invention of poets; darkness and
nothingness is all that awaits us below.158 The dead turns to ashes or to earth;159 the elements out of which he was
created take back what is their own.160 Life is only lent to man and in death he restores the loan
again.161 In death
he pays tribute to nature.162 The bitter outcry of the survivors against death, the savage
beast of prey, loveless and pitiless, that has snatched away their dearest from their
side, shows small hope of the preservation of the vanished life.163 Grief and complaint, say others, are
vain both for the dead and for the living; no man returns; the parting effected by death
is for ever.164
Only submission is left.165 “Take comfort, child, no man is immortal”—so runs the
conventional phrase current among the populace and inscribed by many upon the graves of
their vanished dead.166 “Once I was not, then I was, and now I am no more: what more is
there to be said?”—so speaks the dead from more than one gravestone, addressing the
living who is soon to suffer the same fate.167 “Live,” he cries to the living, “for
there is nothing sweeter granted to us mortals than this life in the daylight.”168 A last thought
reverts once more to the life that has been left behind on earth. The body dies,
personality vanishes, nothing is left alive on earth but the memory of the deeds and
virtue of the departed.169 But there is a continuance in the life of others, more vital
than in the empty sound of fame, achieved by him who leaves behind him on earth children
and children’s children. There are many who, in these later ages too, are content, in the
true spirit of antiquity, with this blessing and desire no other consolation for their own
annihilation.170
But such reassertions of the antique temper were of rarer and rarer occurrence. The
ancient world to which it had given such toughness and energy of purpose was on its
death-bed. With the end of the third and the beginning of the fourth century it enters
upon its last agony; a general failure of nerve had long threatened the loosely bound
masses that shared in the Græco-Roman civilization. In the general atrophy that beset its
old age the vigorous blood of the genuine and unadulterated Greek and Roman stocks was
flowing but feebly. Now the universal process of decay sets in irresistibly. It was its
own inherent weakness that made the attacks of outside forces so ominous to the old world.
In the West the old order vanished more swiftly and submitted more completely to the new forces, than in the
Hellenized East. It was not that the old civilization was any less rotten in the East than
in the West. The enfeebled hand and the failing mind betray themselves in every
utterance—in the last spasms of vital energy that inspired the art and literature of
moribund Greece. The impoverishment of the vital forces out of which Greece had once
brought forth the flower of its special and characteristic spirit makes itself felt in the
altered relation of the individual to the whole, and of the totality of visible life to
the shadowy powers of the unseen world. Individualism has had its day. No longer is the
emancipation of the individual the object of man’s endeavour; no longer is he required to
arm himself against all that is not himself, that is outside the region of his free will
and choice. He is not strong enough, and should not feel himself strong enough, to trust
to the self-conscious strength of his own intelligence. Authority—an authority that
is the same for all—must be his guide. Rationalism is dead. In the last years of the
second century a religious reaction begins to assert itself and makes itself felt more and
more in the period that follows. Philosophy itself becomes at last a religion, drawing its
nourishment from surmise and revelation. The invisible world wins the day over the meagre
present, so grievously bound down by the limitation of mere experience. No longer does the
soul await with courage and calmness whatever may be hidden behind the dark curtain of
death. Life seemed to need something to complete it. And how faded and grey life had
become171—a
rejuvenation upon this earth seemed to be out of the question. All the more complete, in
consequence, is the submission that throws itself with closed eyes and eager yearning upon
another world, situated now far beyond the limits of the known or knowable world of the
living. Hopes and a vague longing, a shrinking before the mysterious terrors of the
unknown, fill the soul. Never in the history of the ancient world is the belief in an
immortal life of the soul after death a matter of such burning and exacerbated ardour as
in these last days when the antique civilization was preparing itself to breathe its
last.
Hopes of immortality, widely espoused by the masses and fed rather on faith than on
reflexion, sought satisfaction in the brilliant ceremonial of religions that easily
outshone the simple worship of every day officially undertaken by the city. In these new
rites the worshippers united in the secret cult seemed to be placed more directly in the
hands of the gods; and, above all, a blessed existence hereafter was assured to pious
believers. In these days the ancient
and hallowed mysteries of Eleusis awake to a new life and remain in vigorous activity till
nearly the end of the fourth century.172 Orphic conventicles must have attracted worshippers for ages;173
the Hellenized Orient was familiar with many such orgiastic cults.
In the mixed populations of the East the new religions proved more attractive to the
Greeks, too, than their old worship of the gods of Greece. Clear and definite obligations,
fixed commandments and dogmas, holding the weak and frail individual in their stronger
embrace, seemed to belong more peculiarly to these foreign worships than to the old
beliefs of Greece. Rigid and unalterable maintenance of primitive ideas and practices
seemed to give the former the stamp of sacred and certain knowledge. From all men they
demanded perfect submission to the God and his priests; perfect renunciation of the world,
conceived as dualistically opposed to the divine; the purging away of the contamination of
its lusts by purifications and sanctifications, ceremonial expiations and asceticisms. By
these means the faithful prepared themselves for the highest reward that piety could
conceive; an unending life of bliss far away from this unclean world in the realm of the
holy and the consecrated. To the belief in a blessed immortality these foreign mysteries
contributed their much desired support; and the populace welcomed their message of
salvation with all the greater eagerness since their varied and impressive ceremonial
contrasted so strikingly with the plain and homely worship of the Greek gods. In the
symbolism of these exotic cults men seemed to discern a mysterious and secret knowledge;
and to the divine figures illuminated by such a halo were easily attributed strange and
magical powers beyond belief or experience. The cult of the Egyptian deities had long been
familiar both in the East and in the West, and they maintained and extended their
influence down to the last days of the ancient religions. The Phrygian deities, the
Thraco-Phrygian cults of Sabazios, Attis, and Kybele, and the Persian worship of Mithras
were later comers, but they, too, took equally firm root and spread over the whole extent
of the empire.174
The higher culture of these last centuries, having become credulous and avid of
marvels, no longer looked with contempt upon the means of salvation and sanctification
which had once been left almost entirely to the lower orders of the population. The most
cultivated and educated people of these times used their culture and their education
simply to justify everything mysterious and incomprehensible in itself—even when it was expressed in the most physical
symbolism. The newly awakened religious interest of the populace had coincided with a
return on the part of philosophy to the teaching of Plato; a teaching which itself tended
towards religion. Platonism had invaded the doctrine of other schools at many points, and
it had already acquired a new home for itself in the restored Academy, where once an
un-Platonic Scepticism had overthrown the teaching of the master. Now a new Platonism
comes forward and overwhelms all the other schools of philosophy. Absorbing the doctrines
of Aristotle and Chrysippos (which it fancied it could reconcile with Platonism), it
weaved them into its own special teaching so that the whole presented a subtle and
far-reaching system of thought. The speculative system of Neoplatonism, into which the old
age of Greece, in spite of its weariness, contrived to introduce so much profundity,
spirit, and ingenuity (together with a luxuriant mass of scholastic folly), fills the
history of the last centuries of Greek thought. Its fundamental tendency is, once more, a
turning away from the life of nature, and a determined invasion of a transcendent world of
pure spirit; and it was by this tendency that it satisfied the needs of its time. The Sole
and First Cause, lying beyond all being and continually expressing itself in creative
emanations, yet never troubled or impaired in its perfect and eternal transcendency; the
development, in an unbroken process from this One, of the world of thinking, of the Ideas
and pure thought preserved in it—the world of Spirit and the world of
Matter—until at last, in longing and desire,175 all things created return to the origin
of all Being: to describe and express all this is the single theme, persisting throughout
all variations, of this philosophy. The whole fabric of reality, the interplay of cause
and effect, depends upon the inherence of the thing caused in its Cause from which it
takes its origin and to which it returns at last. That which in the evolution of nature
takes its origin from the One, and degenerates more and more completely, in the darkness
and corruption of Matter, as it gets further away from its source—now becomes Man
and seeks in morality and religion a conscious return to the pure and everlasting and
unfailing One. The divine does not descend to earth and man must reach upwards to the
divine heights in order to unite himself with the One that is before all multiplicity.
This union can be brought about by the pure exercise of the human reason, but also in the
mysterious harmony of the individual life with the First Cause that is beyond all reason
in the ecstasy that is above all
rationality. It can be achieved when at last the whole series of rebirths has been passed
through, whereupon the pure soul, the divine in man, enters into the divinity of the
Whole.176
To fly from the world—not to work within the world to produce something
better—is the teaching and injunction of this last Greek philosophy. Away from
separate, divided Being, upward towards the uninterrupted glory of the One divine life,
the soul wings its way. The world, this visible world of matter, is fair, says Plotinos,
for it is the work and image of the divine, present and working in it. A last gleam of the
departing sunlight of Greek sensibility seems to break through the words in which Plotinos
rejects the Christian-Gnostic hatred of the world.177 The ugly, he says, is strange and
contrary to God as well as to Nature.178 But the soul must no longer rest in the world of created
beauty.179 The
soul is so profoundly conscious of its derivation from the supra-sensual, of its divinity
and eternity, that it must rise above all created being and reach out to the One that was
before the world and remains for ever outside the world.180
This philosophy, profoundly estranged though it was from the old Greek attitude to life
with its enjoyment of the world, nevertheless felt itself called upon to oppose the rising
tide of the new and irresistible religion. It took under its protection the ancient Greek
culture and the ancient faith that was so inseparably bound up with that culture. Its most
convinced supporters, with the last of the Emperors of the old faith at their head, threw
themselves whole-heartedly into the fray. And before them rode the Genius of ancient
Hellas, and the old beliefs of Greece. But when the battle had been fought and lost it
became apparent to all the world that it was a corpse that rode before the exalted
combatants, like the body of the dead Cid Campeador fastened upon his horse and leading
his hosts against the Moors. The ancient religion of Greece, and with it the whole
civilized life of the Greek world, faded and died at that discovery, and could not be
recalled to life. A newer faith, very differently endowed and having power to crush the
heavily laden soul and point it upwards in absolute submission to the divine compassion,
held the field. The new world that was coming into being had need of it.
And yet—was Greece quite extinguished and dead for ever? Much—only too
much—of the philosophy of its old age lived on in the speculative system of the
Christian faith. And in the whole of modern culture so far as it has built itself upon
Christianity or by extension from it,
in all modern science and art, not a little survives of Greek genius and Greek
inspiration. The outward embodiment of Hellas is gone; its spirit is imperishable. Nothing
that has once been alive in the spiritual life of man can ever perish entirely; it has
achieved a new form of existence in the consciousness of mankind—an immortality of
its own. Not always in equal measure, nor always in the same place, does the stream of
Greek thought rise to the surface in the life of mankind. But it is a river that never
quite runs dry; it vanishes, to reappear; it buries itself to emerge again. Desinunt
ista, non pereunt.
APPENDIX I — APPENDIX II μασχαλισμός — APPENDIX III ἀμύητοι, ἄγαμοι AND D ANAÏDES IN THE U NDERWORLD — APPENDIX IV T HE T ETRALOGIES OF A NTIPHON . — APPENDIX V R ITUAL P URIFICATION EFFECTED BY R UNNING W ATER, R UBBING WITH A NIMAL OR V EGETABLE S UBSTANCES ( σκίλλα , F IGS ), A BSORPTION OF THE materia peccans INTO E GGS . — APPENDIX VI H EKATE AND THE Ἑκατικὰ φάσματα , G ORGYRA, G ORGO, M ORMOLYKE, M ORMO, B AUBO, G ELLO, E MPOUSA, ETC. — APPENDIX VII — APPENDIX VIII D ISINTEGRATION OF C ONSCIOUSNESS AND R EDUPLICATION OF P ERSONALITY — APPENDIX IX T HE G REAT O RPHIC T HEOGONY — APPENDIX X P REVIOUS L IVES OF P YTHAGORAS. H IS D ESCENT TO H ADES — APPENDIX XI I NITIATION CONSIDERED AS A DOPTION BY THE G OD — APPENDIX XII M AGICAL E XORCISMS OF THE D EAD ON LATE κατάδεσμοι, φιμωτικά , ETC.
In many legends death by lightning makes the victim holy and raises him to
godlike (everlasting) life. We need only remember the story of Semele who now ζώει ἐν Ὀλυμπίοις ἀποθανοῖσα βρόμῳ κεραυνοῦ (Pi., O. ii, 27), or
that of Herakles and his vanishing from the pyre of wood lighted by Zeus’ flash of
lightning (see partic. D.S. 4, 38, 4–5), or the parallel accounts of the translation
or death by lightning of Erechtheus (above, chap. iii, n. 39). The
primitive, popular belief finds unusually clear expression in the words of Charax ap.
Anon. de Incred. xvi, p. 325, 5 ff. West., who says of Semele, κεραυνοῦ κατασκήψαντος ἠφανίσθη· ἐκείνην μὲν οὖν, ὁποῖα ἐπὶ τοῖς διοβλήτοις λέγεται, θείας μοίρας λαχεῖν ᾠήθησαν.
(In this account Semele is immediately raised to heaven by the flash of
lightning—a version of the story frequently given by later authors: Ζεὺς τὴν Σεμέλην ἐκ τῆς γῆς εἰς τὸν Ὄλυμπον κομίζει διὰ
πυρός, Aristid. 1, p. 47 Dind. [O. 41, 3 K.]. Cf. Philostr., Imag. i,
14; Nonnus, D. viii, 409 ff. The passage of Pindar quoted above would also admit of
a similar interpretation.) Generally speaking, ὁ κεραυνωθεὶς ὡς θεὸς τιμᾶται
(Artem. 2, 9, p. 94, 26) as one ὑπὸ Διὸς τετιμημένος (ib. 93, 24). The belief in such elevation
of a mortal through the disruption and purification of his body by the sacred fire of
lightning (a πῦρ καθάρσιον of the
highest kind—see chap. i, n. 41) need not be of late origin simply because it so
happens that only late authorities speak of it in unmistakable terms (as Wilamowitz
thinks, Ind. Schol. Götting. hib. 1895, pp. 12–13). Such lofty conceptions
were by this time no longer the product of popular imagination. Besides, it is quite
clearly referred to in the above-mentioned story of Semele (see esp. D.S. 5, 52, 2) and in
those of Herakles, Erechtheus, Asklepios. In the same way lightning struck the tomb of
Lykourgos (as afterwards that of Euripides) as θεοφιλέστατος καὶ ὁσιώτατος (Plu., Lyc. 31). When
the statues of the Olympic victor Euthymos at Locri and Olympia are struck by lightning it
shows that he has become a Hero: Pliny, NH. vii, 152. The body of the person struck
by lightning remains uncorruptible: dogs and birds of prey dare not touch it: Plu.,
Smp. 4, 2, 3, p. 665 B; it must be buried in the place where the lightning struck
it (Artem., p. 95, 6; cf. Fest., p. 178b, 21 ff.; Plin., NH. ii, 145). Every detail
shows plainly that the διόβλητος was
regarded as holy. This, however, does not prevent death by lightning from being regarded
on other occasions as the punishment of crime—as in the cases of Salmoneus,
Kapaneus, etc.; though in some even of these cases the idea is occasionally present that
the lightning’s victim is raised to a higher existence. This is distinctly so when
Euripides in Suppl. makes a character call Kapaneus, who has been killed by
lightning, a ἱερὸς νεκρός (935) and his
τύμβος (rogus) ἱερός too (981). ἱερός
never means “accursed” like the Lat.
sacer: it is invariably a title of honour. Kapaneus is here called “holy” just as
Astakides, on his translation to everlasting life, is ἱερός in Kallimachos; and as Hesiod speaks of the ἱερὸν γένος ἀθανάτων (with
τύμβος ἱερός cf. S., OC. 1545,
1763). We must not fail to observe that in this passage, where a friend of Kap. is
supposed to be speaking, the latter is certainly not regarded by Eurip. as an impious
person (as he is generally in Tragedy, and by Eurip. himself in Phoen., and even in
Suppl. the enemy so regards him (496 ff.), though acc. to this speaker Amphiaraos
too is snatched away in atonement for his crime). Euripides in fact makes him highly
praised by Adrastos (861 ff.) as the very opposite of a ὑβριστής; and it is obvious that Euadne’s sacrifice of her
life which immediately follows is not intended to be offered for the benefit of a criminal
and enemy of the gods. For these reasons Euripides ennobles the character of Kapaneus and,
consequently, the death of the Hero by lightning can no longer stand for his punishment,
but is on the contrary a distinction. He becomes a ἱερὸς νεκρός. This, however, could not have been done by Eurip. unless the
view that such a death might in certain circumstances bring honour on the victim and
elevate him to a higher plane of being, had been at that time widespread and generally
recognized. Eurip. therefore provides the most distinct evidence for the existence of such
a belief in his time. (As one of the exalted dead Kapaneus is to be separated from the
rest of the dead and burnt παρ’
οἴκους τούσδε: 935, 936, 1009—i.e. before the ἀνάκτορον of the Goddesses at Eleusis: 88, 290.)—Finally
Asklepios, in all the stories that are told of his death by lightning (and already in Hes.
fr. 109 Rz.), is never regarded as entirely removed from this life: he lives on as
Hero or god for all time, dispensing blessings. Zeus allows him to live on for ever
immortal (Luc., DD. 13), and acc. to later versions of the story, in the
constellation Ophiuchus (Eratosth. καταστ. 6;
Hygin., Astron, ii, 14); the real and primitive conception evidently being that he
was transported to everlasting life by Zeus’ lightning-flash. So Min. Fel. 22, 7, says
quite rightly: Aesculapius, ut in deum surgat, fulminatur.
ἐμασχαλίσθη is the word used
by Aesch., Cho. 439, of the murdered Agamemnon. Soph., El. 445, says ὑφ’ ἧς (Κλυταιμνήστρας) θανὼν ἄτιμος
ὥστε δυσμενὴς ἐμασχαλίσθη—also of Agamemnon. What particular abomination was
meant by this brief statement must have been immediately understood by the Athenian public
of the day. A more detailed account is given by Phot. and Suid. μασχαλίσματα (cf. Hesych. s.v.; Apostol., Pr. xi, 4),
and they give Aristophanes of Byzantium as their authority. (Not from
Aristophanes—for they differ in many particulars—but from a closely related
source come the two versions of the
Scholion to Soph., El. 446 and EM. 118, 22 f.) According to their authority
μασχαλισμός is something done by the
murderer (οἱ
φονεύσαντες ἐξ ἐπιβουλῆς—Aristoph.) to the corpse of the murdered man. He
cuts off the extremities of his victim, strings the severed parts on a chain and puts them
on.—On whom? on himself? or the murdered man? Aristophanes’ words are undecisive:
the Schol. Soph., El. 445, speaks in the first version of “himself” (ἑαυτοῖς, p. 123, 17 Papag.) and in the second of
“him”, i.e. the murdered man: περὶ τὴν μασχάλην αὐτοῦ ἐκρέμαζον αὐτά [τὰ
ἄκρα], p. 123, 23; cf. 124, 5. This too is probably the meaning of Schol. Ap. Rh.
iv, 477; EM. 118, 28–9, speaks distinctly of hanging the chain round the neck
of the dead man. This is, in fact, the most probable version. The murderer hung the limbs,
strung together on a rope, round the neck of his victim and then drew the rope under the
armpits (μασχάλαι): a proceeding which is
far from being “impossible” (as has been said), as anyone may discover by trying it for
himself. The murderer then crossed the ends of the rope over the breast of his victim and
after drawing them under the armpits fastened them behind his back. From this process of
drawing under the armpits the whole procedure is called μασχαλισμός, and the μόρια of the dead man thus fastened to his body are his μασχαλίσματα (Aristoph.).
Anyone who wishes to reject this description of μασχαλισμός (as some have done recently) must first of all
show from what source Aristophanes of Byzantium—whom no one who knows him would
accuse of improvizing such details or of concealing his ignorance by invention—can
have got his information if not from actual report and historical tradition. The
possibility that he arrived at it by straining the meaning and giving a private
interpretation of his own to the words μασχαλίζειν and μασχαλισμός is excluded by the nature of these words. They
offer no hint whatever in the direction of the special meaning suggested by his account.
We cannot indeed say (as Wilamowitz does on A., Cho. 439) that “grammar” forbids us
to accept the explanation of what happened in μασχαλίζειν given by Aristoph. To say: ἐμασχαλίσθη, “he had to suffer μασχαλίζειν, μασχαλισμός,” is equally correct
whatever sense we give to the process of μασχαλισμός. But the word itself does not testify, by its
mere form, to the absolute or exclusive correctness of Aristophanes’ interpretation: it
denotes without distinction absolutely any proceeding in which the μασχάλαι figure at all. Verbs in -ιζειν, derived from the names of parts of the body, can denote
according to the circumstances the utmost variety of actions done to or with the part of
the body concerned: cf. κεφαλίζειν, αὐχενίζειν, τραχηλίζειν, λαιμίζειν, ὠμίζειν,
ῥαχίζειν, χειρίζειν, δακτυλίζειν, γαστρίζειν, σκελίζειν (and even πυγίζειν). What particular sort of activity applied
to the μασχάλαι is indicated by the verb
μασχαλίζειν cannot be decided from the
mere form of the verb. This only makes it the more necessary to adhere to Aristophanes’
interpretation, which must have been derived from some other source, i.e. from actual
knowledge. It may be true that μασχαλίζειν, considered simply from the point of view of its form, might conceivably mean to tear
the arm from the shoulder at the armpits (as Benndorf suggests, Monument von
Adamklissi, p. 132 A)—though such an ἐκμοχλεύειν τὸν βραχίονα ἐκ τῆς
μασχάλης should rather be ἀπομασχαλίζειν or ἐκμασχαλίζειν. But that out of its many possible meanings
the verb should have just this particular one is not suggested by anything: least of all
by the sculptured relief on which the gods appear to be tearing out the right arms of
their defeated enemies. Such scenes according to Benndorf represent μασχαλισμός. But can the Greeks really have attributed to the
gods this much execrated practice of cowardly murderers? We are not told by anyone that
this scene represents μασχαλισμός—that is only a conclusion drawn from an
apparent agreement between the representation and the view (itself as yet unproved) of
what happened in μασχαλίζειν. Is the
correctness of the meaning assigned to the word to be proved in its turn from its
agreement with the representation? A most palpable argument in a circle!
There is no valid reason for rejecting the statement of Aristophanes; and there must be
very good reason indeed for so doing before we may discredit such an authority. He gives
his information with no uncertain voice and no suggestion of hesitation, and it must be
regarded as the simple account of well-established facts. It would receive additional
confirmation—if it needed any—from the very meaning and conception of the word
μασχάλισμα.
μασχαλίσματα must be the product of
μασχαλισμός; they are, in fact, the
severed μόρια of the murdered man, with which
too Aristophanes identifies them. Σοφοκλῆς ἐν Τρωΐλῳ πλήρη μασχαλισμάτων εἴρηκε τὸν μασχαλισμόν
(probably a mere oversight for τὸν
τράχηλον): Suid. s.v. ἐμασχαλίσθη (Soph. fr. 566 = 623 P.). If μασχαλίζειν had consisted in the dislocation of
the arm from its socket, it would be impossible to say what such μασχαλίσματα might be. They are without doubt identical with
what are otherwise called, in descriptions of mutilations of the corpse of a murdered man,
ἀπάργματα (Jason after the murder of
Apsyrtos ἀπάργματα τάμνε
θανόντος, A.R. iv, 477; cf. Schol. and EM. 118, 22 ff.), ἀκρωτηριάσματα, τόμια (τὰ ἀποτμήματα καὶ
ἀκρωτηριάσματα τοῦ νεκροῦ, Hesych.). These expressions allow us to conclude that
the whole procedure is intended to offer the murdered man as a sacrifice to some sort of
ἀποτρόπαιοι. The μασχαλίσματα are the ἀπαρχαί of this sacrificial victim. Indeed, Aristoph. of
Byzantium, ap. Phot. [Suid.] μασχαλίσματα, definitely states that μασχαλίσματα was the name given to τὰ τοῖς
μηροῖς ἐπιτιθέμενα ἀπὸ τῶν ὠμῶν (not ὤμων as the edd. give; as also Nauck, Arist.
Byz., p. 221) κρέα ἐν ταῖς τῶν θεῶν θυσίαις. This refers—though it does not seem
to have been remarked by those who have hitherto dealt with the passage—to the parts
of the body which were cut off from the raw flesh of the ἱερεῖον before the sacrifice, laid on the severed μηροί of the victim, and burnt up completely
with these: the ὠμοθετεῖν in fact so often mentioned in Homer
(A 460 i.; Β 423
f.; γ 456 ff.; μ
360 f.; ξ 427 f.). If these ὠμοθετούμενα could also be called (in a comparison) μασχαλίσματα, that again shows that at the μασχαλισμός there was no tearing out of an arm
from its socket, but that in reality the extremities of the murdered man (—ἀκρωτηριάσαντες
μόρια τούτου) were hewn off and a piece cut off ἐκ παντὸς μέρους τοῦ σώματος as the
grammarians following Aristophanes say. Only in this case is the proceeding like that
which took place at the ὠμοθετεῖν
when the sacrificers ἔκοψαν μικρὸν ἀπὸ παντὸς μέλους (Aristonic. in Schol. A 461; Apollon., Lex. Hom. 171, 8; lex. Rhet. ap. Eust.
A 461, p. 134, 36: ὠμοθέτησαν· τὸ ἀφ’ ἑκάστου
μέλους τοῦ ἱερείου ἀπετέμοντο καὶ ἀπήρξαντο ἀπ’ ὠμοῦ [so
the last word should be written here too, though Eustath. found—and was
surprised—ὤμου] καὶ ἐνέβαλον εἰς
τὰ μηρία κατὰ τὴν θυσιάν). So too it is said of Eumaios: ὁ δ’ ὠμοθετεῖτο συβώτης, πάντων ἀρξάμενος μελέων, ξ 427 f. (this is the passage in which ἡρμήνευσε [ὁ ποιητής], τί ἐστι τὸ ὠμοθετεῖν: Schol., B.L. A 461; it is this passage, and not A 461, which is meant by Hesych. too s.v. ὠμοθετεῖν, when he says ἐξηγεῖται δ’ αὐτὸς
Ὅμηρος; cf. also Dion. Hal. 7, 72, 15).
μασχαλισμός was then essentially an
offering intended to avert evil or, what comes to the same thing, a kathartic offering
(i.e. a symbol indicating such an offering). It was consummated by murderers ἐπὶ ταῖς καθάρσεσιν (Sch. S.,
El. 445); ὑπὲρ τοῦ τὴν μῆνιν ἐκκλίνειν as Aristoph. Byz. says (p. 221 N.); τὸ ἔργον ἀφοσιούμενοι as we are
told by Apostolius, Prov. xi, 4. All these mean the same thing. But besides these
there may still have been another intention present in the minds of the superstitious. The
mutilation of the murdered man took place according to Sch. S., El. 445 (in the
second version; there is something similar even in the first, p. 123, 18 f.) ἵνα, φασίν, ἀσθενὴς γένοιτο πρὸς τὸ ἀντιτίσασθαι τὸν φονέα. The
mutilation of the corpse was transferred to the ψυχή that was leaving the body—such is the ancient
conception to which Homer too is not a stranger (cf. e.g. λ 40 ff.). If the dead man is mutilated he will not, for example, be able
to hold or throw the spear which in Athens was borne before the murdered man at his
funeral (if he left no kinsman as avenger behind him) and was then set up beside his grave
([D.] 47, 69: Eur., Tro. 1147 f.: Poll. viii, 65; Ister ap., EM. 354, 33
ff.; AB. 237, 30 f.)—certainly for no other purpose than that of supplying
the dead man himself with a weapon with which to take vengeance on his own account since
no one else would βοηθεῖ him. (Thus
among the Tasmanians a spear was planted on the grave of the dead that he might have a
weapon ready for fighting: Quatrefages, Hommes fossiles et hommes sauvages, p.
346.) Probably the Greek murderer when he ἐμασχάλιζεν, calculated in exactly the same fashion as the
Australian negro who cuts off the thumb from the right hand of his fallen foe in order
that his soul may no longer be able to hold a spear (Spencer, Princ. of Sociol. i,
p. 212).
In Soph., El. 446, the murderer after the μασχαλισμός also wipes the bloody instrument of death on the
head of the murdered man. Murderers did this ὥσπερ ἀποτροπιαζόμενοι τὸ
μύσος τὸ ἐν τῷ φόνῳ (Schol.).
There are passages in the Odyssey which allude to the custom (μέγα ἔργον, ὃ σῇ κεφαλῇ
ἀναμάξεις, τ 92) as well as in Herodotos and
Demosthenes (see Schneidewin on Electra). Their meaning is quite correctly given in
Eust. on Od. τ 92: ὡς εἰς κεφαλὴν δῆθεν ἐκείνοις (τοῖς πεφονευμένοις) τρεπομένου τοῦ
κακοῦ. Evidently a mimic version of εἰς κεφαλὴν σοί. Something similar is intended when the murderer sucks the
blood of the murdered man three times and spits it out again three times. Ap. Rh.
describes such a scene (iv, 477 f.); and something similar occurred in Aesch. (fr.
354; EM. refers to this in immediate connexion with μασχαλισμός). Here too the object is the κάθαρσις of the murderer, the expiation of the impious deed.
(ἣ θέμις αὐθέντῃσι δολοκτασίας ἱλέασθαι,
A.R.; ἀποπτύσαι δεῖ καὶ καθήρασθαι στόμα, A.) Spitting
three times is a regular feature in magic charms and counter-charms: in this case the
blood of the murdered man and with it the power of vengeance that rises up out of the
blood, is averted, (despuimus comitiales morbos, hoc est, contagia
regerimus, Plin., NH. 28, 35.)—What “savage” tribe ever had more
primitive ideas or a more realistic symbolism than the Greek populace—and perhaps
not populace only—of classical times in the sinister backwaters of their life into
which we have here for a moment descended?
In Polygnotos’ picture of the underworld were to be seen the figures τῶν οὐ μεμυημέων, τῶν τὰ δρώμενα
Ἐλευσῖνι ἐν οὐδενὸς θεμένων λόγῳ—an old man, a παῖς, a young and an old woman, who bear water to a πίθος in broken pitchers: Paus. 10, 31, 9–11.
The myth is evidently founded upon an etymological play on words—those who have
neglected the “completion” of the holy τέλη
and are ἀτελεῖς ἱερῶν (h.
Cer. 482) must perform the vain labour in the realm of Persephone of carrying water in
broken vessels: the Δαναΐδων ὑδρείας ἀτελεῖς (Axioch. 371
E). It can only have been an oversight that made Pausanias forget to say that the πίθος is τετρημένος, for this is
essential to the story (see Pl., Gor. 493 BC; Philetair. ap. Ath. 633 F, 18 [2, p.
235 K.]; Zenob., Prov. ii, 6, etc.), and certainly cannot, as Dieterich,
Nekyia, 70, imagined, be replaced by the κατεαγότα ὄστρακα. That the οὐ μεμυημένοι, the ἀμύητοι, as the inscription on the picture called them
(Paus. § 9), were in fact those who had neglected the Eleusinian mysteries is only a
conclusion of Pausanias’ (or of his authority), as we see from the way he speaks in § 11;
but it is probably the right conclusion. The Orphics took over the Eleusinian fable, but
exaggerated it to the point of absurdity: they τοὺς ἀνοσίους καὶ
ἀδίκους κοσκίνῳ ὕδωρ ἀναγκάζουσι φέρειν in Hades (Pl., Rp. 363 D;
Gor. 493 BC). In this they followed a hint given by a popular
proverb—representing one of the ἀδύνατα—κοσκίνῳ ὕδωρ
φέρειν (which is also Roman: cf. Plaut., Pseud. 102; as an “ordeal”: Plin., NH. 28, 12).
It is not until later (nor in surviving literature before the Axiochus, 371 E:
though perhaps a little earlier on vase paintings from South Italy) that the story occurs
in which it is the daughters of Danaos who are punished in Hades by having to
fill the leaking vessel. The reason given for this punishment is their murder of the sons
of Aigyptos in the marriage bed: but why did the punishment take this particular form?
Clearly in the case of the Danaides their non-fulfilment of an important τέλος is requited in the ever ἀτελεῖς ὑδρεῖαι. Their marriage union was uncompleted
through their own choice (thus marriage itself was often called a τέλος and the wedding was preceded by προτέλεια and compared with the τέλη of the mysteries). In this it is certainly implied that
their deed had not been expiated, and they themselves had not found other husbands, but
had as it were immediately after their impious deed been sent down to Hades (cf. Sch.
Eur., Hec. 886, p. 436, 14 Dind.). The daughters of Danaos came to the underworld
as ἄγαμοι. To die before marriage was regarded
as the height of ill-luck by the common people (cf. Welcker, Syll. ep., p. 49): the
essential reason being that those who die thus leave behind them nobody who is called upon
to keep up the cult of their souls (E. Tro. 380). Other ideas may have been vaguely
combined with this. Thus, on the graves of ἄγαμοι a λουτροφόρος was set up—a figure of a παῖς or a κόρη λουτροφόρος, or a vessel called the λουτροφόρος which has been identified with certain
bottomless vases (see Furtwängler, Samml. Sabouroff, on Pl.
lviii–lix; cf. Wolters, Ath. Mitth. xvi, 378 ff.). Can this have referred to
a similar fate awaiting the ἄγαμοι after their
death, a fate such as was imputed to the Danaides in particular as mythical types of those
who are ἄγαμοι by their own fault?—an
ever unsuccessful carrying of water for the λουτρόν of the bridal bath. (Dieterich, Nekyia, 76, with
some probability takes this as the reason for the water-carrying.)
Of these two myths, was the one which appears later in order of time—the story of
the Danaids—merely a subsequent development out of the earlier one (even said to
occur on a black-figured vase), which told of the vain water-carrying of the ἀμύητοι? I cannot
be so sure of this as I once was. I cannot indeed admit (with Dümmler, Delphica,
18 ff., who, however, fails to prove an earlier date for the story of the Danaids’ jar)
that it would be difficult to imagine how a special class of human beings came to be
replaced later on by certain mythical representatives such as the Danaids were. But it is
a very suspicious fact that the Danaids do not as a matter of fact represent the
particular class of mankind—the ἀμύητοι—whose place they are supposed to have taken
as their mythological representatives. They are not ἀμύητοι at all, but ἄγαμοι. The ἄγαμοι and their ἀτελεῖς ὑδρεῖαι in Hades must have been familiar in popular belief: in
addition to this the mystical fable of the similar behaviour of those who had neglected
the τέλος of initiation may have sprung up, but
certainly not as the model of the ἄγαμοι
story, more probably as a subsequent
rehandling of it for the purposes of mystical edification. (The story of the ἄγαμοι has a much more primitive and popular
flavour; and it alone gives a definite relation between the special labour of
water-carrying in Hades and the nature of their default on earth.) The mythical fate of
the ἄγαμοι was then forgotten owing to the
competing interest of the story of the ἀμύητοι, which, in fact,
absorbed it, when a poet—for a poet it must have been—took up what
still-surviving custom and its accompanying legend applied to the ἄγ. in general and transferred it to the Danaides. This
version of the myth was then victorious in the general consciousness both over the popular
tradition about the ἄγαμοι and the
mystery-fable of the ἀμύητοι.—It
remains to be said that the Danaids (and the ἀμύητοι too in a lesser degree) were supposed to be
punished by their ἀτελεῖς
ὑδρεῖαι, This, so long as it was a matter of the ἄγαμοι simply, cannot have been the meaning of that fate of
purposeless toil in their case any more than it was in the case of Oknos. Even Xenophon,
Oec. vii, 40, lets us see that the vain toilers are not as a matter of fact
intended to inspire horror, as sinners, but rather pity. His words are: οὐχ ὁρᾷς, οἱ εἰς τὸν τετρημένον πίθον ἀντλεῖν λεγόμενοι ὡς οἰκτίρονται, ὅτι μάτην πονεῖν δοκοῦσι; νὴ Δί’, ἔφη ἡ γυνή, καὶ γὰρ
τλήμονές εἰσιν, εἰ τοῦτό γε ποιοῦσιν. This gives us the attitude of mind from which
the whole story originally grew up.
I ought not to have admitted the doubt suggested in chap. v, n.
176, as to the genuineness of the Tetralogies traditionally ascribed to Antiphon. I
have examined more carefully the well-known linguistic variations between the Tetralogies
and speeches i, v, and vi of Antiphon, and also the recently noticed divergences (see
Dittenberger, Hermes, 31; 32) of the Tetralogies from Athenian law (for which the
author, like the declamation-writers of later times, substitutes occasionally a “ius
scholasticum”—a purely fanciful creation but one more suited to pleading in
utramque partem). All these objections seem to me, on maturer consideration,
insufficient to make us reject the identity—otherwise so well established—of
the author of the Tetralogies with the author of the Speeches.
For the purpose of ritual purification it is necessary to have water drawn from running
springs or streams, or from the sea: θάλασσα κλύξει πάντα τἀνθρώπων κακά, Eur.,
IT. 1193. (Hence in the exalted semi-oracular language of bardic poetry ἡ ἀμίαντος = θάλασσα, Aesch., P.
578. At a sacrifice ὁ
ἱαρεὺς ἀπορραίνεται θαλάσσᾳ, sacrificial calendar from Kos: Inscr. Cos, 38,
23.) Various details on this point in Lomeier, De lustrat. c. 17. In the water thus
drawn from running sources the power of washing off and carrying away the evil still
seemed to be inherent. When the pollution is unusually severe it has to be purged by the
water from several running springs: κρηνάων ἀπὸ πέντε, Emped. 452 M. = 143 D.; ἀπὸ κρηνῶν τριῶν, Menand., Δεισ. 530, 22 K.; Orestes se apud tria flumina
circum Hebrum ex response purificavit (from the stain of matricide), Lamprid.,
Heliog. vii, 7—or else at Rhegion in the seven streams which combine to form
one river: Varro ap. Prob., ad Verg., p. 3, 4 Keil; Sch. Theoc., prol., p. 1, 3 ff.
Düb. (and cf. Hermann, Opusc. ii, 71 ff.). Even water from fourteen different
springs might be used at a purification of murder: Suid. 476 BC Gaisf. (ἀπὸ δὶς ἑπτα κυμάτων,
conclusion of an iambic or trochaic line). In all this the remarkable persistence of Greek
ritual performances is shown once more. Even in a late period the same kathartic rules
prevail. An order of the Klarian oracle of about the third century A.D. (ap. Buresch, Klaros, p. 9) commands those who seek its
aid ἀπὸ Ναϊάδων ἑπτα ματεύειν καθαρὸν πότον
ἐντύνεσθαι, ὅν θειῶσαι πρόσοθεν (taken from Il. Ψ 533, but understood in a temporal sense) ἐχρῆν καὶ ἐπεσσυμένως ἀφύσασθαι ῥῆναί τε δόμους κτλ. And in a magical papyrus
(about fourth century), ap. Parthey, Abh. Berl. Ak. 1865, p. 126, l. 234–5,
instructions are given to collect ὕδωρ πηγαῖον ἀπὸ ζʹ πηγῶν for magic purposes.
(Then again in mediæval superstition: for the purposes of hydromantia “water must
be taken from three running streams, a little from each”, etc.—Hartlieb ap. Grimm,
p. 1770—probably a survival from classical antiquity: cf. Plin., NH. 28, 46,
e tribus puteis, etc.) Cf. also and in general the completely analogous use of
water in old Indian ceremonies of purification: Oldenberg, Rel. Veda, 423 ff.;
489.—περιμάττειν, ἀπομάττειν: wiping-off of the uncleanness: see
Wyttenb. ad Plu., Mor. vi, pp. 1006–7. In this use περιψῆν also occurs: in a transferred
sense a φαρμακός is called a περίψημα = περικάθαρμα,
Ep. ad Cor. 1, 4, 13. Washing-off with bran, earth, etc., is often mentioned.
Otherwise the σκίλλα
is used or the bodies of sacrificed dogs: ἐκάθηρέ τέ με καὶ ἀπέμαξε καὶ περιήγνισε δᾳδίοις (with περιήγν.) καὶ σκίλλῃ, Luc., Necyom. 7. The
Superstitious Man is accustomed ἱερείας καλέσας σκίλλῃ
ἢ σκύλακι κελεῦσαι αὑτὸν περικαθᾶραι, Thphr., Ch.
28 (16) fin. All sorts of medicinal properties were attributed to the σκίλλα. (The idea is elaborated farcically in the pamphlet of
“Pythagoras” περὶ σκίλλης [D.L.
viii, 47? κήλης Cobet], an extract
of which is given by Galen π. εὐπορίστ.
3, vol. xiv, 567–9 K.) But above all it is regarded as καθάρσιος: Artem. iii, 50; καθαρτικὴ πάσης κακίας, Sch. Theoc.
v, 121, and cf. Cratin., Χείρ. 232 K. Hence it
is also ἀλεξιφάρμακον, ὅλη πρὸ τῶν θυρῶν κρεμαμένη, Diosc.
ii, 202 fin. (see Hermes, 51, 628); such also was the teaching of “Pythagoras”:
Plin., NH. 20, 101; or it
may be buried at the threshold: Ar. Δαναΐδ.
fr. 8 [255 H.-G.]. It is also
λύκων φθαρτική: Artem.
iii, 50 (cf. Gp. 15, 1, 6, with notes of Niclas). As being able to keep off
daimones (in wolf-form) it was then used in religious “purification”.—Figs are also
used for the purpose of religious cleansing and scouring (black figs particularly
inferum deorum et avertentium in tutela sunt, Macr. 3, 20,
2–3). Figs used ἐν καθαρμοῖς:
Eustath., Od., p. 1572, 57 (? is this the meaning of the περιμάττειν of the eyes with figs in Pherecr. ap. Ath. 3, 78 D
[132 K.]). Hence Ζεὺς συκάσιος =
καθάρσιος (Eustath.). Figs the best ἀλεξιφάρμακον: Arist. ap. Jul., Ep. 24, p. 505, 7
ff. From the specially magic properties of the fig comes the idea that fig-trees are never
struck by lightning: Plu., Smp. 5, 9, p. 684 C; Gp. 11, 2, 7; Theoph. Nonn.
260, 288 (and cf. Rh. Mus. 50, 584); Lyd., Mens. fr. fals. 1, p. 181 W.; 4,
4, p. 69 W. The φαρμακοί at the Thargelia
(above, chap. ix, n. 26) wear strings of figs round their necks
(Hellad. ap. Phot., Bibl., p. 534a, 5 ff.), and are beaten with branches of the
fig-tree (κράδαι) and with σκίλλαι (Hippon. frr. 4, 5, 8; Hsch. κραδίης νόμος): here again the figs have a kathartic
purpose (Müller mistakes this, Dorians, i, 346), as is shown also by the presence
of σκίλλαi as well (cf. in general Theoc. vii,
107; v, 121). Before the φαρμακοί were
driven out of the city as scapegoats they were thus “purified” with the above-mentioned
κράδαι and σκίλλαi. The same thing is said in the story of the ravens which
parodies this expiatory rite. The ravens are offered up to Λοιμός as a sort of φαρμακοί—περικαθαίροντας ἐπῳδαῖς ἀφιέναι ζῶντας, καὶ ἐπιλέγειν τῷ Λοιμῳ· φεῦγ’
ἐς κόρακας (Arist. fr. 454 [496 Tbn.]; for a similar ἀποτροπιασμός (εἰς αἶγας ἀγρίας)
see the commentators on Macar. iii, 59, Diogen. v, 49; cf. τὴν νόσον (regarded as a daimon), φασίν, ἐς αἶγας τρέψαι, Philostr.,
Her. 179, 8 Kays.).—Rubbing-off of the “impurity” was effected also with the
dead bodies of puppies (σκίλλη ἢ σκύλακι, Thphr., Ch. 28 [16]). Those ἁγνισμοῦ δεόμενοι were rubbed down with the bodies of
puppies (which had been sacrificed to Hekate): περιμάττονται, and this is περισκυλακισμός, Plu., Q. Rom. 68, p. 280 C.
It was believed that these materials (wool and the skins of animals were also employed)
received into themselves the harmful and polluting substance. This is why eggs
are also used as καθάρσια: e.g. in P.
Mag. Lond., n. 121, l. 522 ap. Kenyon, Greek papyri in BM. i, p. 101 (1893):
γράφε τὸ ὄνομα εἰς ᾠὰ δύο ἀρρενικὰ καὶ τῷ ἑνὶ περικαθαίρεις (sic) σεαυτὸν κτλ. More in Lomeier, Lustr. (ed. 2 Zutph. 1700), p. 258 f.
They were meant to absorb the impurity. ἀνελάμβανον τὰ τοῦ περικαθαρθέντος κακά, Auct. π. δεισιδ. ap. Clem., Str. vii, p. 844
P.
Hekate herself is addressed as Γοργὼ καὶ Μορμὼ καὶ Μήνη καὶ
πολύμορφε: Hymn. ap. Hipp., RH. iv, 35, p. 102, 67 D.-S. Sch. A.R.
iii, 861, says of Hek. λέγεται καὶ φάσματα ἐπιπέμπειν (cf. Eur., Hel. 569; D. Chr. iv, p.
73 M. [i, p. 70 Arn.]; Hsch. ἀνταία), τὰ καλούμενα Ἑκάταια (φάσματα
Ἑκατικά, Marin., V. Procl. 28) καὶ πολλάκις αὐτὴ μεταβάλλειν τὸ εἶδος διὸ καὶ Ἔμπουσαν
καλεῖσθαι. Hekate-Empousa also in Ar. Tagen. fr. 500–1: Sch. Ar.,
Ran, 293; Hesych. Ἔμπουσα. Thus Hekate
is the same as Gorgo, Mormo, and Empousa. Baubo also is one of her names: H. Mag.,
p. 289 Abel. (Baubo probably identical with the Βαβώ mentioned among other χθόνιοι in an inscr. from Paros: Ἀθήναιον, v, 15; cf. the male personal names Βαβώ, Βαβείς. Βαυβώ can hardly be etymologically connected with βαυβών unpleasantly familiar in Herond. (though
the mistake has been repeated in Roscher, Myth. Lex. ii, 3025); one does not see
how a female daimon could be named after a male ὄλισβος. The nature of Hekate makes its more probable that
she got her name from βαύ the noise of the baying hound: cf. βαυκύων, P. Mag. Par. 1911.) Baubo, too, is elsewhere
the name of a gigantic nocturnal spectre: Orph. fr. 216 Ab.; Lob., Agl.
823.—Elsewhere these ἐπικλήσεις, or forms in which Hekate, Gorgo, Mormo,
etc., appear, are found as the names of separate infernal spirits. Γοργύρα· Ἀχέροντος
γυνή Apollod. π. θεῶν ap. Stob.,
Ecl. i, 49, p. 419, 15 W.; cf. [Apollod.] 1, 5, 3. Γοργώ is probably only the shortened form of this daimon (she
is alluded to as an inhabitant of Hades as early as Od. λ 634; in the κατάβασις of
Herakles [Apollod.] 2, 5, 12; χθονία
Γοργώ, Eur., Ion, 1053). Acheron, whose consort she is, must have been
regarded as the lord of the underworld. We also hear of a mother of the underworld god: in
Aesch., Ag. 1235, Kassandra calls Klytaimnestra θύουσαν Ἅιδου μητέρα.
In this very striking phrase it is impossible to take ᾅδου in its generalized sense (as Lob. does:
Aj.3, p. 292), and the whole phrase as merely metaphorical = αἰνομήτορα. Why μητέρα in particular? And, above all, what would be the point
of θύουσαν? Klytaimnestra, of course, it goes
without saying, is only metaphorically called the “raging mother of Hades”, i.e. a true
she-devil; but the thing with which she is compared, from which the metaphor is taken,
must have been a real figure of legend. In exactly the same way, in Byz. Greek, τῶν
δαιμόνων μήτηρ is a figurative expression for a wicked woman: see Καλλίμ. καὶ Χρυσορρόη 2579
ed. Lambros; cf. ib., 1306, τῶν Νηρηίδων μάμμη. In German too “the
devil’s mother”, or grandmother, or the devil’s wife or bride, are of frequent occurrence
in a metaphorical sense: Grimm, p. 1007; 1607. But in all these cases the comparison
invariably implies the existence of real legendary figures to which the comparison refers:
and often enough in mediæval and modern Greek folk-lore these creatures actually occur. We
may therefore conclude that the θύουσα Ἅιδου μήτηρ was a real figure of Greek legend. “Hades”
in this connexion cannot be the god of the underworld, common in Homer and a regular
poetic character elsewhere, the brother of Zeus and Poseidon. In that case his mother
would be Rhea who certainly cannot be identified with the θύουσα Ἅιδου μήτηρ. In local mythology
there were numerous other underworld
gods any of whom might be loosely called Ἅιδης, the word being used as a general name for such
deities. But the “raging” mother of the underworld god has the most unmistakable
resemblance to Hekate who flies about by night on the wind (see above, chap. ix, p. 297 f.; below, App. vii) ψυχαῖς νεκύων μέτα βακχεύουσα
(Reiss, Rh. Mus. 49, 181 n., compares her less well with the “huntsman of Hades”).
It seems almost as if the two were identical: local legend could quite well have made
Hekate the mother of the underworld god (just as she was the daughter of Admetos, or of
Eubouleus, i.e. of Hades). If she is the same as Μορμώ (cf. the Hymn. ap. Hipp., RH. iv, 35) then
she was also known to folk-lore as the foster-mother of Acheron. This title is applied to
Μορμολύκα· τιθήνη of Acheron in Sophron fr. 9 Kaibel.
But Μορμώ is
simply the abbreviated form of Μορμολύκη as Γοργώ is of Γοργύρα, and cf. also Μομμώ Hsch., and with metathesis of ρ, Μομβρώ id. (Μορμολ. is mentioned together with Λαμιά, Γοργώ,
Ἐφιάλτης as a legendary creature in Str., p. 19, and see Ruhnken, Tim. Lex.,
p. 179 ff., Μορμολύκειον.) Μορμώ also in plural: ὥσπερ μορμόνας παιδάρια
(φοβοῦνται), Xen., HG. 4, 4, 17; Hsch. μορμόνας· πλάνητας δαίμονας (i.e. “wandering”, as in
Hesiod, and like the Erinyes in the Pythagorean σύμβολον, and the
ἀλάστωρ, the unquiet and wandering soul
whose name is derived from ἀλᾶσθαι—so
Lob., Paralip. 450). Besides this we have Ἑκάτας too in the plural: Luc., Philops. 39 fin. (perhaps
only generalizing); τρισσῶν
Ἑκατῶν, P. Mag. Par. 2825 f.; Ἔμπουσαι (with ἄλλα εἴδωλα), D.P. 725, etc., to say nothing of Γοργόνες. Μορμώ
as a bogey to frighten children: Μορμὼ
δάκνει, Theoc. xv, 40 (cf. [ἀνά]κλησις Μορμο[ῦς], a theatrical piece, probably a farce: IGM.
Aeg. i, 125g). So too is the monster Λάμια that kidnaps children: Duris, fr. 35 (2
FHG); D.S. 20, 41; Heraclit., Incred. 34, etc. Some details in Friedländer,
Darstell. a. d. Sitteng.4, i, 511 f. (as a nickname Λαμώ: Sch. Ar., Eq. 62). Mormo herself is called Lamia,
Μορμοῦς τῆς καὶ
Λαμίας, Sch. Greg. Nz. ap. Ruhnken, Tim. Lex., p. 182a. With Mormo and Lamia
Γελλώ is also
identified (Sch. Theoc. xv, 40), a ghost that kidnaps children mentioned already by
Sappho, fr. 44; Zenob. iii, 3, etc. Καρκώ, too, is the same as Λάμια (Hesych.). Lamia is evidently the general name (see above,
chap. iv, n. 115), while Mormo, Gello, Karko, and even Empousa,
are particular Lamiai, who also merge into one another. Just as Mormo and Gello coincide,
so also do Gello and Empousa: Γελλὼ εἴδωλον Ἐμπούσης, Hsch.
(Empousai, Lamiai, and Mormolykai the same: Philostr., V. Ap. 4, 25, p. 145, 16
K.). Empousa, who appears in continually changing shapes (Ar., Ran. 289 ff.), is
seen by human beings at night (νυκτερινὸν φάσμα ἡ Ἔμπουσα, V. Aeschin. init.; Philostr. V.
Ap. 2, 4), but even more commonly at midday (like the Hekate of Lucian): μεσημβρίας ὅταν τοῖς κατοιχομένοις ἐναγίζωσιν, Sch. Ar.,
Ran. 293. She is, in fact, the daemonium meridianum known to Christian
writers as Diana (Lob., Agl. 1092; Grimm, 1162). For
devils appearing at midday see Rochholz, Glaube u. Br., i, 67 ff.; Mannhardt,
Ant. Wald u. Feldc. ii,
135 f.; Haberland, Ztschr. Völkerpsych. xiii, 310 ff.; Drexler in Myth.
Lex. ii, 2832 ff; Grimm, 1661. Hekate, in so far as she appears as an εἴδωλον in the upper world is identical with
Emp. and with Borbo, Gorgo, Mormo, as well as Gello, Karko, Lamia. (Acc. to Sch. A.R. iv,
828 Stesichoros, ἐν τῇ Σκύλλῃ εἴδους [Εἰδοῦς Bergk on Stes.
fr. 13 quite unconvincingly] τινὸς Λαμίας τὴν
Σκύλλαν φησὶ θυγατέρα εἶναι. Here Hek. herself seems to be described as “a kind of
Lamia”, for she was generally regarded as the mother of Skylla, e.g. by Akousilaos [73 B,
27 Vors.], in the Hesiodic Eoiai, 172 Rz. [Sch. A.R.], and even in A.R.
himself who in iv, 829, explains the Homeric Krataiis [μ 124] as merely a name of Hekate.)—The vagueness of feature and
confusion of personality is characteristic of these ghostly and delusive apparitions. In
reality the individual names (in some cases onomatopoeic formations to suggest terror)
were originally the titles of local ghosts. In the long run they all come to suggest the
same general idea and are therefore confused with each other and are identified with the
best known of them, Hekate. The underworld and the realm of ghosts is the proper home of
these feminine daimones as a whole and of Hekate too; most of them, with the possible
exception of Empousa, give way entirely to Hekate in importance and are relegated to
children’s fairy-tales. In the case of Gorgyra (Gorgo) and Mormolyke (Mormo) this fact is
clearly attested. Lamia and Gello carry off children and also ἀώρους from this life, like other daimones of the
underworld, Keres, Harpies, Erinyes, and Thanatos himself. The Lamiai rise to the light
from their underground lairs—λαμίας τινὰς ἱστοροῦντες (the oldest
writers of histories) ἐν ὕλαις καὶ νάπαις ἐκ γῆς ἀνιεμένας, D.H.,
Thuc. 6. Empousa appears on earth at midday because that was the time when
sacrifice was offered to the dead (Sch. Ar., Ran. 293; sacrifice to Heroes at
midday: above, chap. iv, n. 9). She approaches the offerings to the
creatures of the lower world because she herself is one of their number. (In the same way
the chthonic character of the Seirenes—they are closely related to the
Harpies—is shown by the fact that they too appear like Empousa at midday and oppress
sleepers, etc., according to the popular demonology. See Crusius, Philol. 50, 97
ff.)
The Hosts of Hekate cause fear and sickness at night: εἴτ’ ἔνυπνον φάντασμα φοβῇ χθονίας θ’ Ἑκάτης κῶμον ἐδέξω, Trag. Incert. fr. 375 (Porson
suggested Aesch.). They form the νυκτίφαντοι πρόπολοι Ἐνοδίας, Eur.,
Hel. 570. (These πρόπολοι τᾶς
θεοῦ are probably also referred to in the defixio CIG. 5773; Wünsch,
Tab. Defix., p. ixb.) They are nothing else than the restless souls of the dead
wandering in the train of Hekate. Nocturnal terrors are produced by Ἑκάτης ἐπιβολαὶ
καὶ ἡρώων ἔφοδοι, Hp., Morb. Sacr. (vi, 362 L.). Hence Orph., H. i,
1, calls Hekate ψυχαῖς νεκύων μέτα βακχεύουσαν. The souls which thus wander about
with Hekate are in part those of the
ἄωροι, i.e. of
those who have died before the completion of their “destined” period of life, πρὶν μοῖραν ἐξήκειν βίου,
Soph., Ant. 896; cf. Phrynich. in AB. 24, 22, and πρόμοιρος ἁρπαγή, Inscr. Cos, 322.
Thanatos has acted unjustly towards them ἐν ταχυτῆτι βίου παύων νεοήλικας
ἀκμάς, Orph., H. 87, 5–6. The period of conscious existence on earth
which they had left incomplete they must now fulfil as disembodied “souls”: aiunt immatura morte praeventas (animas) eo usque vagari istic, donec
reliquatio compleatur aetatum quas tum pervixissent si non intempestive obiissent,
Tert., An. 56. (They haunt the place of their burial: ἥρωες ἀτυχεῖς, οἳ ἐν τῷ δεῖνι τόπῳ συνέχεσθε, P. Mag. Par.
1408; cf. CIG. 5858b.) For this reason it is often mentioned on gravestones (and
elsewhere: Eur., Alc. 168 f.) as something specially to be lamented that the person
there buried had died ἄωρος—see
Epigr. Gr. 12; 16; 193; 220, 1; 221, 2; 313, 2–3: ἄτεκνος ἄωρος, 236, 2; and cf. 372, 32; 184, 3;
CIG. 5574 (see also App. iii and chap. xiv, pt. ii, n. 155, ἄγαμοι). Gello
who herself παρθένος ἀώρως ἐτελεύτησε then becomes a φάντασμα, slays children and causes τοὺς τῶν ἀώρων θανάτους,
Zenob. iii, 3; Hsch. Γελλώ. The souls of
the ἄωροι cannot rest but must
continually wander: see Plaut., Most. 499. They (ἀνέμων εἴδωλον ἔχοντες, H.
Hec., l. 15: Orph., p. 290 Ab.) are the creatures which accompany Hekate in her
nocturnal wanderings. The Hymn. to Hekate, p. 289 Ab. (cf. P. Mag. Par. 2727
ff.) addresses Hek. thus (10 ff.): δεῦρ’ Ἑκάτη τριοδῖτι, πυρίπνοε,
φάσματ’ ἔχουσα (ἄγουσα Mein.), ἥ τ’ ἔλαχες δεινὰς μὲν ὁδοὺς
(δεινάς τ’ ἐφόδους?) χαλεπάς τ’ ἐπιπομπάς, τὴν
Ἑκάτην σε καλῶ σὺν ἀποφθιμένοισιν ἀώροις κεἴ τινες ἡρώων θάνον ἀγναῖοί τε (καὶ
Mein., but this position of τέ is a regular
Hellenistic usage; occurs frequently in Orac. Sibyll.) ἄπαιδες κτλ. Thus the ἄωροι became the typical haunting spirits κατ’ ἐξοχήν. Just as in this Hymn. they
are summoned (with Hek.) for unholy purposes of magic, so an ἄωρος is sometimes expressly invoked in the defixiones
which were placed in graves (esp. in those of ἄωροι: see the instructions given in P. Mag. Par. 332
ff., 2215, 2220 f.; P. Anastasy, l. 336 ff.; 353): λέγω τῷ ἀώρῳ τῷ κ[ατὰ τοῦτον τὸν τόπον, etc.]: Roman defixio, I.
Sic. et It. 1047; ἐξορκίζω σε, νεκύδαιμον ἄωρε, leaden tablet from Carth., BCH.
1888, p. 299 (Tab. Defix., p. xvi); cf. also P. Mag. Par. 342 f.; 1390 ff.;
παράδοτε (the victim) ἀώροις, leaden tablet from Alexandria, Rh. Mus. 9,
37, l. 22; a lead tablet from Phrygia (BCH. 1893, p. 251) has: γράφω πάντας τοὺς ἐμοὶ ἀντία ποιοῦντας μετὰ τῶν
ἀώρων· Ἐπάγαθον Σαβῖναν, etc. In the curses of Epigr. Gr., p. 149, the Ἑκάτης μελαίνης
δαίμονες alternate with ἄωροι
συμφοραί; see also Sterrett, Amer. Sch. Athens, ii, 168.—Everything
that has been said of the ἄωροι applies
also to the βιαιοθάνατοι (or βίαιοi, a term found in the magical papyri; cf. also βιοθάνατον πνεῦμα, P. Mag. Par.
1950); they are a special kind of ἄωροι:
they find no rest, see above, chap. v, n. 147; Tert., An. 56–7; Serv.,
A. iv, 386, quoting the physici; cf. also Heliod., 2, 5, p. 42, 20 ff. Bk. A
βιαιοθάνατος, who has thus been deprived
of his life, has to make special supplication for admission into Hades: Epigr. Gr. 625; cf. Verg., A. iv,
696 ff. Such souls become ἀλάστορες, wandering spirits: see above, Append. vi, p. 592; wandering of a βιαιοθάνατος, Plu., Cim. 1.—Finally the souls
of unburied persons who have no share in the cult of the souls or home in the grave are
also condemned to wander (cf. Eur., Hec. 31–50): see above, chap. v, p. 163. The ἄταφος is
detained ἐνθάδε: Soph., Ant. 1070, and
wanders about the earth: ἀλαίνει, Eur.,
Tro. 1083; cf. Tert., An. 56. Hence the souls of these ἄταφοι could be forced to appear and answer the sorcerer:
Heliod., p. 177, 15 ff. Bk.; rite conditis Manibus the wanderings of the soul
cease: Plin., Ep. 7, 27, 11; Luc., Philops. 31 fin.—The art of the
μάντις and of the καθαρτής (and of the ἀπομάκτρια γραῦς, Plu., Superst. 3, p. 166 A) is
supposed to keep off such nocturnal terrors; it is “purification” precisely because it
drives away such unholy beings. It is also a kind of καθάρσιον that is employed when ἀπομαγδαλίαι (instead of to the dogs: Ath. 409 D) are thrown
out ἐν
τοῖς ἀμφόδοις γινομένοις νυκτερινοῖς φόβοις (Harmodios of Leprea ap. Ath. 149 C),
i.e. to Hekate and her rout which also appears as a pack of hounds.
In that period of extreme excitement the Greeks must have had frequent experience of
the abnormal but by no means unusual psychical state in which a division of consciousness
takes place and becomes apparent. The single personality splits up into two (or more)
distinct centres of consciousness; and these give rise to two personalities (succeeding
each other, or contemporaneous), with a double will and a double intellect appearing in
one man. Even unprejudiced psychological observers of our own time are unable to describe
such phenomena, which appear (spontaneously or produced experimentally) in certain
neuropathic conditions, except as a reduplication or multiplication of personality. A
second self comes into being, a second centre of consciousness following or by the side of
the first and normal personality, which is generally unaware of the existence of its
rival. (Probably the most complete and cautious account of these matters is that given by
Pierre Janet in L’automatisme psychologique, Paris, 1889.) When such phenomena
appear in conjunction with marked religious or spiritualistic tendencies they are
naturally explained in accordance with these intellectual preconceptions. The appearance
in a man or woman of an intelligent will, unguided or unperceived by the normally dominant
personality, is conceived as the entrance of a foreign personality into the individual; or
as the expulsion of the real soul of the individual by such a demonic or spiritual
visitor. Nothing, however, is commoner, in all ages, than the religious or spiritualist
preconceptions that lead to such an explanation; and so what the Greeks called ἔκστασις or κατέχεσθαι ἐκ θεοῦ has been a very frequent explanation of such mysterious
occurrences from the earliest times (and in the present day). It has appealed just as much
to the person affected by such “reduplication of personality” as to those round about him
(unless they have been scientifically educated). The actual experience of such phenomena
is generally a fact; fancy begins only with the explanation offered. For the Greeks the
Pythia was always the best known example of such “possession” of a human being by a
foreign will or spirit which seemed to enter violently and from outside into the human
individual, having little correspondence (as it usually happened) with the character or
the intellect of the “medium” in his or her normal state of consciousness. The Sibyls,
Bakides, Βάκχοι, the seers and priests of
purification, Epimenides, Aristeas, and so many others, were further cases of the ascent
of the soul to the divine or the entrance of a god into the soul. It was inevitable that
the idea of an immediate relation between the soul and the divine, and of the divine
nature of the soul itself, should grow up in connexion with such cases as these, and seem
to be authenticated in them more than in any other way. Greece is not the only place where
this has happened.
The information about a coherent Orphic Theogony and Anthropogony which has come down
to us from the statements of Neoplatonic philosophers and their contemporaries, is
derived, as Lobeck very rightly concluded, from the ἐν ταῖς ῥαψῳδίαις Ὀρφικαῖς θεολογία, ἣν
καὶ οἱ φιλόσοφοι διερμηνεύουσιν (Damasc., Princ., p. 380 K.). This last
statement means that they were explained in lectures given by the heads of the Platonic
school since the time of Syrianos (Ὀρφικαὶ συνουσίαι of Syrian.: Procl., in Tim. 96 B; Scholia of
Proclus on Orpheus, εἰ καὶ μὴ εἰς πάσας τὰς ῥαψῳδίας:
Marin., V. Procl. 27). Written commentaries were also published, more particularly
in order to prove the συμφωνίαν Ὀρφέως, Πυθαγόρου καὶ Πλάτωνος
(Syrianos wrote a book with this title, wrongly ascribed to Proclus by Suidas: see R.
Schöll on Procl. in Rp., p. 5. Probably the work of Syr. εἰς τὴν Ὀρφέως θεολογίαν is the
source of Orph., frr. 123–4, which are traced back in the Θεοσοφία, § 50, to Συριανὸς ἐν τοῖς ἑαυτοῦ πονήμασιν. From Syr. also
probably comes the citation from Orpheus ἐν τῇ τετάρτῃ ῥαψῳδίᾳ, ib., § 61). The older
Neoplatonists before Syrianos took little notice of the Orphica. Plotinos gives no
quotation at all (though perhaps an allusion in 4, 3, 12; see Lob., p. 555), Iamblichos
quotes nothing from immediate acquaintance, Porphyrios, who read everything, gives a
little (frr. 114; 123 Euseb. from Porph.; 211) and what he does give certainly
comes from the Rhapsodiai. In fact,
the Neoplatonics as a whole when they quote Orpheus from their own knowledge (and do not,
for example, simply write “Orpheus” instead of “Pythagoras”: see above, chap. x, n. 9) use the Rhapsodiai only, as Lobeck rightly maintains,
p. 466 (Abel did not realize this, to the detriment of his collection of the frr.).
The title of the poem they used can hardly have been Θεογονία. (This seems to occur as a title in fr. 188
[Clem. Al. from auct. π. κλοπῆς]. In
fr. 108 it is only a description of contents; fr. 310 is spurious. In
Suidas, Gaisford’s MSS., we do indeed read of a θεογονία, ἔπη ͵ασʹ: but the figure indicating the
number of lines corresponds most suspiciously with that of the previous ὀνομαστικόν, and in any case would be
insufficient for the great length of the ῥαψῳδίαι.) It seems extremely probable (as Lobeck
already suspected, p. 716, 726) that the simple description: an Orphic poem divided into
several Rhapsodiai, ἱεροὶ λόγοι ἐν ῥαψῳδίαις κδʹ (Suid.), was the
real title of the poem, which consisted of several ῥαψῳδίαι. This ἱερὸς λόγος (the plural only means that there were several books) is,
however a different one (Lobeck missed this, p. 716) from the ἱερὸς λόγος which Epigenes (ap. Clem. Al., Str. i,
21, p. 144 P.) attributed to the Pythagorean Kerkops. (And again when Suid. attributes the
24 Rhaps. to the Thessalian Theognetos or to Kerkops he also means the old ἱερὸς λόγος not divided into Rhaps., and
confuses this with the later and much extended ἱερὸς λόγος.) The older ἱερὸς
λόγος is that alluded to by Cic., ND. i, 107, and prob. also by Plu.,
Smp. 2, 3, 2, p. 636 D (fr. 42); the quotation in EM. (fr. 44)
from the 8th Bk. refers to the later ἱερὸς
λόγος. But it is certain that the ἱερὸς
λόγος in 24 Bks., the poem possessed by the Neoplatonists, from which by far the
greater number of our fragments are taken, was not a work of the sixth century, written
for instance (as Lobeck was inclined to think, 683 f.) by Onomakritos. It is even
untrue—regrettably enough we might add—that as the Neoplatonists presumed
(and Lobeck believed in consequence: p. 508, 529 f., 602, 613) Plato knew and made use of
the “Rhapsodies”. (This emerges with particular plainness from Gruppe’s study of the
question in Jb. Philol. Supp. xvii, 689 ff.). And when this is gone no other
evidence for the earlier date of the Orphic Theogony in this form is left. And in the very
few passages in which a real coincidence (and not a doubtfully assumed one) exists between
the Rhapsodies and Pherekydes, Herakleitos, Parmenides (see Lob., p. 532; Kern,
Theogon., p. 52; Gruppe, p. 708) or Empedokles, the poet of the Rhapsodies is the
borrower not the creditor. The age in which he lived cannot be precisely determined; the
fact that Neoplatonic writers are the first to quote him does not settle the question; it
is uncertain whether he lived after (as I think) or before the (otherwise unknown)
Hieronymos whose statement about an Orphic Theogony is quoted by Damasc., Princ.
381 f. K. In any case Gruppe (p. 742) has correctly appreciated the character of the bulky
poem (equalling or even surpassing the length of the Iliad), when he says that it consists
in the main of a loosely connected patchwork of older Orphic tradition. There are many points in which agreement
between the Rhapsodies and older Orphic teaching and poetry is still demonstrable; lines
from older Orphic poems were taken over unaltered; subjects from older Orphic Theogonies
were combined, sometimes without regard for their divergent character; different versions
of the same motif occur together. Thus we have the κατάποσις (modelled eventually upon Hesiod) twice over: in the
first version Zeus swallows Phanes, in the second the heart of Zagreus. Both mean the same
thing; the devouring of the heart of Zagreus may perhaps belong to the older Orphic
legendary material, the devouring of Phanes to the later. The personality of Φάνης, however, cannot have been unknown even
to the older stratum of Orphic poetry. D.S. 1, 11, 3, quotes a line of “Orpheus”, which
certainly was not taken from the Rhaps., in which Φάνης is mentioned (and identified with Dionysos). And in a
gold tablet, folded up with the tablet bearing an inscription of Orphic character, I.
Sic. et It. 642, and found in the same grave near Sybaris, there occurs in addition to
other (illegible) matter a list of divine names which includes that of Φάνης (and also Πρωτόγονους here apparently distinguished
from Φάνης with whom this figure of
Orphic theology is generally identified): see Comparetti, Notizie degli scavi di
antichità, 1879, p. 157; 1880, p. 156. This establishes the existence of this figure
of Orphic mythology as early as the third cent. B.C. (the prob. date of these
tablets).—We may therefore employ the facts derived from the Rhapsodies with some
confidence for the reconstruction of Orphic poetry and doctrine at those points at least
in which coincidence with older Orphic teaching and the fantastic creatures of Orphic
theology can still be proved. [I leave these remarks exactly as they stood in the first
edition of this book, for they still fully correspond to my own opinion. Others in the
meanwhile have expressed divergent views, esp. Gomperz, Greek Thinkers, i, p. 539.
But that Gruppe’s proof of the fact that Plato did not know the Rhapsodist Theogony is
“wholly unsuccessful”, is something which no one has yet sought to show upon intelligible
grounds. Until such a disproof is forthcoming the belief in the early date of the
Rhapsodies has no real ground on which to stand.]
Pythagoras’ miraculous power of remembering what had happened long ago in previous
lives seems to be already alluded to in the lines of Empedokles, 430 ff. M. = fr.
129 D. The legend in which it was related how Pythag. showed that he had once been
Euphorbos the son of Panthous who had been slain by Menelaos in the Trojan war, must, at
any rate, have been put forward at an early period. The story is often told or alluded to:
D.S. 10, 6, 1–3; Sch. V. on
Ρ 28: Max. Tyr. 16 (i, 287 f. R.); Porph., VP.
26–7; Iambl., VP. 63; Philostr., V. AP. 1, 1, 1; 8, 7, 4; Her.
17, p. 192, 23 ff. Ks.; Tatian, Gr. 25; Hor., C. 1, 28, 10; Ov., M.
15, 160 ff.; Hygin. 112; Lact., Inst. 3, 18, 15; cf. also Call., fr. 83a
(completely misunderstood by Schneider) who even calls Pythag. “Euphorbos”, as Hor. does
and Luc., DM. 20, 3. The story is always told in such a way as to imply that no
intermediate ἐνσωματώσις of
his soul had taken place between Pythag. himself and Euphorbos (they are definitely
excluded in Luc., Gall. 17).—Why was Euphorbos in particular selected? The
fact that through his father Panthous he had a special connexion with Apollo, like
Pythagoras (a true ψυχὴ Ἀπολλωνιακή: cf. also Luc., Gall. 16), can
hardly have been sufficient reason (as Göttling, Opusc. 210; Krische, Soc.
Pythag. 67 f. suggest).—Euphorbos was taken up and made one of a whole series of
previous incarnations (Aithalides—Euphorbos—Hermotimos—Pyrrhos the
Delian fisherman—Pythagoras) by Herakleides Pont.: D.L. viii, 4–5 (with which
agree Hippol., RH. 1, 2, p. 12, 54 f. D.-S.; Porph., VP. 45; Tert.,
An. 28, 31; Sch. Soph., El. 62). Starting with Aithalides (to whom
Herakleides was perhaps the first to ascribe the gift of miraculous memory in addition to
other miraculous powers) the power of ἀνάμνησις in life and death was transmitted through all
the links in the chain down to Pythag. himself. (The story of the shield of Euphorbos was
now transferred to Hermotimos for obvious reasons.) According to D.L. Herakleides φησὶν
περὶ αὑτοῦ τάδε λέγειν (τὸν Πυθαγόραν). It is very possible that the language is
here inexact and Herakleides did not (as the words of D.L. would strictly suggest) appeal
to a statement of Pythagoras (in a book) but represented him as saying all this (in a
dialogue). If this is correct, apart from the incarnation as Euphorbos which he took over
from the tradition, Herakleides invented all the rest, according to his own fancy. The
fable was then taken up with variations by others: in Sch. A.R. i, 645, two versions
derived from the fiction of Herakl. but diverging in some points are mentioned (one being
supported by οἱ Πυθαγορικοί, the
other by Pythagoras himself—in a book? Πυθαγόρας φησίν are the actual words). What Gellius 4, 11, 14, has
to say on the authority of Klearchos and Dikaiarchos differs (except in the matter of
Euphorbos) entirely from Herakleides (and the names given should not be altered). But it
may, nevertheless, be essentially the same fable over again, this time in the form of a
parody of Herakl. (which is not very likely in the case of Klearchos but suits Dikaiarch.
very well). Encouraged by these predecessors Lucian in the Cock (19-20) carried
still further the parody of the fabulous tale. The story of Herakleides seems to be
seriously used in the γραφή in which
Pythagoras αὐτός φησι δι’ ἑπτὰ καὶ διηκοσίων ἐτῶν ἐξ ἀίδεω παραγεγενῆσθαι ἐς
ἀνθρώπους, D.L. viii, 14. As Diels, Archiv. f. Gesch. Philos. iii, 468 f.,
shows to be very probable, this was in the ps.-Pythagorean book written in the Ionic
dialect, not before the third century and divided into three parts, which D.L. quotes and
makes use of (viii, 6; 9; 14; cf. also Sch. Pl., Rp. 600 B). Pyth. here states that he appears on earth
from the underworld “every 207 years”, and the calculation may possibly be based on the
series of lives invented by Herakleides and the Chronology of Apollodoros (in which case
it could not be before the last century B.C.), thus: Pythag.
born 572, Pyrrhos 779, Hermotimos 986, Euphorbos 1193 (in the first year of the Τρωικά acc. to Eratosthenes and Apollodor.),
Aithalides 1490. It must indeed be admitted that this method of reckoning makes the gross
error of calculating from birth to birth instead of from the death of A to the birth of B.
(Other intervals are given in Theologum. Arithm., p. 40 Ast [216 = 63:
D.L. viii, 14, should not be altered to suit this as I once proposed]; Sch. Bern. Lucan,
ix, 1, p. 289, 12 Us. [462, ? an error for 432 = 2 × 216; cf. Theol. Arith.,
p. 40, 30])—The existence of a Pythagorean writing belonging to the period before
Herakleides, in which these previous lives of Pythag. were mentioned cannot be certainly
proved. It might be supposed (as I once supposed: Rh. Mus. 26, 558) that the
conjunction of the legend of Pythagoras’ previous lives with the descent of P. to Hades,
which appears in Sch. Soph., El. 62, and Tert., An. 28, is ancient and
original; in which case the previous lives would have been described in a Pythagorean
κατάβασις εἰς ᾅδου. But the
conjunction is quite arbitrary and is not such as would be likely in a Pythagorean book on
the descent: the descent is, in fact, told as a parody, the form which had been given to
it by Hermippos, and with the implication that it is untrue. Nor is it very likely that
the previous lives would be described in connexion with a descent to Hades, considering
that Pyth. remembered them while alive on earth and not in a condition of ecstasy, and did
not learn of them in Hades. It would be more natural that, vice versa, an account of the
previous lives should also include something about τὰ ἐν ᾅδου—the ἀνάμνησις included that also: cf. D.L. viii, 4 fin. (see
the decisive objections to my previous view raised by G. Ettig, Acheruntica, Leipz.
Stud. 13, 289 f.). This applies equally to the view of Diels1 (Archiv, p. 469) that Herakleides
(in his work π. τῶν ἐν ᾅδου)
told of the previous lives of P. in connexion with the descent of P. to Hades and that
Herakl. was the first to make P. go down to Hades. There is nothing to prove that Herakl.
did this or to make it even probable. Without any grounds for doing so Diels supposes that what Pythagoras (acc.
to Sch. Ambros. on α 371) “φησίν”· ἔξω γενόμενος τοῦ σώματος ἀκήκοα ἐμμέλους
ἁρμονίας, was said by Pythag., not in a book going under his name, but in a
dialogue by Herakleides (who is not even mentioned in that Schol.). There is no reason at
all to doubt that these words (as Lobeck supposed, 944) came from a book ascribed to
Pythagoras himself, in which he described his ekstasis and ecstatic visions (cf. Sch.
Arist. 496b, 1 f., 13 ff. Br.). There is no further definite evidence for the existence of
such a Pythagorean Κατάβασις εἰς
ᾅδου (for the γραφή of D.L. viii,
21, has another and better interpretation, as already remarked). But a fairly early date
for the origin of at least a legend about a descent of P. to Hades (and of quite definite
statements about it with a propagandist aim) is attested by Hieronymos of Rhodos ap. D.L.
viii, 21. (But we should not without more definite reason ascribe the invention of the
fable itself to Hieron., as is done by Hiller, Hier. Rh. frag., p. 25. What reason
could Hieron. have had for inventing anything of the kind?) Further, the lines of the
comic poet Aristophon ap. D.L. viii, 38 [fr. 12 K.], already suggest that such
legends were in existence in the third century B.C. Whether the
work on the subject of Pythagoras’ descent to Hades called forth the legend or whether the
legend was already current and called forth the book, must remain undecided. But in any
case the book included no account of the previous lives of Pythagoras: these (apart from
the older legend of P. and Euphorbos) were first put forward by Herakleides Pont. (but not
the Descent of P. to Hades).
The Mystes whose soul is speaking in the first of the gold tablets found at Sybaris
(Diels, No. 18) says, l. 7–8: ἱμερτοῦ δ’ ἐπέβαν στεφανοῦ ποσὶ καρπαλίμοισι, δεσποίνας δ’
ὑπὸ κόλπον ἔδυν χθονίας βασιλείας. This ὑπὸ κόλπον ἔδυν . . . can hardly mean anything else than: I
seek (as ἱκέτης) the protection of her
maternal bosom (or lap). It would certainly be attractive to take this (with Dieterich,
de hymn. Orph., p. 38) as referring to a symbolical act, corresponding to the
ceremony in which in Greece and elsewhere, the adoption of a boy, his reception into a new
γένος, was symbolically represented. (D.S. 4,
39, 2, in particular records the process: see Wesseling’s learned note there; cf. also
Preller, Gr. Mythol.4 i, 702.) But such a symbolical proceeding
if it was to bring about the association of the μύστης with the goddess must have taken place already in the
ὄργια once held upon earth—here we are in
Hades, and it is to say the least of it difficult to believe that this διέλκεσθαι τοῦ κόλπου can have been supposed to
occur in Hades in the neighbourhood of the goddess herself (a fact which made a merely
symbolical act of the kind supposed quite unnecessary).—Apart from this the views of Dieterich are
quite sound: the ceremony was essentially regarded as an adoption of the μύστης by the goddess or the god, as a
reception of the initiated into the divine γένος. The δράκων
(who represents the god himself) διελκόμενος τοῦ κόλπου in the Sabazia seems actually to have had this
meaning. Further the μύστης is sometimes
called renatus, or in aeternum renatus (Apul., M. xi, 21; CIL.
vi, 510; 736); the day of his initiation is his natalis sacer (Apul., M. xi,
24, where natalem sacrum should be read): in these circumstances we may venture to
recall that the above-mentioned solemn rites of adoption also represented a new
birth of the θετὸς υἱός from the
womb of his new mother (see D.S. l.c. Hence Hera is called the δευτέρα τεκοῦσα of Herakles whom she
adopted: Lycophr. 39; and hence also the adopted is called δευτερόποτμος, i.e. reborn: Hsch. s.v.
ad fin.) This conception also provides the simplest explanation of the fact that the μυῶν, who has received
the νέος μύστης into the divine
γένος to which he himself already belongs, can
be called the pater or parens of the μύστης (Apul., M. xi, 25; Tert., Apol. 8; ad
Nat. i, 7)—he effects the entrance of the new member into his own family. (In
Greek the name for such a mystic “father” seems to have been πατρομύστης, CIG. 3173, 3195.)—This
conception of a new birth by initiation reminds us of the Christian idea of
rebirth by baptism (which in its turn is developed from older Jewish ideas: see
Anrich, Ant. Mysterienwesen, p. 111, n.). It is nevertheless one which the Greeks
themselves had at an early date. The μύσται of
the Eleusinia seem to have been not far from regarding initiation as an adoption into the
divine γένος.
In the ps.-Platonic Axiochus, p. 371 D, we read in the description of the χῶρος
εὐσεβῶν: ἐνταῦθα τοῖς μεμυημένοις ἐστί τις προεδρία καὶ τὰς ὁσίους ἁγιστείας κἀκεῖσε
συντελοῦσι· πῶς οὖν οὐ σοὶ πρώτῳ μέτεστι τῆς τιμῆς, ὄντι γεννήτῃ
τῶν θεῶν; καὶ τοὺς περὶ Ἡρακλέα τε (perhaps δέ would be better) καὶ Διόνυσον κατιόντας εἰς Ἅιδου
πρότερον λόγος ἐνθάδε (i.e. at Athens) μυηθῆναι καὶ τὸ θάρσος
τῆς ἐκεῖσε πορείας παρὰ τῆς Ἐλευσινίας ἐναύσασθαι.—Here Axiochos (for it is
to him that Sokrates is speaking) is plainly described as γεννήτης τῶν θεῶν simply and
solely because he belongs to the μεμυημένοι. According to Wilamowitz (Gött. Gel.
Anz., 1896, p. 984) he is called γεννήτης τῶν θεῶν only as a member of the γένος of the Εὐπατρίδαι to which he apparently belonged. But that anyone
just on the strength of the by no means uncommon fact that he belonged to a γένος that happened to trace its earliest origin from
a god (nor is it certain even that the Εὐπατρίδαι did this)—that anyone on this account should
have dared to call himself a “member of the same family as the gods” is to say the least
of it difficult to parallel. In this case at any rate nothing of the kind can be meant.
From the general principle that the initiated have a προεδρία in Hades it is deduced, simply as conclusion from
premiss, with a “surely then”—(πῶς οὖν οὐ—), that Axiochos too may
hope to enjoy this same honour (τῆς τιμῆς—). It is then
entirely impossible that, to account for this hope, a reason should be implied and expressed which, like the supposed
descent of Axiochos from the gods, had nothing to do with the mysteries and the privileges
of the μύσται. If it was the (alleged) descent
of Axiochos from the gods which secured him τιμή in Hades it would be quite meaningless to accompany the
mention of the τιμή thus secured to
Axiochos with an allusion to the τιμή
obtained on quite different grounds by the μεμυημένοι (which yet is mysteriously equivalent to that
obtained by right of birth). This allusion, moreover, is put in such a way that it quite
unambiguously includes the special case of Axiochos in the common denomination of the
μεμυημένοι of whom he is said to be
one. The fact, indeed, that the privileges of the μεμυημένοι is the only subject alluded to throughout is
shown also by the third and last sentence: the famous cases of the initiation of Herakles
and Dionysos are only mentioned as emphasizing still further the importance of μυηθῆναι for
those εἰς ᾅδου κατιόντας.
Here then Axiochos can only be called γεννήτης τῶν θεῶν in so far as he is μεμυημένος. Why, indeed, he πρῶτος, before other μεμυημένοι, should have a claim to the honour of προεδρία is something that our text does not say
and that can hardly be extracted from it. It certainly appears that Axiochos has a special
privilege beyond that of other Mystai. Had he reached a specially high stage of the τέλη which was not open to everyone and at which
kinship with the gods was first fully assured? Did the family of the Εὐπατρίδαι undertake some active part in the μύησις which gave them a closer relation to the
gods? In any case his claim to be regarded as γεννήτης τῶν θεῶν must have
depended on his having been initiated at Eleusis.
Now this kinship with the gods to which he thus attains can only be made intelligible,
if, in accordance with the analogies adduced above, we regard the μύησις (or perhaps only its highest stages) as a symbolic
adoption by the divinities, suggesting or representing entrance into the divine γένος. No one will maintain that γεννήτης τῶν θεῶν is a “very
unnatural phrase” (Wil.) for one who has been “adopted” by the gods, who will recall the
fact that at Athens the adopted person was inscribed εἰς τοὺς γεννήτας of the adopter (Is. 7,
13; 15; 17; 43), or, which is precisely the same thing, εἰς τοὺς συγγενεῖς of the adopter (Is. 7, 27; 1).
Thereby he becomes himself γεννήτης of the members of the γένος into which he thus enters; he is now their γεννήτης, or, as it is once expressed in an
absolutely equivalent phrase, their συγγενὴς κατὰ τὴν ποίησιν
([Dem.] 44, 32).
Thus the fully initiated is γεννήτης of the divine family, κατὰ τὴν ποίησιν.
Invocations and conjurings of ἄωροι
and other νεκυδαίμονες of an earlier
period are mentioned above (p. 594 f.). To a later period belong
the defixiones found at Cyprus
(Kurion) and edited in the Proc. of the Soc. of Bibl. Archaeology, p. 174 ff. The
defixiones are there called παραθῆκαι, φιμωτικαὶ τοῦ
ἀντιδίκου (i, 39, and frequently), or φιμωτικὰ καταθέματα (iv, 15, etc.). φιμοῦν and φιμωτικόν in this rude Egypto-Syrian
Greek are equivalent to the terms, otherwise usual for such magic charms, καταδεῖν,
κατάδεσμος (see above, chap. ix, n. 107). See also
P. Mag. Lond. (Kenyon, Greek Pap. in BM., p. 114), l. 967 ff.: in an appeal
to a god (δεῦρό μοι καὶ) φίμωσον, ὑπόταξον, καταδούλωσον τὸν δεῖνα τῷ δεῖνι
κτλ.—ib., p. 97, l. 396 ff.: φιμωτικὸν καὶ ὑποτακτικὸν γενναῖον καὶ
κάτοχος· λαβὼν μόλυβον ἀπὸ ψυχροφόρου σωλῆνος ποίησον λάμναν καὶ ἐπίγραφε χαλκῷ
γραφείῳ (bronze is a magic metal), ὡς ὑποκεῖται, καὶ θὲς παρὰ ἄωρον (see
above, p. 594 f.) here follows the rest of the barbarous
text.—On these Cypriote defixiones among the other invocations regularly
appear those addressed to the souls of the unquiet dead, to the δαίμονες πολυάνδριοι (vi, 17. adds πεπελεκισμένοι καὶ
ἐσ[ταυρωμένοι or ἐσκολοπισμένοι? cf. Luc., Philops. 29]) καὶ βιοθάνατοι καὶ ἄωροι καὶ ἄποροι ταφῆς (τῆς ἱερᾶς
ταφῆς iv, 18): thus i, 30 f., and frequently. The δαίμονες πολυάνδριοι were
probably the souls of executed criminals whose bodies were thrown out into the common
burial grounds—as at Melite in Athens: Plu., Themist. 22—the πολυάνδρια (cf. Perizon. on Ael., VH. 12,
21). βιοθάνατοι
εἴτε ξένοι εἴτε ἐντόπιοι are invoked, iv, 4. Invocation is made in common to: τύμβε πανδάκρυτε καὶ χθόνιοι θεοὶ καὶ Ἑκάτη χθονία καὶ Ἑρμῆ χθόνιε καὶ
Πλούτων καὶ Ἐρινύες ὑποχθόνιοι καὶ ὑμεῖς οἱ ὧδε κατῳκημένοι ἄωροι καὶ ἀνώνυμοι (see
Rh. Mus. 50, 20, 3): i, 35, and frequently repeated with the same formula. What we
have here is of frequent occurrence: a dead person is called upon to carry out a curse. An
early example is CIG. 539: καταδῶ αὐτοὺς (the persons to be cursed) σοί, Ὀνήσιμε (Attica, fourth century B.C.). The tablet in Böckh, i, p. 487, admits the reading Ὀνήσιμε as well as Ὀνήσιμη. The latter (as a nominative) is preferred by
Wünsch, Tab. Defix., p. ivb, p. 25 (n. 100), simply in order to expel every example
of the invocation of a dead person to carry out a curse. But this is only a petitio
principii; and if we accepted Ὀνήσιμη (as the name of the curser) at least the
addition of some word like ἐγώ after αὐτοὺς σοί would be necessary—for which
there is no room on the tablet. It will be necessary to retain the generally accepted
vocative Ὀνήσιμε (to which the coming
πάντας . . . τηρεῖν, l.
5–8, is much better suited than to the following Ἑρμῆ, l. 8, as in Wünsch’s version). There is nothing
remarkable in the invocation here of the individual νεκυδαίμων by name (thus doubling the force of compulsion
exerted; cf. Kroll, Rh. Mus., 52, 345 f.) to complete and carry out the curse:
parallels are given above, p. 594 ff., and in the above-mentioned
Cypriote φιμωτικά: cf. also
CIG. 5858b, δαίμονες καὶ
πνεύματα (i.e. “souls”) ἐν τῷ
τόπῳ τούτῳ θηλυκῶν καὶ ἀρρενικῶν, ἐξορκίζω ὑμᾶς.
The custom of burying such magic defixions was astonishingly widespread. Defigi diris deprecationibus nemo non metuit, Plin., NH. 28,
19. In the places where Latin was spoken such abominations were indeed even more common than in Greek-speaking countries. (The
Latin defixiones are collected now by Wünsch, Tab. Defix. xxv f.) The
practice had a long life and is not quite dead even to-day. On the Roman side examples
from the seventh and eighth centuries are by no means rare: see e.g. [Aug.] Hom. de
Sacrileg., § 20. For a Greek example see e.g. the story ap. Sophronius, SS. Cyri et
Ioannis Miracula (saec. vi), chap. 55, p. 3625 Migne: magical objects were buried
under the doorstep of the victim’s house; were discovered and dug up; whereupon the death
immediately followed of—not the victim but—the magician.
12th August, 1897 (= 2nd German Ed.).
INDEX — Transcriber’s Note and Extended List of Abbreviations
The figures indicate pages, except where they follow a Roman numeral,
in which case they refer to the numbered notes.
Abarbareë and Boukolion, xiv, ii, 105.
Abaris, 300.
Abioi, 63.
Abipones in Paraguay, i, 30; viii, 28.
Academy, its doctrine of the Soul, xiv,
1.
Acheron, Ἀχερουσιὰς λίμην, i, 67; v, 25; 241.
Acheron, god of Hades, 591.
Achilles, i, 41; in Hades, 39; translated, 64 f.; on the μακάρων νῆσος, xiv, ii,
99; on Leuke, xiv, ii, 102; as Hero or God, 66; 126; iv, 3, 87, 137; xiv, ii,
42.
Admetos, xii, 40; ix,
90.
Adonis, iii, 30.
Adoption, 172; Ritual Act of Adoption in the
Mysteries, 601 f.
Aeneas translated, xiv, ii, 110, 114 (ii, 3).
Aeracura, xiv, ii, 144.
Aeschylus, 157; vii,
12; 422 f.; Agam. 1235, 591
f.
Aether, the element of the Souls, 435 f.; dwelling place of Souls, 170–1;
x, 45; xiv, 53, 69; 541.
Aethiopians, 63.
Ages, different, of Mankind (Hesiod), 67 f.;
Golden Ages, ii, 49; vii, 18.
Agamemnon translated, xiv, ii, 99.
ἄγαμοι after death, 586; xiv, ii, 154.
Agathos daimon, v, 133.
Agides in Sparta, iv, 53.
Agon, see Funeral Games.
Agriania, viii, 28; ix,
11–12.
Agrianios, name of a month in Boeotia, v,
92.
Aiaia, ii, 14.
Aiakos, vii, 13.
Aias, Hero, 126; 137;
xiv, ii, 55, 102; Sophokles’ Aias, xii, 88.
αἴδεσις, v, 151.
Ἅιδης = θάνατος, Θάνατος, xii, 4; = the grave,
xiv, ii, 135; confusion of the two ideas, ib., 92; cf. Hades.
εἰς Ἀίδαο,
Ἄϊδόσδε, i, 32.
Ἅιδου
μήτηρ, 591 f.
αἱμακουρία, iv, 13.
Aipytos, 123; iv,
53.
Air, see Aether.
Aithalides, xi, 51; 599.
Aithiopis, 64; v, 166;
xiv, ii, 102.
Akrisios, iii, 43.
Aktaion, 134.
Akousilaos, 593.
Alabandos, iv, 138.
Alaric, xiv, ii, 172.
ἀλάστωρ, v, 148, 178; xii, 73; 592,
595.
Albanians in the Caucasus, i, 30.
Aletes, ix, 66.
Alexander the Great reaches the land of the Blest, xiv, ii, 101; translated, ib., 107;
Return of, and false Alexanders, ib., 112.
Alexander of Aphrodisias, xiv, 34.
Alexis, comic poet, xiv, ii, 143.
ἀλιτήριος, v, 176, 178.
Alkandros, iii, 56.
Alkmaion Hero, iv, 105, 136; Physician, xi, 28, 35, 40, 55; xii, 150; xiii, 22.
Alkmaionis, v, 17, 40.
Alkmene, iv, 134; translated, xiv, ii, 99.
Alkon, iii, 56.
ἀλλαθεάδες, v, 88.
Allegorical interpretation of myths, vi,
23.
Althaimenes, iii, 4.
Ambrosia, 58.
Ameinias (Pythagorean), xi, 30.
Amelesagoras, ix, 58.
ἀμεταστρεπτί, ix, 104.
Ampelius, Lib. Mem., viii, 3;
iii, 12.
Amphiaraos, translated, 89 f., 92–3; (Zeus Amph.), 94, 101, 159; (not originally a god), iii, 57; (later cult of), xiv, ii, 104.
ἀμφιδρόμια, ix, 72.
Amphilochos translated, iii, 5, 13, 56; 133; iv, 105; xiv, ii, 104, 114.
Amphilytos, ix, 59.
Amphion, 238.
ἀμύητοι, 586 f.
Amyklai, 99 f.
ἀναβιώσεις, xi, 103.
Anæsthesia, see Insensibility.
Anagyros, Hero, 134.
ἀνάμνησις as
taught by Pythagoras, Empedokles, Plato, xi, 96; 598 f.
Anaxagoras, vi, 23; 386; 432; xii, 143;
fr. 6 [12], xi, 110–11.
Anaximander, x, 38; 366; xi, 98.
Anaximenes, 366; xi,
98.
Ancestor-cult, 10 f.; 27
f.; 77 f. (Hesiod); Ancestors in the cult of Heroes, 119 f., 527 f.; of the γένη, etc., 124 f. (with nn.).
Anchises translated, xiv, ii, 110.
ἀγχιστεία (in the
cult of souls), v, 42, 141; 176; xiv, ii, 10.
ἀνιέναι (τὰ
καλά, etc.), v, 120.
Anima and animus in Lucretius, xiv, 74.
Animals in cult of the dead, v, 105; care of
animals enjoined, vi, 35 (and see Food); skin of, apotropaic use of, xi, 58
(v, 167); souls of, x, 45; xiii, 40.
Andronikos (Peripatetic), 512.
ἄνεμοι, x, 45.
ἀνεμοκοῖται, ix, 107.
Angekoks, of Greenland, 262; ix, 117.
Angels, xiv, ii, 144.
Anthropogony (Orphic), 341 f., (Hesiodic) 67 f.
Anios, iv, 102.
Anthesteria, 168; ix,
11.
Anthologia Palatina, xiv, ii, 122.
ἀνθρωποδαίμων, ii,
43.
Antichrist, xiv, ii, 113.
Antigone, 163; 426; xii, 94.
Antilochos translated, xiv, ii, 102 (p.
567).
Antinous translated, xiv, ii, 114.
Antiochos of Kommagene, his tomb, xiv, ii, 13
(p. 554).
Antiphon (of Rhamnous, the orator), v, 176;
588.
Antipodes, xiv, ii, 101.
ἀωροθάνατοι,
594 (add Phryn. App. Soph. in Bekk. Anecd., 24, 22).
ἄωροι, xiii, 36; 533; 553; 594; 604; xiv, ii,
154.
ἀωροβόρος
Hekate, ix, 92.
Apis, ix, 68.
ἀποκατάστασις, x, 47; 519.
Apollo, 97 f.; 130; xii, 40; god of expiation, 180 f.; as leader
of the Souls, xiv, ii, 146; and Dionysos, 287 f.; supplants Gaia, 290; Hyakinthos, 99 f.; Ἀτύμνιος, etc., iv, 99.
Apolline mantiké, 289 f.
Apollonia in Chalkidike, v, 92.
Apollonios of Tyana, ii, 18; xiv, ii, 115.
ἀπομαγδαλίαι, 595.
ἀπομάττειν, 589, 590.
ἀπόνιμμα, ix, 88.
ἀποπομπή (δαιμόνων), v, 168.
ἀπόταφοι, xiv, ii,
20.
ἀποτροπαῖοι
(θεοί), v, 168.
Apparitions of the departed, xiv, ii, 154;
see Ghosts.
ἄψυχα trial held over,
iv, 118.
ἀραῖος
(νέκυς, δαίμων), v, 148; xii,
107.
Aratos as Hero, xiv, ii, 57 f.
ἀρχηγοί, ἀρχηγέται, iv, 51, 55; 527.
Archelaos, the philosopher, 432; xii, 152.
Archemoros Vase, v, 40.
Archilochos, v, 173.
Archon Basileus at Athens, 178.
Areopagos, 162; v,
145; 178.
Argeios and Herakles, i, 35.
Argimpaioi, x, 78.
Arginousai, battle of, 162.
Aristaios, iii, 6.
Aristeas of Prokonnesos, 300, 596.
Aristogeiton and Harmodios in Hades, 237.
Aristogeiton, Speech against, vii, 15.
Aristomenes as Hero, 528.
Aristophanes Frogs, 240.
Aristophon, comic poet, 601.
Aristotle, 383; xiv,
1; 493 f. (An. 408b, 18; xiv, 27).
Aristoxenos, xi, 47, 52; 512.
Aristophanes of Byzantium, 583.
Arkesilaos, xiv, 1.
Art of the Greeks, 157; Cult of Souls as
represented in, v, 105.
Askesis (Asceticism), vi, 35; 302, 338; Orphic, 343;
Thracian, x, 78; Pythagorean, xi, 47;
Empedokles, 381; practised in foreign mystery-religions, 546.
Asklepiades, doctor, xi, 69.
Asklepios, iii, 13; chthonic, mantic, 100 f.; his death by lightning, 582;
Asklepiadai, iv, 92 f.
Asphalt (bitumen), apotropaic virtue of, v,
95.
ἀσφόδελος sacred to
the χθόνιοι, ix,
115.
Associations: burial, xiv, ii, 4; religious, xiv, ii, 53.
Astakides, xiv, ii, 105; 582.
Astarte, iii, 30.
Astrabakos, 137.
ἄταφοι, restless
wandering of, 163; v, 147; 595 (i, 33).
ἀτέλεστοι,
uninitiated, lying in mud in the underworld, vii, 15; 586 f.
ἀθάνατος πηγή (in the underworld), xiv, ii, 151.
Athenaeus (139 E), iii, 48.
Athenaïs, ix, 59.
Athene ἀποτροπαία, v, 168.
Athenodoros, philosopher and Hero, 530.
Athens, 98; A. and Eleusis, 219 f.
Atlantes, x, 78.
Atomists, 385 f.; 506.
Atonement in Plato (Purgation), xiii,
36.
Attis, iii, 30; viii,
55; 546.
Augustine, xiv, ii, 87.
Augustus, ascent to Heaven, of, xiv, ii,
107.
Aurelius, M. Antoninus, xiv, 44, 63, 69; 504.
Ausonius, xiv, ii, 167.
Australian natives, religious dances of, viii,
55; 585.
Autolykos, iv, 101; xiv, ii, 43.
Authority, later Antiquity's need of, 545.
Axiochos, the pseudo-Platonic dialogue, vii, 15; xii, 120; 602 f.
Avenging spirit, v, 148, 176; cf. ἀλάστωρ.
Averting the eves from the sight of spirits, ix,
104.
Avoiding the sight of spirits, iv, 84; ix, 104.
Baal, ecstatic prophets of, viii, 43.
Babo, v, 19; 591.
Babylonia, i, 44.
Bacchanalia in Rome, xiv, ii, 106; viii, 54.
Bakchiadai, iv, 46, 47.
Βάκχος, viii, 10, 35; 335; cf.
Dionysos.
Βάκχοι, viii, 31 f.
Bakis, Bakides, 292; ix,
58, 63, 66; 595.
Banishment, 163; in expiation of murder, 175 f. (v, 142 f.).
Banquet of the Pure (Orphic doctrine of), in the other world, vii, 18; x, 70.
Barathron at Athens, v, 32.
Barbarossa, legend of, iii, 16.
Βασιλίδαι, iv, 47.
Βασσαρεύς (Bassarides),
viii, 10 f.
Batloka, viii, 30.
Baubo, 591 f.
Beans, see Food, prohibition of.
Beer known to the Thracians, viii, 38.
Bendis, Bendideia at Athens, x, 4.
Berenike, translated, xiv, ii, 107.
Bessoi in Thrace, 260; viii, 53–4.
βιαιοθάνατοι (βιοθάνατοι, βίαιοι), 175 f.; v, 148, 176; 594 f.;
604.
Birds (incarnations of Heroes), xiv, ii,
102.
Birth, pollution of, 295.
Birthday as day of remembrance of the dead, v,
89; xiv, ii, 18, 45.
Biton and Kleobis, xiv, ii, 148, 170.
Black objects (trees, fruit, etc.) sacred to χθόνιοι, and hence have kathartic properties, v, 61; ix, 81; cf. ix,
26; 590.
Blest, of the dead, 171; vii, 10; xiv, ii, 31; 541 (cf. μακαρίτης and Islands of the
Blest).
Blindness follows the sight of a deity, xiv, ii,
41.
Bliss, life of, in Hades; see Utopia.
Blood = thought, 380.
Boccaccio, iv, 134.
Boëthos, xiv, 34 (fin.), 57.
Bones of Heroes, cult paid to, 122.
Born, better not to be, xii, 10.
Boukolion, xiv, ii, 105.
Βουκόλοι, Dionysiac, viii, 35.
Bouselidai, v, 69, 129.
Brahminism, 302; x,
83.
Brasidas, as Hero, iv, 20; 128.
Breathing out the soul, i, 25; 30.
Bride, contests for the hand of a, i, 19.
Bronze: see Noise, etc.
Brotinos (Pythagorean), x, 7.
Brutus, 515; xiv, ii,
88.
Buddhism, viii, 60; x,
83; xi, 54, 96.
Burial, i, 34; oldest
customs of, 22 f.; coffinless, v, 61, 62; inhumation and burning in Attica, v, 58;
within the house, at the hearth, v, 66; xiv,
ii, 9; within the city, v, 68; xiv, ii,
8.
Burial societies, xiv, ii, 4.
Burning and inhumation, 19 f.; burning the
possessions of the dead, i, 30, 51;
burning the dead; see Cremation.
Butios of Antilles, 262.
Cæsar, deification of, xiv, ii, 111.
Calling home the Souls, 42.
Canosa, vase from, vii, 27.
Cannibalism, x, 54.
Caracalla as an avatar of Alexander, xiv, ii,
112.
Cato of Utica, xiv, 64.
Cave of Zeus in Crete, 96 f.
Cave-deities, 89 f.; viii,
68.
Caves, sleep in, ix, 116.
Catacombs, xiv, ii, 144, 166, 174.
Celsus, xiv, ii, 96.
Celts, x, 81.
Cenotaph, i, 88.
Ceremonial of funerals restricted, 165, 167; v, 135; 540.
Cities, Founders of, 127 f.; cf. ἀρχηγοί.
Chains attached to a sacred statue, iv,
108.
χαῖρε on tombstones, 526 f.
Chalkis, criminal law of, v, 145.
χάρισμα, 292.
Charon, 237.
Χαρώνιον, v, 23.
Charon's fare given to the dead, 18; 162; vii, 9.
Children, importance of, 172; xii, 7.
China, ancestor-worship in, v, 129.
χοαί, for the dead, v, 106, 120.
Choes, v, 95; ix,
11.
χρηστοί of the
dead, xiv, ii, 29 f. (vii, 10).
Christianity; ascetics and exorcists, 292, xiv, ii, 171, 179; use of word ἥρως, xiv, ii,
82; violation of graves by, xiv, ii, 11; Hell, 242; future rewards and punishments, xiv, ii,
96; rebirth, 602; Antichrist, xiv, ii,
113.
Christi, Russian sect of, viii, 57.
Chrysippos, xiv, 40, 47, 60-1; xiv, ii,
87.
Chthonic deities, 158 f.,
218 f.; vi, 29; groups of χθόνιοι, v, 19; invoked at
marriage and birth, 171; ix, 91.
Chytroi, festival at Athens, 168; ix, 11.
Cicero, vi, 22, 23;
xiv, 54; 519; xiv,
ii, 71, 96.
Cliff of Leukas, xiv, ii, 102.
Closing the eyes of the dead, i, 25.
Coffin-burial, v, 60.
Collegia funeraticia, xiv, ii, 4.
Colonies, Greek, 27; 156.
Comedy, Descents to Hades in, 240.
Conscience, 294, 384.
Consciousness division of, 595; see ἔκστασις.
Consolationes, xiv, ii, 6, 100.
Corinth, criminal law of, v, 145.
Cornutus, 504.
Corpes devoured by a daimon (Eurynomos), vii,
25; (Hekate), ix, 92.
Cosmopolitanism, v, 34; 499 f.
Cosmos, 29.
Costume, see Dress.
Coulanges, Fustel de, iv,
48; v, 131.
Cremation, 8, 19 f., 28; i, 66; iv, 38; v, 33, 58;
and burial in later period, v, 58.
Crete, cult of Zeus in, 96 f.; v, 167; ix, 113–14 (mantic and
kathartic reputation).
Creuzer, 223.
Crossways, 216; ix,
88.
Crowning the dead body with garlands, v,
40.
Crowns (of flowers) for the dead, v, 40.
Crumbs, etc., left on the ground for the Souls, v, 114.
Cult-societies, 221.
Cure of diseases by prophets, 294 f.
Curses against tomb-violators, 526 f.
Curse-tablets; see Defixiones.
Cycle, Epic, 34, 64 f.,
75, 90.
Cyclic poetry, editing of, x, 17.
Cynics, v, 34; 499.
Cypress at funerals, v, 39.
Daeira, Daira, Δαειρίτης at Eleusis, vi, 8.
daemonium meridianum, ix, 96; 592.
Daimones, deities of second rank, i, 56;
distinct from Heroes, iv, 23; xii, 121;
in Hesiod, 70 f.; Empedokles, 381; Stoics, 500.
δαίμων, personal, of
individual men, xiv, 44; (= πότμος), xii, 26; xiv, 44; ἀγαθὸς δ.,
v, 133; cf. xiv, 44; δαίμων θνητός (ἀνθρωποδαίμων, νεκυδαίμων), ii, 43.
δαίμονες
ἀποτρόπαιοι, v, 168; ἀραῖοι, v, 148; μειλίχιοι, v, 168; πλάνητες, 592; προστρόπαιοι, v, 148, 176; = Angel, xiv, ii, 144; δαιμόνων μήτηρ, 591.
Daites, Trojan Hero, iv, 3.
Damon, ix, 19.
Danaides, 242; 587.
Dances, religious, 257; viii, 55; ix, 19.
Dance, circular, in cult of Dionysos, viii,
15.
Dante, 33, 242.
Danube, mouths of, xiv, ii, 102.
Daphne, 100.
δάφνη, v, 38, 95; ix, 46; xi, 85.
Daphnis, xiv, ii, 105.
Days, unlucky, v, 158.
Dea Syria, viii, 55.
Dead, offerings to, 18 f.; 165 f.; v, 105; dirge for the, 18, 164; Banquet of, 168;
sacrifices to (Patroklos), 12 f.; in Mycenean graves, 22 f.; in Od. λ, 36 f.; elsewhere, 116, 164, 167 f.; Oracles of the, 24; i, 73; Judges of the (Aesch. and Plato), 238 f.; (Pindar), xii, 34 f.; (Aesch.), xii, 77; (later), 541; classes of the, xii, 62; xiv, ii, 127; imagined as
skeletons, xiv, 11, 92; exorcism, conjuration of, see Souls and Ghosts.
Death, 3; superior to life, 229, 542; causing pollution, 295; of gods, iii, 30; Black Death, 284.
Defixiones, ix,
92, 107; 534, 594, 603 f.
Deification of Rulers, 537 f. (cf. 530 f.).
Delos, purification of, ix, 119.
Delphic Oracle, regulates expiatory rites, v, 167; 180 f.; authority of, in the cult of
Heroes, 128 f.; gives support to the cult of Souls, 174; to the Eleusinian worship, vi, 5; to the
worship of Dionysos in Attica, vi, 9; sources of oracular
inspiration, 289 f.; importance of D. in religious life of Greece,
157; grave of Python at D., 97; Delphic
funeral ordinance, v, 45.
Delphinion at Athens, v, 172.
Demeter (and Kore), 160 f.; v, 168; 218 f.
Demetrios Poliorketes as Hero, xiv, ii,
69.
Demetrios, Cynic, xiv, 64.
Demigods (ἡμίθεοι), iv, 23.
δῆμοι called after
γένη in Attica, etc., iv, 52.
Demokritos, xi, 35; 385 f.; xii, 150; xiii,
27; περὶ τῶν ἐν ᾅδου,
xi, 103 (fragg. moral.).
Demonassa, vi, 35.
Demonology, 534.
Demophoön, i, 41.
De mortuis nil nisi bene, v, 81; 170.
Dervishes, viii, 15, 43; 262, 266.
Devil’s Bride, ii, 7.
Devil’s Mother, 591.
Dexikreon, ix, 111.
Dexion the Hero (Sophokles), iv, 71.
Diagoras of Melos, 240; xii, 65.
Diana = Empousa, 592; in the Middle Ages, ix, 101.
Diasia at Athens. v, 168.
Dies nefasti, v, 158.
Dikaiarchos, xi, 52; 512; 599.
Dikte, Mt. in Crete, 96.
Diochaites, Pythagorean, xi, 30.
Diogenes, of Apollonia, 432, 436.
Diogenes, Cynic, vi, 27; 239.
Diogenes Laertius (viii, 31), xi, 50.
Diomedes, 67; on the μακάρων νῆσος, xiv, ii,
99.
Dionysos, the Thracian, 256 f.; Greek god, 282 f.; Greek (not Thracian)
name, ix, 1; Orphic, 335 f.; 340 f.
Διόνυσος
μαινόμενος, viii, 4; Lord of Souls, 168, 271; ix, 11; at
Delphi, 97, 287; Oracle of Dionysos, 260, 290; as Bull, viii,
19, 33, 35; x,
35; as βουκόλος, viii, 35; at Eleusis, vi, 9; Epiphanies of, 258, 279, 285; Worship
of, in Rome, viii, 54; xiv, ii, 106.
Dioscuri, ἑτερήμεροι, xi, 51; translated,
xiv, ii, 109.
Dipylon, cemetery at Athens, v, 58.
Dipylon vases, 165.
Dirge, 164.
Discovery, geographical, xiv, ii, 101.
Disease, origin of, in daimonic influence, 294
f.; ix, 81–2.
Division of consciousness, 595 f.
Dodona, iii, 14; ix, 42.
Dogs sacrificed to Hekate, 298, 589–90; Hekate appears as a dog, ix, 99;
595; on grave reliefs, v, 105.
Dorians in the Peloponnese, 27.
Drakon, 115, 176.
Drama, 285, 421; in
cult, 222, 258; mystic drama at Eleusis, 227.
Dreams, visions of the dead in, 7 (proving
survival); xiv, ii, 154; i, 55; see
Incubation and Prophecy.
Dress in Dionysiac worship, 257.
Drimakos (Hero), 530.
Driving out the souls, v, 99, 100.
Druids, x, 81.
Drusilla (ascent to heaven), xiv, ii,
107.
Dryopes, v, 18.
Δύαλος, viii, 10.
Duty, as conceived by the Stoics, 498 f.
Earth = Hell, xi, 75.
Earth-deities; see Chthonic.
Earth, Oracle of, at Delphi, 97, 160; ix, 46.
Echetlos (Hero), 136.
Echidna, v, 23.
Eckhart, xiii, 75.
ἐγχυτρίστριαι, v, 77.
Eggs, kathartic use of, x, 55; 590.
Egypt, i, 5, 39; 242; 335; x, 8, 45; 346; xiv, ii,
109, 152–3, 144.
ἐκφορά of the dead body,
v, 46, 50, 60.
ἔκστασις (ἐνθουσισμός, κατοχή), 30, 255; viii, 24; 258 f.;
284 f.; 293; 300 f.;
384; 471; 547; 595 f.
Eleatics, 371 f.
Elements, the four, xi, 28; 379.
Eleusinian Mysteries, 218 f.;
secrecy at, 222; promises made by, 223;
modern interpretations of, 223 f.; symbolism at, 226; later mention and end of (fourth century), 542; xiv, ii, 172; “Lesser Mysteries” at
Athens, 220; and Morality, 228.
Eleusis, v, 19, 21.
Elijah, ii, 18; xiv, ii, 109.
ἐλλέβορος kathartic
effects of, ix, 26, 75.
Elpenor, 17; i, 29, 33; 19; 20; 36.
Elysium, 55 f., 59 f., 75 f.; xiv, ii, 99; 541.
Embalming in Egypt, i, 39; in Sparta, iv, 46.
Empedokles, 378 f.; x,
72; xi, 28, 34, 42, 50, 56 f.;
xii, 41; xiii, 40, 68; xiv, ii, 107; 597.
Empedotimos, ix, 111–12; xii, 44; xiv, 53.
Empousa, vii, 25; 591.
ἐναγίζειν, iv, 15, 86.
ἔνατα, an offering to the
dead, v, 82–3.
Enemies of the gods in Hades, 238, 241.
ἐνιαύσια for the dead,
v, 81, 90, 92.
ἔνθεος
(ἐνθουσιασμός): see ἔκστασις.
ἐνθύμιον, 216.
Enlightenment in Greece, 79, 115, 292.
ἐνναετηρίς in
expiation of murder, xi, 78; xii, 34, 40; 180.
Enoch, ii, 18; xiv, ii,
109.
Eoiai, Hesiodic, 593.
ἐπαγωγή (δαιμόνων), ix,
106–7.
Ephialtes (daimon), ix, 102; xiv, ii, 86; 592.
Ephyrai
in Thesprotia, v, 23.
Epicharmos, vi, 5; 436
f.; xii, 151; xiv, 53.
Epidauros, iii, 13, 54.
Epidemics, religious, 284.
Epigenes, 597.
Epikteta, Testament of, v, 126; xiv, ii, 18, 71.
Epiktetos, 504; xiv,
3, 41, 44.
Epicurus, doctrine of the soul, 504 f.;
foundation for the cult of his soul, v, 126, 137.
Epigrammata Graeca, ed. Kaibel, xiv, ii,
119 f. (No. 594: 141).
Epilepsy (see mental diseases), viii, 39.
Epimachos, v, 19.
Epimenides, 301; iii,
24; v, 57; 596; Theogony of, ix, 123.
ἐπιφάνεια of
Dionysos, 258; viii, 68; 285.
ἐπιπομπαί
(δαιμόνων), v, 168; ix, 107.
Epitaphs, 539 f. (see Anth. Pal.).
ἐπῳδαί, ix, 81–2, 107.
Erechtheus (Erichthonios), 98; 581.
Erinyes, ii, 6; v, 5,
97, 121; 178 f.;
vii, 6; xii, 75; 592.
ἐρινύειν, ix, 58.
Eros, v, 112.
ἐσχάρα, i, 53.
Eskimo, manner of burial, v, 67.
Essenes, x, 78; xiv,
ii, 117.
Esthonian cult of the dead, v, 99.
ἔται, v, 141.
Eteoboutadai, iv, 52.
εὐαγής, xii, 58.
Εὐάγγελος Hero, xiv, ii, 63, 144.
Euadne, 582.
Εὐάπαν, ix, 102
Eubouleus (Euboulos), god of the underworld, v,
7, 19; 220; xiv,
ii, 145.
Eudemos, Ethics of, 512.
Euhemeros, iii, 28.
Eukleides (Socratic), xiv, 44.
Euklos, ix, 58.
Eumolpos, Eumolpidai, vi, 6, 16; x, 70.
Eunostos (Hero), 134.
Euodos (Hero), 529.
Eupatridai in Athens, iv, 47; v, 139; 602 f.
Euphemistic names for χθόνιοι, v, 5.
Euphorbos, 599.
Euripides, 432 f.; Alcestis, xii, 121; Bacchae, 286;
Hecuba, viii, 70; orthodoxy of, xii,
135.
Eurynomos, Hades-daimon, vii, 25.
Eurypontidai, iv, 53.
Eurysthenidai, iv, 53.
εὐσεβῶν
χῶρος, vii, 15; xiv, ii, 133.
Euthykles, iv, 117.
Euthymos, 135; 581.
Evil, speaking, of the dead forbidden, v,
115.
Evil, nature of, 470 (Plato); 498; xiv, 40, 60.
Exegetai, their advice sought in questions relating to the cult of
Souls, v, 139, 174.
Exorcism, 604.
Expiation, gods of, v, 168; sacrifices of,
made to χθόνιοι, v,
167; after murder, 180 f.
Eyes of the dead, closing of, i, 25.
Fainting (λιποψυχία),
i, 9.
Fame, all that is left to the dead, 43; xii, 13, 20, 25;
xiv, ii, 169.
Family graves in the country, v, 69, 70; 525 f.
Fate and guilt, 423 f., 426 f.
Fear of the dead, 16, 163, 169; of death, dispelled by Epicurus, 506; breaks out at the end of the classical period, 545 (xiv, ii, 170).
Feet of the corpse pointing towards the door, i,
26.
Fetishism in Greece, iv, 118.
Figs, kathartic uses of, 590.
Fire, kathartic uses of, i, 41; ix, 127.
Fish: see Food, prohibition of.
Flaminius as Hero, 531.
Folk-poetry, 25; belief about the souls, 524; legends about the “translated”, xiv, ii,
105.
Folk tales (Greek), iv, 115; xiv, ii, 151.
Food, Prohibition of certain foods (attributed to Eleusis), vi, 35; among the Orphics, x, 54–5;
Thracian, x, 78; by Pythagoras, xi, 42,
47; Empedokles, xi, 76, 85.
Fountains in Hades, xii, 62; xiv, ii, 151; of Immortality, xiv, ii,
151.
Fravashi (Persian), i, 5.
Frederick, legend of the return of the Emperor, 93; xiv, ii, 112.
Freewill: see Will.
Friendship in the doctrine of the Epicureans, 506.
Funeral rites, in Homer, 17 f.; in later times,
162 f., 524 f.; of princes, i, 17; of kings in Sparta, Corinth, Crete, iv,
46; at public expense, xiv, ii, 5; refusal of, v, 32–3.
Funeral feast in Homer, 18; later (περίδειπνον), 167; games,
in Homer, 15; for Heroes, 116 f.;
procession, v, 60.
Furious Host, ii, 7; 298; xiii, 5; (593).
Fustel de Coulanges; see Coulanges.
Gabriel, the Archangel, iv, 134.
Gaia, 160, 168; v, 121; at Delphi, 290.
Gambreion, mourning period of, v, 86.
Games, 15, 116 f.; iv, 22; originally funeral ceremonies, 116
f.
Ganymedes, 58.
Garganus, mountain in Italy, iv, 92, 96.
Garlands for the dead, v, 40.
Gauls, x, 81.
Gello, 592.
γενέθλιος
δαίμων, xii, 26.
Γενέσια, private and
public, v, 15; 167.
Genesis, ii, 18.
Genetyllis, ix, 91.
γένη, 124.
Genius, i, 5; v, 132;
xiv, 44.
γεννήτης τῶν θεῶν, 603.
German tribes, i, 34; 22.
Getai, 263.
Ghosts, 9; 21; 29; 134; v, 99, 104, 114;
534; xiv, ii, 154; 566; 590 f.
Γίγων, viii, 10.
Glaukos, xiv, ii, 151.
Gnostics, xiv, ii, 179.
Gods, in Homer, 25 f.; Olympians and others,i, 56; idea of divinity, xiv, ii, 107;
Gods not immortal, 384; asleep or dead, iii,
30; buried, 96 f.; birthdays of, v, 89;
in human shape, iv, 134; visiting men, ii,
38; compared with men, 253 f., 414;
periodically appearing, viii, 28; of expiation, v, 168; amours of, iv, 134; conductors into
the lower world, xiv, ii, 144 f.; unknown, iv, 62; statues of, 136; see Chthonic.
Goethe, xiii, 64.
Golden Age, 67 f.; ii,
49; vii, 18.
γονεῖς, iv, 49; v, 146.
Gorgias, pupil of Empedokles, 378.
Γοργύρα,
Γοργώ, vii, 25; 591.
Grace of the gods (salvation), 342.
Grave and Hades confused, xiv, ii, 92.
Graves: see Burial, Family-graves, and Rock-graves; of Gods,
96; of Asklepios, 101; Erechtheus, 98; Hyakinthos, 99; Kekrops, iii, 41; Plouton, iii, 34; Python, 97; Zeus, 96; of Heroes, 121; cult of, 123, 166
f.; silence at, v, 110; curses attached to, xiv, ii, 13.
Grave-monuments, i, 28; v, 69 f.
Grave-robbers, 526.
Gregory the Great, xiv, ii, 87.
Grief, display of, disturbing to the dead, v,
49.
Guardian spirit of individuals, xiv, 44.
Guilt: see Sin and Fate.
Hades, 26, 35 f., 159, 223, 236 f.; xii, 4, 62;
500, 535 f., 540 f.;
Picture of, painted by Polygnotos, 241 f.; on vases from Southern
Italy, vii, 27; cult of, 159; mother of, 591; entrances to (Ploutonia), v, 23; Ferryman
of, vii, 9; Descents to, 32 f.; i, 62, 65; iii, 8; 236 f.; 240 f.;
(Epic), vii, 2–4; (Theseus and Peirithoos), vii, 3; (Herakles), 591; (in comedy), 240 f.; (vases), vii, 27; (Orphic), x, 60; (Pythag.), 600 f.; rivers of, 35, 237; vii, 21; Judges in, 247.
Hail: see Weather-magicians.
αἱμακουρία, iv, 13.
Hair, offering of, i, 14.
Hallucinations, 259; 262.
Haloa, 222; vi,
35.
Hamilcar, translation of, xiv, ii, 109.
Haokah dance of the Dakota, viii, 55.
Harmodios, translation of, xiv, ii, 99; and
Aristogeiton in the other world, vii, 5.
Harmonia and Kadmos, xiv, ii, 99.
ἁρμονία (of the soul),
xi, 52.
Harpocration on Ἄβαρις,
ix, 108.
Harpies, 56; v, 124;
593.
Hashish, 259.
Hasisatra, ii, 18; xiv,
ii, 109.
Hearth, earliest place of burial, v, 66.
Heaven (the sky), as dwelling place of the Blest, xii, 44, 62; xiv, ii,
134; ascent to, of Roman Emperors, xiv, ii, 107; of
Apollonios of Tyana, xiv, ii, 115.
Hedonism, 492 (xiv, 3).
Hegesias, xiv, 3.
Heirs, their duties to the dead, v, 129.
Hekabe, ix, 99.
Hekate, v, 5, 88, 168; 297 f., 590 f.; (H. Hek., p. 289 Ab.), 594; Hosts of
593 f.; Banquet of, v, 97; 216; ix, 88, 103.
Ἑκατικὰ
φάσματα, 590 f.
Hektor, as Hero, iv, 35; xiv, ii, 41 (still worshipped with sacrifice in the middle of the
fourth century in the Troad: Julian, Ep. 78, p. 603–4 H.).
Helen, legend of her εἴδωλον, i, 79; translated, ii, 21; xiv, ii, 99, 102; given heroic honours, 137.
Helios in Hades, xii, 38.
Hell, punishment in, 40 f.; 238 f., 242, 344, 415, 536; creatures of, 25, 590 f. (see Kerberos).
Hemithea, iv, 103.
ἡμίθεος, iv, 23.
Hephaistion, xiv, ii, 70.
Herakles in the Odyssean Nekyia, 39; his
descent to Hades, v, 25; vii, 4; 591; H. and Argeios, i, 35; H. and Eurystheus
(Omphale), xii, 40; as Hero-God, 132;
translated, 581; xiv, ii, 103.
Herakleides Ponticus, ix, 58, 60 (Sibyls), 108 (Abaris), 111, 96; xii, 44
(Empedotimos); xi, 61 (Empedokles); xiv, i,
53 (souls in the air); 599 f. (Pythagoras).
Herakleitos, 367 f.; xi,
5, etc., 101; xii, 137, 150; 464; xiv, 32;
499; 504; 597.
Hermes, conductor of souls, 9, 168; xiv, ii, 145.
Hermione, cult of χθόνιοι there, iii, 34; v, 18, 26.
Hermippos, 600.
Hermotimos, 300 f.
Hero of Alexandria, xii, 150.
Herodes Atticus, xiv, ii, 71, 131.
Herodikos, of Perinthos, vii, 3; x, 7.
Heroes, 74, 97 f., 115 f.; iii, 46; 254;
416; xii, 121; help in war, 136 f.; graves of, 121; v,
68; games for, 116 f.; bones of, transferred and worshipped, iv, 35–6; 529; as Birds, xiv, ii, 102; relation with θεοί and δαίμονες, iv, 25; become gods, 132; Homeric “Heroes”, iv, 26; in Hesiod, 74 f., 118; nocturnal sacrifice to, iv, 9; what falls
to the ground sacred to, v, 114; in Pindar, 414 f.; legends of, 134 f.; later, 527 f.
ἥρως = a dead
person, v, 110, 134; 531; (Christian), xiv, ii, 82; applied to the
living, 530 f.; xiv, ii, 68; nameless or
adjectival Heroes, 126 f., 529; xiv, ii, 61–2; ἡ. ἰατρός iv, 94–5; xiv, ii, 45; ἡ.
συγγενείας, v, 132.
Heroized Kings and Lawgivers, 128; Kings of
Sparta, Corinth, and Crete, iv, 46; Warriors of the Persian Wars,
528; prominent men of later times, 530;
Heroizing easier in Boeotia, v, 134; in Thessaly, xii, 121; 532; becomes common, 531 f.; substitution of descendants for original Hero, xiv, ii, 65.
Hero-Physicians (Oracular), 133; xiv, ii, 45.
ἥρωες δυσόργητοι, v, 119.
ἡρῷα at the
doors, iv, 105, 136; v, 68.
Ἡρωϊκός
of Philostratos, xiv, ii, 41.
ἡρωῒς, ἡρωϊκά, ix, 11; xiv, ii, 50; Birthday festivals of H., v,
89.
ἡρωϊσταί, xiv, ii,
53.
Herodotos, 115; xii,
8.
Herophile of Erythrai, ix, 60.
Hesiod, The Five Ages, 67 f.; Op. et D.
(124), ii, 34; (141), ii, 41;
Theog. (411), ix, 95a.
Hesychos, vii, 6.
Hierapolis, its πλουτώνιον, v, 23.
ἱεροθέσιον, xiv, ii, 13 (p. 554).
Hierophant at Eleusis, εὐνουχισμένος, vi, 12.
ἱλασμός, v, 167.
Hippokrates, cult of, v, 89; xiv, ii, 45.
Hippolytos, iv, 38.
Hippon of Samos, 432.
Hippotes, xii, 40.
Herdsman (shepherd), type of God, xi, 36;
(see divine apparitions), xiv, ii, 41.
Homer, 25 f., 157.
Homicide, state trials of, 176 f.; held over inanimate objects (in Athens), iv, 118.
Horace (Odes, iv, 2, 21), xii,
45.
Honey-cakes offered to the underworld, i, 13;
v, 98; vii, 6.
ὥρια,
ὡραῖα offered to the dead, v, 128.
Horse in the cult of the dead, v, 105.
Host, Furious, ii, 7; 298; xiii, 5; (593).
House, earliest place of burial, v, 66.
House-spirit, v, 132.
Human sacrifice, ix, 87; in the cult of
Dionysos, 285; offered by Epimenides, ix,
121; in the cult of Heroes, xiv, ii, 49; replaced by animal
sacrifice or ποινή, v, 144; 179–80.
Humanity: see Mankind.
Hunt: see Host.
Hyades, iii, 45.
Ὑακίνθια, 99 f.
Hyakinthides, iii, 45.
Hyakinthos, 99 f.
Hydromantia, 589.
Hydrophoria at Athens, v, 98.
Hylas, xiv, ii, 105.
Hylozoism, 365, 385, 432.
ὑποφόνια, v, 154.
Iamblichos, Vit. Pythag., viii,
77.
Iakchos, 220 f.
Ianthe, iii, 3.
Iaso, iii, 56.
Iatromantic, 133.
Iatros, Hero, iv, 94–5; xiv, ii, 45.
Iceland, i, 43.
Idaian cave in Crete, 96; 161.
Images, cult of, 136.
Immortal = godlike (becoming god), in Homer, 57; = being a god, 253 f.
Immortality, Belief in, connected with Dionysiac religion, 263 f.; among Orphics, 343 f.; in Philosophy,
365 f.; 463 f.; 496;
xiv, 60; in Popular Religion, 538 f.; 542; 546; doubts of, xiv,
ii, 157.
Imprecations: see Curses.
Incas, i, 30.
Incense in temples, viii, 39; ix, 19.
Incubation, iii, 8; 92; ix, 46; Heroic oracles of, 133.
Indians, Burial customs, 10, 21–2; cult of the dead, i, 75; v, 84–6, 90, 105, 123; Yama in Hades, vii, 6; religious anæsthesia, viii, 26; Yogis,
viii, 43; kartharsis, ix, 78; Ascetics, 343; x, 78; philosophy (Jainism), xi, 16; (South American) mutilation of
corpses, i, 34; (North American) cult of souls, v, 136.
Individualism, 117; 388
f.; 499 f.; 545.
Inheritance, laws of, v, 146.
Ino Leukothea, 58; iv, 104.
Insanity: see Madness and Mental.
Inscriptions (I.G. (xiv) Sic. et It. 641), xii, 49 f.; (IG. M. Aeg. i, 142), xiv,
ii, 146; (Ath. Mitt.), xiv, ii, 164, 168.
Insensibility to pain, etc., in visionary
states, viii, 43.
Inspiration, prophecy of, 92 f.; (in Thrace),
260; (in Greece), 289 f.
Intoxication, religious use of, viii, 39.
Invisibility (in Homer), 56.
Iolaia in Thebes, iv, 21.
Ionia, 27 f.
Iphigeneia, 64, 66; xiv, ii, 99, 102.
Iphis, iii, 3.
Iron keeps away daimones and the dead, i, 72.
Isaeus, v, 129.
Ischys, iii, 56.
Isis, mysteries of, xiv, ii,
174.
Islands of the Blest (Hesiod). 68 f.; (Pindar), 415 f.; translation of Heroes
to, xiv, ii, 99; dwelling-place of all the pious, xiv, ii, 100, 130 f.; discovered by
sailors, xiv, ii, 101; identified with Leuke, xiv, ii, 99, 102.
Isodaites, 271.
Isokrates, vi, 22; ii,
43.
Isthmian Games, iv, 22.
Isyllos, iv, 2.
Ixion, vii, 11.
Jainism (see Indian), xi, 16.
Japan, cult of dead in, v, 99.
Jaws of the dead, binding up the, xiv, ii,
2.
Jewish forgery of a Pindaric poem, xii,
45.
Jews, influenced by Greeks, xiv, ii, 14.
Jews influence Greeks, xiv, ii, 144.
Judaeo-Hellenistic doctrine of the soul, xiv,
ii, 117.
Judgment in Hades, 238 f., 535 f., 541; Orphic, 344; Pindar, 415; Plato, xiii, 36.
Julian the Apostate, xiv, ii, 107, 144, 171.
Julius Kanus, xiv, 64.
jus talionis, x, 71.
Justin, πρὸς Ἕλλ., 3,
xiv, ii, 151. (The emendation πιδύσας is already mentioned, as I see too late, in the Mauriner
edition of Justin Martyr. The apparently traditional ὅρη πηδήσας is indeed possible on
grammatical grounds [analogous constructions, otherwise peculiar to poetry, are not
unknown in prose: see Lobeck ad Aiac.3, p. 69–70], but provides no
satisfactory sense.)
Ka of Egyptians, i, 5.
Kadmos translated to Islands of the Blest, xiv,
ii, 99.
Kaiadas at Sparta, v, 32.
Kaineus, iii, 3.
Kalchas, iv, 96.
Kalypso, xiv, ii, 105.
Kanobos, iii, 43.
Kanus Julius, xiv, 64.
Kapaneus, 581 f.
Καρκώ, 592.
Karmanor, ix, 113.
Karneades, xiv, 59, 61, 83.
καρποῦν, v, 126.
Kassandra, viii, 52; ix,
65.
καταδεῖν, κατάδεσμος, κατάδεσις in magic, ix,
107; 604.
καθάρματα given up to
the spirits, ix, 88 (cf. 81).
Kathartic practices, etc., v, 36; 180; vi, 18; vii, 15;
294 f.; 302; 378; 582; 585; 589 f.
κάθαρσις μανίας
(music), ix, 19; (of Pythagoreans), xi,
48; by Melampous, 287; Bakis, 294;
Orphic, 338 f.; 343; Empedokles, xi, 85; Plato, 470.
καθέδραι, festival of
Souls, v, 86.
κάτοχος, of magic, ix, 107.
κάτοχοι, κατοχή, κατέχεσθαι, of “possession”, viii, 24, 44.
Kattadias (Devil-priests of Ceylon), viii,
55.
Kaukones, v, 12.
Kaunians, v, 99.
Kausianoi, viii, 75, 77.
Kekrops, iii, 41.
Keos, funeral ordinance from, v, 42, 52, 56, 74, 76-7, 87, 92, 135.
Kerberos, vii, 6.
κῆρες = souls, i, 10; v, 100; ix,
92.
Kerkops (Pythagorean), x, 7; 597.
Kerykes, vi, 6, 16.
Key, keeper of, in Hades, vii, 13.
Kikones of the Odyssey, 42.
Kimon as Hero, 129.
Kirke, 32; v, 169.
Kissing the hand to a grave, xiv, ii,
26–7.
Kleanthes, xiv, 41, 47.
κλειδοῦχοι
θεοί, 247.
Kleisthenes, 124.
Kleitos, 58.
Kleobis and Biton, xiv, ii, 148.
Kleombrotos, xiv, 3.
Kleomedes (Hero), 129; xiv, ii, 114.
Kleomenes as Hero, xiv, ii, 59.
Klymenos = Hades, v, 8, 18; reduced to rank of Hero, iii, 34.
Knossos, 96; iii,
25.
Kore, 160; v, 11; 219 f.; 224; xiv, ii, 146.
Koronis, iii, 56.
Korybantism, viii, 36, 52; 286 f.
Kos (Ge), v, 16.
Kotytto, 336.
Kouretes, v, 167.
κωλύματα, magic
spells, ix, 81.
Kragos, iii, 30.
Krantor, xiv, 1.
Krataiis, 593.
Krates (Cynic), v, 34.
Kratinos, vii, 17.
Kratippos, 512.
κρείττονες = the dead,
v, 65, 110, 117.
Krinagoras, vi, 22.
Kritias, Sisyphos, x, 54.
Kritolaos, xiv, 32.
Krobyzoi, viii, 65, 75.
Krokos, iii, 43.
Kronos, ruler in Elysium, 76.
κτέρεα
κτερείζειν, i, 20, 29.
Kybele, 257; viii, 32, 43, 55; 286 f.; ix, 56; xiv, ii,
174.
Kychreus (πυχρείδης ὄφις), iv, 129.
Kydas, ix, 66.
Kyffhäuser, legend of, 93; xiv, ii, 112.
Kylon, at Athens, ix, 120.
Kyme, criminal law of, v, 145.
Kypria, 64.
Labyadai, their funeral ordinance in Delphi, v,
52, 85, 128.
Lamentation disturbs the dead, v, 49.
Lamia, vii, 25; 592
f.
Lanterns, feast of in Japan, v, 99.
Laodike, iii, 6.
Lar familiaris and Lares at Rome, v, 132.
Latinus, translation of, xiv, ii, 110.
Laurel, drives away ghosts, v, 95.
Law, unwritten, 163, 426; xii, 94.
Lebadeia, 90 f., 95; iii, 26; v, 19, 133;
xiv, ii, 104.
Lectisternia, iii, 26; iv, 16.
Lekythoi, v, 38; 169;
170; 237.
Lemnos, feast of the dead in, ix, 76.
Lemuria in Rome, v, 99.
Leonidas (as Hero), iv, 20; 528.
Leosthenes (Hero), vii, 5; xiv, ii, 59.
Lerna, ix, 88; viii,
28.
Lethe, vii, 21; xii,
37; and Mnemosyne, fountains of, xiv, ii, 151.
Leto, iii, 46.
Leuke, I. of Achilles, 65, 66; xiv, ii, 102; Cliff of, ib.
Leukothea: see Ino.
Lie, justification of, xii, 72.
Life, 3, 31; repudiation
of, viii, 75; only lent, xiv, ii, 161;
505; Water of life, xiv, ii, 151–2;
Future Life, 236 f.; see Hades and
Ways.
Lightning sanctifies its victim, iii, 39; 100; v, 68; ix, 127;
xii, 54; xiv, ii, 154; 581 f.
Linos, iii, 43.
Lobeck, 222.
Local deities and their cults, 25 f.; 27.
λόγος, 499; xiv, 69.
Lokroi, criminal law of, v, 145.
Lot, oracles received by means of (Delphi), 290.
λουτροφόροι, 587.
Lucian, iii, 28; 236;
de Luctu, xiv, ii, 2; Philops., xiv, ii, 87, 144; ix, 96.
Lucretius, 505.
Lydia, v, 167.
Lying-in-state of the dead, 165.
Lykaios, Zeus, v, 170.
Lykas (Hero), iv, 114.
Lykia, imprecatory tablets from graves in, 553.
Lykian language, iv, 99.
Lykos (Hero), iv, 114.
Lykourgos, King of Edonians, ix, 3; in Sparta
worshipped as Hero and God, 132; sanctified by lightning, 581.
Lyric poetry of the Greeks, 157; 411 f.
Lysander as Hero, 531.
Lysimachos (Hero), xiv, ii, 67.
λύσιος Διόνυσος,
ix, 21; λύσιοι
θεοί, x, 50.
λύσις of the soul, x, 61, 66; xiii,
67.
Mâ, worshipped with ecstatic cult, viii, 43,
55.
Macedonians, viii, 31.
Machaon and Podaleirios, iv, 92.
Macriani, xiv, ii, 112.
Madness cured by magic, ix,
19, 81; cf. Mental diseases.
Magical papyri, xiv, ii,
144; 589; 592; 604; cf. Defixiones.
Magicians, among savage peoples, 261 f.;
Greek, 294 f., 298 f.; xi, 58; 533 f.; 604.
Mahâbhârata, iii, 3.
μαινάς, 256.
μακαρίτης (of the dead), vii, 10; xiv, ii, 31.
μακάρων
νῆσοι: see Islands of the Blest.
Manes, v, 99, 133.
μανία, divine, 255 f.; 286 f.; in the worship of Dionysos, 282 f.
Manichaeans, x, 83.
Mankind, origin of, according to the Orphics, 341 f.; generations (Ages) of, in Hesiod, 67
f.
μάντεις, ix, 41 f.; as magicians, ix, 68.
Mantiké (inspired prophecy), 260, 289 f.
Marathon, iv, 84; 136;
Grave of the dead at, xiv, ii, 37.
Marjoram, kathartic, apotropaic uses of, v,
36.
Maron (Hero), xiv, ii, 41.
μασχαλισμός, 181; 582 f.
Massagetai, 259.
Materialism, 385.
“Matriarchy,” not Greek, xii, 75.
Medea translation of, xiv, ii, 99; (v, 169).
Medicine men (North American Indians), 262; ix, 68, 117; dance of the Winnebago, viii, 55.
μέγαρα, iii, 7.
μειλίχοι θεοί,
v, 168; Διόνυσος μειλίχιος, ix, 21.
Meilinoe, v, 5; ix,
96.
Melampous, 89; 287.
Melanippides, xii, 1, 21.
Melesagoras, ix, 58.
Memnon, 64 f.
Menelaos (translation of), 55 f.; iv, 2; ii, 21.
Menestheus, iv, 100.
Mental diseases, origin and cure of, 286 f.; ix, 19, 81.
Metal, noise of, drives away ghosts, i, 72;
ix, 83; see Iron, Bronze.
Metamorphoses, iii, 3; x,
82.
μετεμψύχωσις,
x, 84; see Transmigration.
Metrodoros, allegorical interpretation of mythology, vi, 23.
Metrodoros (Epicurean), xiv, 85, 86, 97.
μὴ φῦναι, xii, 10.
μήνιμα
θεῶν, v, 148; ἀλιτηρίων, v, 176.
μίασμα, v, 176; 295 f.
μιάστωρ, v, 178.
Michael, the Archangel, iv, 96.
Midas, 412.
Mid-day, spectres appearing at, ix, 96; xiv, ii, 41; 592 f.
Migrations, Greek, 27, 155, 161, 284.
Milky Way (abode of the souls), ix, 111; xii, 44.
Miltiades, as Hero, iv, 20.
Mimnermos, xii, 7.
Mind, 5, 29 f., 383, 387, 493 f.
Mingrelians, i, 30.
Minos (and Zeus, in Crete), 96; Judge in Hades,
vii, 13.
Minyas, vii, 3; 237, 238, 282.
Miracle, 254; xiv, ii,
40–1, 45, 70; 537; desire for in later ages of antiquity, 546
f.
Missions, sent out from Eleusis, 161.
Mithras, Mysteries of, xiv,
ii, 144, 153, 172, 174.
Mitylene, funeral ordinance of, v, 54.
Mitys, iv, 118.
μνήμη
(Empedokles and Pythagorean), xi, 96; and λήθη in Hades (Pindar), xii,
37; xiv, ii, 151.
Mnemosyne, xii, 37; xiv, ii, 151.
μοῖρα, 29.
Moon and stars inhabited by souls, x, 75; xi, 116; xiv, 53.
Monism, 432; 500.
Mopsos, iii, 5, 13; 133.
Morality, 40; 228; 294 f.; 302; 376.
Μορμολύκη,
Μορμώ, vii, 25; 592.
Moschion, x, 54.
Moses, ii, 18; xiv, ii,
109.
Motes in the sunbeam = Souls (Pythagoras), xi,
40; Emped. xi, 101.
Mountains, legends about, 263; viii, 68.
Mourning, period of, 167.
Mousaios, x, 70.
μύχιοι θεοί, iii, 35.
μυεῖν, vi, 16.
Murderer, excluded from religious worship, vi,
17.
Murder, action for, religious sense of, 180
f.; expiation of, 174 f., 138; xii, 34, 40.
Murder trials; see Homicide.
Music in Dionysiac worship, 257; as a cure for
Korybantic frenzy and other diseases, 286 f.; ix, 19; xi, 48.
Musonius, v, 34; 503.
Mutterrecht, not Greek, xii, 75.
Mutilation of the dead, 582 f.
Mycenae, 22, 27, 122.
Mykonos (cult of Chthonic Zeus), v, 3, 7, 16.
Myrtle sacred to χθόνιοι, iv, 21; v,
40, 61.
Mysians, x, 78.
Mysteries: see Eleusinian M.; Orphic, 343 f.; Samothracian, vi, 34; (see also Isis and Mithras).
Mysticism, 225 f., 254
f., 262, 291 f., 344;
xiii, 75, 104; xiv,
1.
Myth, allegorical interpretation of, vi,
23.
Name, calling the dead by, 42, 527; of Hero used in sacrificing, iv, 62; in
invocation of avenging spirits, 604.
Nameless Gods, iv, 62; Heroes, 126 f.; 529; xiv, ii,
61, 63.
Namnites in Gaul, viii, 55.
Narcissus (Orphic?), x, 29.
νάρθηξ, viii, 22.
National Heroes: see ἀρχηγοί.
“Nature,” religion of, 223 f.
Naulochos (Hero), xiv, ii, 74.
Nectar, 58.
nefasti dies, v, 158.
Negro tribes, i, 34; v,
110; 271.
Nekyia of the Odyssey, 32 f.; iii, 8; 237 f.; 240 f.;
2nd Nekyia, i, 62, 65; N. in other epics,
237 f., (see Descents); on vases, vii, 27.
νεκύσια, v, 92.
Nemea, iv, 22.
νεμέσεια,
νέμεσις, Νέμεσις, v, 91.
Neoplatonic writers, x, 27, 29, 38; 596 f.
Neoptolemos, translation of, xiv, ii,
99.
Nero, translated (Antichrist), xiv, ii,
113.
Neurotic diseases, cure of, 286 f.
New Zealand (method of burial), v, 67.
Nightmare, ix, 102; xiv, ii, 86.
Nine, sanctity of number, v, 84; xiii, 45; xiv, ii, 154.
Noise of bronze or iron drives away ghosts, i, 72; v, 167; ix,
83.
Nostoi, 66 f.
Novel (Greek, etc.), iv, 134; xiv, ii, 87.
Novemdialia: festival in Rome, v, 84.
νοῦς, in Anaxagoras, 387 f.; in Aristotle, 493 f.; cf. 383.
Numbers (Pythagorean mystical theory of), x,
9.
Nyktelios, Nyktelia, viii, 28; 285; ix, 36.
νυμφόληπτος,
ix, 63.
ἐκ νυμφῶν
κάτοχος, ix, 58.
Nymphs, agents of Translation, xiv, ii,
105.
Oath, religio-juristic significance of, 41 f.;
v, 156; 238; xi,
77; xii, 40.
Oath-breaking punished in Hades; see Perjury.
Oath taken by both parties in a suit, v,
156.
Obolos for the ferryman of the dead: see Charon.
Ocrisia, v, 132.
Odyssey, 32 f., 55, 62 f., 236; 2nd Nekyia, i,
62, 65.
Odysseus, end of, ii, 30; oracle of, iv, 97; as Hero, xiv, ii, 41; O. and
Kalypso, xiv, ii, 105.
Oedipus, 430 f.; xii,
85, 112 f.
Oikistes, 127 f.
Oinomaos, iv, 2.
Oknos, 241.
Olbia, xiv, ii, 102.
Olive, kathartic effects of, v, 36–7, 61; ix, 72.
Olympos as dwelling-place of souls, xiv, ii,
135.
Olympia, iv, 22, 62;
121, 160; v, 98.
ὠμοθετεῖν, 584 f.
ὀμφαλός at Delphi, iii, 31.
Onomakritos, 336–7, 338 f.; (the Lokrian), ix, 113.
Oracles of Heroes, 133 f.; of Earth, 160; see Delphi, Dodona, Incubation.
Orators, Greek, 413.
Orators’ official speeches of consolation, xiv,
ii, 6.
Orestes, iv, 35; 178;
424, 426.
Orgeones, 124.
Orgiastic cults in Greece, ix, 56; in
Thessaly and Phrygia, 257.
Orient influenced by Greece, 539.
Origen, c. Cels., iii, 20; xiv,
33.
Orion, 39; 58.
Oropos, 92; iii, 19, 56; xiv, ii, 104.
Orpheus, κατάβασις εἰς Ἅιδου, vii, 3, 27; x, 60; of Kamarina, x, 7; of Kroton, x, 7, 11.
Orphics, v, 99; 124; vi, 13; vii, 15,
18; 335 f.; xii,
137; xiii, 44; 70a; 586; alleged influence in Homer, x, 5.
Orphic cult of Bakchos, x, 1; poetry,
authorship of, x, 7; Rhapsodical Theogony, ix, 123; 339–40; 596 f.; other Theogonies, x, 21; origin of
mankind in, 339 f.; x, 77; six Rulers of
the world, x, 40; Asceticism, 342 f.;
kathartic doctrine, 338; ideas of Hades, 344
f.; doctrine of rebirth and Transmigration of souls, 345 f.;
grave-tablets (Sicily), 417 f.; xiv, ii,
151; 598, 601; Hymns, xiv, ii, 173.
Orphica (fr. 120). x, 22; (fr. 226), x, 48.
Orphico-Pythagorean Hymnus on Number, x,
9.
Ὀρτυγίη, ii, 25.
Os resectum of the Romans, i, 34.
ὅσιοι, the Pure, vi, 18; 343.
Osiris, xiv, ii, 152.
Ostiaks, religious dances of the, viii,
55.
ὀξυθύμια, 216; ix, 88.
οὐκ ἤμην, γενόμην κτλ. on epitaphs, xiv, ii,
167.
Ouranos, x, 28.
Paetus Thrasea, xiv, 64.
Palamedes, xiv, ii, 41.
Palaimon, iii, 38.
παλαμναῖος, v, 178.
παλιγγενεσία, 224; vii, 21; x, 47,
81, 84; 519; xiv, i, 68,
142; 547.
Pan, ix, 56.
Panaitios, xiv, 24; 501 f.
Pandaemonism, 519.
Pandareos, daughters of, ii, 5.
Pantheism, 261, 498 f.;
xiv, 60; 504.
Panchatantra, iv, 134.
Paradise, imaginary, in Hades, vii, 18.
παραμυθητικὰ ψηφίσματα, xiv, ii, 6.
Pardon for Homicide, v, 144, 151, 154.
Parentalia in Rome, v, 90.
Parmenides, 372; 408;
597.
Parsley used in cult of the dead, iv, 22; v, 40, 107.
Pasiphaë, iv, 104.
πάτραι, iv, 49; v, 131; in Rhodos, iv, 52.
Patroklos, Funeral of, 12 f.; Translation of,
xiv, ii, 102.
πατρομύστης, 602.
Pausanias, Spartan King, v, 173; Periegeta,
126; 529; (4, 32, 1) 554; Doctor (pupil of Empedokles), 378; xi, 61.
Pehuenchen Indians (S. America), i, 26.
Peirithoös, vii, 3.
Pelasgians, v, 18.
Peleus, Translation of, xiv, ii, 99.
Pellichos, xiv, ii, 45.
Pelops, 121; iv,
37.
Penates, v, 132–3.
Penitents undergoing punishment in Hades, 40
f., 238, 241; vii,
27.
Pentheus, 283.
περίδειπνον, 167.
περικάθαρμα, 589.
περιμάττειν, 590.
Perjury punished in Hades, 41 f.; v, 156; 238; xi, 77; xii, 40.
Peripatetics, 512.
περιψῆν, 589.
Persephone, 158 f.; v,
5; 160 f.; 220; 222 f.; and see Koré.
Perseus and the Mainades, ix, 3.
Persian War, Heroizing of those who fell in, 131.
Persians, i, 5; 10; 22; v, 85–6; kathartic practice among, ix, 78.
Persinos of Miletos, x, 7.
Persius, i, 31; 504.
Personality, reduplication of, 595 f.; cf. ἔκστασις.
Peru, religious dances in, viii, 55.
Pessimism, 412, 545.
Petelia, grave tablet from, 417 f., 601 f., 598.
Phaeacians, 63; ii, 17,
46.
Phaënnis, ix, 59.
Phaëthon, iii, 35.
Phanes, x, 9; 598.
Pharisees, xi, 50.
φαρμακοί, ix, 87; 589 f.
φάσματα
Ἑκατικά, 590 f.
Pherekrates, comic poet, vii, 17.
Pherekydes, 301; x,
79; xi, 51; vi, 25; 597.
Philippos of Opos, author of Epinomis, xiv, 1.
Philiskos, xii, 157.
Philo Judaeus, xiv, ii, 117; (ap. Gal. xiii, 268), iii, 43.
Philodamos of Skarpheia, his Hymn to Dionysos, vi,
9.
Philolaos, x, 44; xi,
35–6, 50, 55.
Philopoimen, as Hero, xiv, ii, 49.
Philopregmon (Hero), 529.
Philosophy, 362 f.; 432
f.; 463 f.; 490 f.
Philostratos, Heroikos, xiv, ii, 41;
V. Apoll., xiv, ii, 115.
φιμοῦν,
φιμωτικόν, 604.
Phokion, v, 66.
Pseudo-Phokylides, xiv, ii, 117.
Phormion, of Sparta, ix, 111.
Phratriai in Athens, 124 f.
Phrygians, v, 167; 257; viii, 52; 286; xiv, ii, 13, 174.
Phylai in Athens, 124 f.
Pig, in cult of the dead, v, 105.
Pitch, kathartic property of, v, 95; ix, 72.
Piety of the Greeks, 28 f.
Piety towards the dead, 16, 164, 169.
Pindar, 7, 115, 157; vi, 22; 238; 412; 414 f.; (O. 2, 57), xii, 35;
(O. 2, 61), xii, 38; (P. 8, 57), iv, 105; (fr. 129–30), xii,
37; (fr. 132), xii, 45; (fr. 133), xii, 34, 41.
πίθος
τετρημένος in Hades, 586 f.
Pittakos of Mitylene, v, 54.
Pixodaros (Hero), xiv, ii, 63.
Plato, ix, 107; 383;
xi, 96; 463 f.; xiv,
ii, 108; 547; Beauty in 473; influence
of, on popular belief, xiv, ii, 143; doctrine of Ideas, 470 f.; different strata of the Republic, xiii, 8; 474; Laws, xiii, 36, 37; 476;
Gorgias, vii, 13; xiii, 36, 96; Meno, xiii, 100; Phaedo,
xiii, 36; 468 f.
Plants with souls, xi, 72, 82; 382; xi, 117;
xiii, 40.
οἱ πλείους, the dead,
xiv, ii, 124.
Plotinos, 547 f.
Plouton, iii, 34; 160.
πλουτώνια, v, 23.
Plutarch, v, 34; vi,
23; vii, 1; xiv, ii, 85, 87.
Pluto, iii, 34; 160.
πνεῦμα = soul, xii, 150;
498; 541 f.
Podaleirios, iii, 13; 133.
ποινή for homicide,
in Homer, 175; forbidden, v, 154; and see
Murder.
Polemon, xiv, 1.
Polemokrates (Hero), iv, 93.
Politics, Epicurean withdrawal from, 506 f.
Pollution, 294 f.
πολυάνδριοι
δαίμονες, 604.
Polyaratos, ix, 111.
Polybios, 492.
Polyboia, 100.
Polygnotos’ picture of Hades, 241 f.; 586.
Polynesians, v, 161.
Pomegranate in the cult of the dead, v,
105.
Pomptilla, grave in Sardinia, xiv, ii,
71.
Poplar in the cult of the dead, v, 61; xiv, ii, 102.
Popular belief about the dead, 524.
Popular version of “Translation”, xiv, ii,
105.
Poseidonios, x, 78; xi,
35, 55; xiv, 40, 44, 51, 53–4; 502; xiv,
60–2.
Possession, 255; 595;
see ἔκστασις.
Possessions of the dead burnt with the body, i,
30, 51.
Postponement of coming events by the gods, ix,
120.
Poulytion, 222.
Praetextatus, xiv, ii, 172.
Praise of the dead at the περίδειπνον, v, 81.
Pre-existence: see Soul.
Prophecy by Incubation (dream-oracles), 92 f., 289 f.; by Heroes, 133; in Thracian worship of Dionysos, 260; two
kinds of (τεχνική and ἄτεχνος), 289; by
“inspiration”, 289 f.; at Delphi, 289 f.; in
Greek worship of D., 289 f.; wandering prophets, 292 f.; by means of
lots at Delphi, 289; in Leuke, xiv, ii,
102.
Prodikos of Keos, vi, 23; of Phokaia, vii, 3; of Samos, vii, 3; x, 7.
Proërosia, ix, 108.
Proitides, 282, 287.
Proklidai, iv, 53.
Prophecy: see Mantiké.
Prophetic power of the dying, i, 69.
προσφάγιον, v, 46.
προστρόπαιος, v, 148, 176.
Protagoras, 438.
Protesilaos, iv, 98.
Proteus in the Odyssey, 55.
πρόθεσις of the
corpse, 164 (v, 41 f.).
Proverbs, Greek, v, 120; xii, 3; 586.
Prussia, cult of the dead in, v, 99, 114.
ψυχή in Homer, 4 f.; 30 f.; 364 f.; =
alter ego, 6; in Pindar, xii, 32; in
Philosophy, 364 f.; situated in eye or mouth, i, 25; = Life, i, 59; xi,
1.
ψυχαγωγός, ix, 106.
Psyche (of Apuleius), xiv, ii, 151.
Psychology, Homeric, 30 f.; of the
philosophers, 364 f.
ψυχομαντεῖα, v, 23.
ψυχπομπεῖα, v, 23.
ψυχοστασία, v, 100.
Punishment of guilty through descendants, xii,
7, 65; xiv, ii, 96.
Purification: see Kathartic, κάθαρσις; after a funeral, v, 77; [after
seeing a corpse: Jul., Ep. 77, p. 601, 20 f. H.]; carried out by ἐξηγηταί, v,
139; of murderers, 179 f.; 295; (this
not Homeric), v, 166; ritual, in daily life, 295; of the new-born, ib.; by blood, 296; by fire, 21; by running water, 588 f.; removal of the polluting substance with figs or eggs, 589 f.
“Pure, the,” vi, 18; 343.
Purgation in Plato, xiii, 36.
Purple (Red) colour proper to the dead, v,
61.
Pythagoras, 374 f.; xii,
150; and Zalmoxis, viii, 68; and Abaris, ix, 108, 122; his previous births, 598 f.; descent to Hades, 600 f.
Pythagoreans, suicide, v, 33; bury the body
on leaves, v, 61; and Orphics in Herodotos, 336; x, 8; in Athens, 337; psychology, xi, 55;
Transmigration-doctrine, x, 79, 81; xi, 42; xiii, 40; ψυχή (Alkmaion), xi, 28, 35; and Parmenides, xi, 30; Empedokles and
P. ἀνάμνησις, xi, 96; Υ Pythag., xii, 62; and Plato (divisions of the soul), xiii, 27; (transmigration of the soul), xiii,
40; and the Stoics (souls in the air), xiv, 53.
Pythia, viii, 52–3; ix, 45; 289 f.; 596.
Pythian Games, iv, 22.
Python, 97; 180 f.
Quietism, 380.
Ram, in cult of the dead, v, 105, 107; as expiatory sacrifice, v, 167.
Rationalism among the Greeks, 29 f.; 122; 492; 545.
Rebirth (see παλιγγενεσία), xiv, ii, 174; 602.
Recurrence, periodical, of everything, x,
47; xiv, 68.
Red colour belonging to the dead, v, 61.
Reduplication of Personality, 595 f.
Regilla, wife of Herodes Atticus, xiv, ii,
71, 131.
Relatives obliged to prosecute vendetta, v,
141.
“Release” of man from fate, etc., 342 f.; xi, 50; 384.
Religion, Homeric, 28 f.; of “Nature” 223 f.; Symbolic, ib.
Relics, cult of, iv, 2; 121 f.; 529.
Responsibility, moral, in Tragedy (Aesch.), 423 f.
Resurrection of the body, xiv, ii, 174.
Revenge and Vendetta, circle of those expected to
carry it out (in Homer), v, 141; Vend. bought off (in Homer), v, 143; this later forbidden, v, 154; Vend.
in Tragedy, 424 f., 434.
Rewards and punishments transmitted to descendants, xii, 65 (x, 47); exact equivalence, x, 71; xi, 44; in Hades, 40–1; 239 f.; 467
f.; 536.
Right and left, significance of, in Hades, xii,
62.
Rhadamanthys, 55 f.; ii,
17, 23; 247; xiv,
ii, 132.
ῥάμνος, kathartic uses
of, v, 95; xi, 85.
Rhea: see Kybele.
Rhesos, iv, 36; 557.
Rock graves, v, 62, 66.
Rome, genius, i, 5; v, 132; marriage ceremonies, v, 95; Lares,
v, 66, 132; Lemuria, v, 99; Manes, ib.; v,
133; Novemdialia, v, 83–4; os resectum, i, 34; Parentalia, v, 90; Penates, v, 132–3; Cult of Souls in, v, 114;
Cremation, i, 37, 39.
Romans, admitted to Eleusinian Mysteries, 226.
Romulus, translation of, xiv, ii, 103, 107, 110.
Sabazios (Sabos), viii, 10.
σάβος, σαβάζιος,
viii, 32.
Σαβάζια in Athens, x, 12.
Sabazios Mysteries (late), xiv, ii,
174.
Sacrifice at graves, 167, 169; made to Heroes before gods, iii, 46;
kathartic, 585.
Salamis, 136 f.
Salmoneus, 581.
Samothrace, Mysteries of, vi, 34.
Sappho, xii, 12
Sarpedon, ii, 28; iv,
99.
Satrai, viii, 53.
Scapegoat, ix, 87.
Schelling, 223.
Scheriê, ii, 46.
Schol. Aristoph. Vesp. 1038, ix,
102.
Scythians, 259; ix,
15; x, 78.
Second sight, 260; 293
(see ἔκστασις).
Second-sight of the dying, i, 69.
Secret cults, 219.
Sects, Orphic, 335.
Seers, ecstatic: see μάντεις and Prophecy.
Seirenes, ix, 102; 593.
σέλινον sacred to the
dead, v, 40, 107.
Σέλλοι, iii, 14.
Semele, 581.
Seminoles of Florida, i, 25.
Semitic influence on Greeks, 60; 96.
Semonides (Simonides of Amorgos), xii, 4, 8, 15.
Seneca, xiv, 41, 56, 68; 503.
Sertorius, his search for the Islands of the Blest, xiv, ii, 101.
Severus Alexander, xiv, ii, 112.
Servius ad. Aen. vi, 324 (Poeta Anon.), xi, 77.
Sex, changes of, in legend, iii, 3.
Shamans, viii, 43; 262.
Sheep (or Ram), v, 105, 107, 167.
Sibyls, viii, 52; 292
f.; 596.
Sicily, xii, 47; 417
f.
Sikyon (limitation on the length of epitaphs), xiv, ii, 118.
Silenus, legend of, xii, 10 (viii, 15, 31).
Silence in passing graves, v, 110.
Simonides of Keos, xii, 1, 3, 11.
Sin, 294 f., 343, 381, (Plato) 466;
consciousness of, 242.
Sisyphos, i, 82; 241;
vii, 27.
Sit tibi terra levis, xiv, ii, 120.
Sithon, iii, 3.
Sitting (not reclining) at feasts in honour of the dead, v, 86.
Skedasos, daughters of, xiv, ii, 35.
Skeletons, the dead as, xiv, ii, 92.
σκίλλα, kathartic property
of, ix, 115; xi, 85; 589 f.
Skiron, v, 168.
Skotos, vii, 6.
Skylla (daughter of Hekate), 593.
Slaves admitted to initiation at the Mysteries, vi, 14; when freed, bound to keep up the cult of their dead master,
v, 128.
Slavonic cult of souls, v, 161.
Sleep and Death, ii, 28; Death only Sleep, xiv, ii, 140; of the Gods, iii, 30;
“Temple-sleep”: see Incubation.
Snakes, form in which χθόνιοι appear, iii, 12, 33; 98; iii, 55; iv, 129; v, 105, 113, 133, 168; 602.
Societies: see Associations.
Sokrates, 463.
Solon, date of archonship, ix, 120; as Hero, iv, 38; limits funeral pomp, 4, 45, 57, 75; protects the
memory of the dead, v, 115; his view of life, xii, 6; and Croesus, xiv, ii, 170.
Sorcery: see Magic and Conjuration of the dead.
Sortilege, oracle of at Delphi, 290.
Soul = breath (πνεῦμα), 500 f.; xiv,
ii, 138; represented on lekythoi as winged, 170; Pre-existence
of, taught by Pythagoras, xi, 49; by Plato, 465 f.; Aristotle, 495 f.; Stoics, xiv, 60; by Jews under Greek influence, xiv,
ii, 117; Soul and Mind, in Aristotle, 496; “Poor Souls,” v, 114; x, 66; Souls become daimones (Hesiod), 67 f.; transition from Soul to daimon, v, 133,
148; 179; v, 176;
assist growth of crops, v, 120; called upon at marriages, v,
121; appearances after death, ix, 105; 533 f.; xiv, ii, 154; dissipated by wind
after leaving the body, xiii, 5; xi,
102; xiv, 49, 77; of murdered men,
181 f.; kingdom of Souls in the air, in the Aether or in Heaven, 342; xi, 35; 436 f.;
Stoic, 500 f.; 541 f.; cf. Hades; in popular belief, xiv, ii, 142; in
Neoplatonism, 547; parts of the soul, acc. to Pythagoras, xi, 55; Plato, 466 f.; Peripatetics, 512; Stoics, xiv, 60; Epicureans, 505; conjuration of souls not known in Homer, 24; later, v, 23; ix,
106; xiv, ii, 87, 90; on Defixions,
594 f., 604 f.; Souls, Cult of, after
burial, 22 f., 77 f., 158 f., 163 f., 166 f.,
181 f., 253 f.; Rudiments of, in Homer, 12 f.; in the family, 172 f.; represented on
sepulchral reliefs, v, 105; Souls, Festival of, 168; in cult of Dionysos, ix, 11; Soul,
“Salvation” of the, 172.
Souls: Transmigration of Souls—Greek names
for, x, 84; Thracian belief in, 263 f.;
Egyptian belief in, 346; Orphic, 337; 342 f.; 346 f.; Pythagorean, 375; xi, 50, 55; in
Pindar, 415 f.; Empedokles, xi, 75, 96; Plato, 467; Stoics (Poseidonios?), xiv, 60.
σῶμα—σῆμα: Orphic, 342; x, 73; Pythagoras, 375; xi, 50; Empedokles, xi, 75; Euripides, xii, 137; Plato, xiii, 44; in popular belief, xiv, ii,
141.
Somnium Scipionis, xiv, 53, 54, 62; xiv, ii,
58.
Sophists, 432.
Sophokles, vi, 22, 26; 426 f.; as Hero, iv,
71; Oed. Col. 1583, xii, 112.
σωτήρ (ἥρως), xii, 128.
Sparta; funeral of kings, iv, 46; burial
customs, v, 61; reliefs representing feasts of the dead, v, 105, 86; criminal law of, v, 145.
Speaking ill of the dead forbidden, v,
115.
Spell: see Magic.
Spencer, Herbert, 6.
Spielhansel, folk-tale of, i, 82.
Spiritualism, 264 f.; 385; 500; 595.
Spirits: see Ghosts.
Spirits, island of (Leuke), xiv, ii, 102;
nocturnal battle of, xiv, ii, 37; magical compulsion of, ix, 107.
Spitting, apotropaic effect of, 586.
Stars inhabited, xi, 116; by the souls of
the departed, x, 75–6; myths, 58.
State: see Politics; State Funerals,
xiv, ii, 5–6.
Statues of Heroes, miracles performed by, 136.
στέφανος, iv, 21.
Stertinius, C. Xenophon (Hero), xiv, ii,
64.
Stobaeus, Ecl. i, 49, 46; xiv, ii, 138.
Stoics, xi, 98; xii,
67; 497 f.; 542.
Stones (a soul attributed to), xi, 72.
Stormclouds, shooting at, viii, 63; cf. Weather-magicians.
Straton, xii, 150; xiv, 34.
Striking the ground in calling on χθόνιοι, iii, 10.
Styx, vii, 21.
Subterranean translation among the Greeks, 89
f.; xiv, ii, 104; in Germany, 93; in
Mexico and in the East, iii, 17.
Sûfis of Persia, viii, 60; 266.
Suicide forbidden (Orphic), x, 44; suicides
refused burial, v, 33.
Suidas on ἐμασχαλίσθη, 582 f.
Sulphur, kathartic property of, v, 95.
Swoon (πιοψυχία), i, 9.
Syrians, xiv, ii, 174.
Sybaris (Lamia), iv, 115; Orphic gold
tablets from, 417 f.; 598; 601.
Symbolism in religion, 224, 226 f.
Symmachos, xiv, ii, 172.
Syncretism, 288; 534.
Syrianos, 596 f.
Syrie, 62 f.
Tacitus, xiv, 47.
Tahiti, funeral dirges of, v, 48.
Talthybios, 134.
Tantalos, 40 f., 241; vii, 27.
Tarantism, ix, 19.
Taraxippos (Hero), 127.
Tarentum, v, 68.
Tartaros, 76; vii, 6; 340; xi, 38.
Tasmania, cult of dead in, 585.
Ταῦτα, τοσαῦτα in
epitaphs, xiv, ii, 167.
Teiresias, 36 f., 41; iii, 3, 8.
Telegoneia, 65, 90.
Teleology in Anaxagoras, xi, 104.
Tellos the Athenian, xiv, ii, 170.
Temesa, the Hero of, 135 f.
Temple-sleep: see Incubation.
Tenes, iv, 138.
Terizoi in Thrace, viii, 65.
Thales, vi, 25; 366.
Thamyris, 238.
Thanatos, xii, 4, 121; and Hypnos, ii, 28.
Thargelia, ix, 87.
Theagenes (Hero), 136; iv, 119, 134.
Thebais, 75, 90,
93.
θεῖος ἀνήρ,
xiii, 68.
Themistokles as Hero, iv, 30.
Theognetos (Orphic), x, 7; 597.
Theognis, 411 f.; xii,
13.
Theogony of Epimenides, ix, 123; of Hesiod,
x, 5; Orphic, 339 f.; 596.
Theokrasia, x, 24.
Theology, Homeric, 25 f., 31 f.; of the court in Hellenistic period, 538
(see Orphics).
Theophanes (Hero), xiv, ii, 64.
Theophrastos, xiv, 34; Testament of, v, 137.
Theopompos, on Abaris, ix, 108; Aristeas, ix, 109; Bakis, ix, 66; Epimenides, ix, 117; Hermotimos, ix, 112; Phormion, ix, 111.
ὁ θεός, ἡ
θεά at Eleusis, v, 19.
Theosophy (Orphic), 336.
Theoxenia, 96; iv, 16,
71; festival at Delphi, iv, 82.
Theron, 416.
Theseus, transfer of his bones to Athens, 122;
expiation of murder of Skiron, v, 168; Descent to Hades, vii, 3.
Thesmophoria, 222.
θίασος, Dionysiac,
Thracian, viii, 31.
30,000 = innumerable, xi, 78.
θόλοι, iii, 31.
Thorn: see White-thorn.
Thracians, viii, 11; cult of Dionysos, 256 f.; belief in immortality, 263 f.; in
Transmigration, 263 f.; Ascetic practices, x,
78.
Thrasea Paetus, xiv, 64.
θρόνον
στρωννύναι for a god, iii, 26.
θρόνωσις (of
mystai), ix, 19.
Thunder clouds driven away by noise, etc., viii,
63.
θύειν, iv, 15.
Thyme used in burial, v, 36.
θυμός and ψυχή, i, 58; xi, 1.
Thyrsos, viii, 22.
Tii of Polynesia, v, 161.
Timokles of Syracuse, x, 7.
Timoleon as Hero, xiv, ii, 59.
Titans (Orphic), 340 f.; x, 77 (cf. p. 76).
Tithonos, 58.
Tityos, 40 f.
Tragedy, Greek, 421 f.
Τράλεις, Thracian tribe
of mercenaries, viii, 77.
Tralles in Karia, criminal law of, v,
150.
Translation, in Homer, 55 f.;
subterranean, 89 f.; in Pindar, 414; in
Euripides, xii, 127; Semitic, 60; xiv, ii, 109; German, 93; Italian, xiv, ii, 110; Tr. to Islands of the Blest, xiv, ii, 99; to the Nymphs, xiv, ii, 105;
into a river, xiv, ii, 114; by lightning, 583; Tr. of Achilles, 64 f.; Alkmene, xiv, ii, 99; Althaimenes, iii, 4; Amphiaraos,
89 f.; Amphilochos, iii, 5; Antinous, xiv, ii, 114; Apollonios of Tyana, xiv, ii,
116; Aristaios, iii, 6; Aristeas (?), ix,
109; Berenike, etc., xiv, ii, 107; Diomedes, 67; xiv, ii, 99; Emperors, xiv, ii, 107; Empedokles, xi, 61;
Erechtheus, 98; Euthymos, 136; Hamilcar, xiv, ii, 109; Helen, ii, 21; Herakleid.
Pont., xi, 61; Iphigeneia, ii, 26;
Kleomedes, 129; Laodike, iii, 6; Memnon, 64; Menelaos, 55; ii, 21;
Oedipus, xii, 112; Phaethon, iii, 35;
Rhadamanthys, ii, 17; Telegonos and Penelope, 65; Trophonios, 90; Tr. no longer understood in
later ages, xiv, ii, 103; effected mechanically, xiv, ii, 106.
Trausians, viii, 75.
Trees planted round graves, i, 28; v, 73; sacred to the χθόνιοι, v, 61.
Τριακάδες, v, 86 f.; xiv, ii, 17.
Trieteric festival of Dionysos, 258, 285.
Triopion, ancient Greek cult there, ix,
89.
Triphylians, v, 11.
Triptolemos, i, 41; 220; vi, 35; as Judge in Hades, vii, 14.
τρίτα (sacrifice to the
dead), v, 83.
τριτοπάτορες, v, 123 f.; x, 45.
Trophonios, 90 f., 101,
121, 159, 161; v, 133; viii, 68; xiv,
ii, 104; Zeus Troph., iii, 18.
Trojan Heroes, xiv, ii, 41.
Tronis in Phokis, iv, 34.
Turning one’s back on spirits: see Avoiding, etc.
Turnus, translation of, xiv, ii, 110.
τυμβωρύχος, xiv, ii, 11.
Twelve Tables influenced by Solon, v, 47.
Typhon, vii, 6.
Tyrtaios, xii, 13.
Underworld, pictures of on vases, vii, 27;
Polygnotos’ picture of, 241 f., 586 f.
Unknown gods, iv, 62; Heroes, 127.
Unlucky days, v, 158.
Utopia in Hades, vii,
18.
Vampyre, v, 161; xiv,
ii, 86.
Vapour-baths used by Scythians and Indians to produce religious
intoxication, viii, 39.
Varro, i, 21, 34; iii, 31; vi, 23; ix,
111.
Vendetta: see Revenge.
Venus, conductress of souls, xiv, ii,
146.
Vergil, i, 37; vii, 6;
xi, 50; xii, 62; 535.
Vibia, tomb of, xiv, ii, 144, 174.
Vine, cultivation of in Thrace, viii, 38;
branches used in burial, v, 37.
Virbius, legend of, iv, 38.
Visions, 30 f., 258 f.
(and see ἔκστασις).
Visits of Gods to men, ii, 38 (iv, 134).
Voodoo, Negro sect in Haiti, viii, 55.
Wanderings: see Migration.
Water polluted by the neighbourhood of a corpse, v, 38; ix, 76; flowing, kathartic properties
of, 588 f.; cold water in the lower world, xiv, ii, 151; of Life in folk-lore, ib.;
speaking, ib.
Ways, Two, Three, in the lower world, xii, 62.
Weather-magicians, viii, 63; ix, 107.
Weregild, 175 f.; forbidden, v, 154.
Will, freedom of, 423 f.; 498 f.
Wind = Soul, xiii, 5; Spirits of, v, 124; Bride of, ii, 7.
Wine, belongs to later Dionysos, viii, 3.
Wisdom of Solomon, xiv, ii, 117.
White-thorn, v,
95.
Witches, etc. (see also Hekate), ix, 101.
Works of “supererogation” assist others, x,
66.
World, different Ages of, in Hesiod, 67 f.
World, withdrawal , in later Greek life, 546 f.; enjoyment of, in early period, 3, 63; xiv, ii, 170; hatred of,
Christian-Gnostic, xiv, ii, 179; periods of (Orphic), 342.
Wolf-shape, of spirits, iv, 114; 590.
Wool, kathartic properties of, 590.
ξενικοὶ θεοί, x, 3.
Xenokrates, vi, 35; x,
39; xiv, 1.
Xenophanes, 371 f.; xi,
42; xii, 150; xiv, 53.
Xenophon C. Stertinius (Hero), xiv, ii,
64.
Yama, Indian god of the lower world, vii,
6.
Yogis of India, viii, 43.
Zagreus, 340 f.; viii,
28; x, 9, 12, 77; 598.
Zaleukos, v, 145.
Zalmoxis, iii, 13; viii,
10, 28; 263.
Zeno (Eleatic), 372 f.
Zeno (Stoic), xiv, 43.
Zeus in Crete, 97 f., 161; ix, 56; and Alkmene, iv, 134; as conductor of Souls, xiv, ii,
146.
Ζεὺς Ἀμφιάραος,
iii, 19; χθόνιος, 159; v, 167; 220;
Εὐβουλεύς, Βουλεύς, v, 7, 19; Λύκαιος, v, 170; μειλίχιος, v, 168; προστρόπαιος, v, 148; φίλιος, ii, 38; Σαβάζιος, viii, 10; Τροφώνιος, iii,
18.
Zopyros, x, 7, 11.
Zoroastrianism, 302.
This version follows the 1925 translation by W.B. Hillis, but with the following
changes:
- A lot of quotations from Latin and some from French were left in ordinary type-face;
here they have been italicised. The .txt version preserves the original text. If anyone
wants the .htm version to reflect the original they can remove the lines for .latin and
.french from the style declaration at the beginning of the .htm file.
- Except for three occasions early on, the English translation ignores Rohde’s emphases
within quotations from Greek (and Latin). This version has restored Rohde’s “gesperrt”
text.
- When there are minor differences (usually punctuation) between the German edition and
the translation with respect to Greek or other quotations, this version follows the
translation, unless a correction is indicated (by red dotted underlining). Corrections
have restored the text in the German edition, supported where possible by reference to
original versions online, such as at the Perseus Project.
- A similar comment can be made about the Index. No attempt has been made to correct its
lapses from alphabetical order. It might be worth observing that when the Index picks out
a footnote it is sometimes only clear why, if one follows the footnote back to the main
text.
- This version has put an entry for the Index in the Table of Contents, as in the German
editions. And one to these Notes. (Most other items in [ ] are Hillis’ doing.)
- Printed page numbers have been rendered in red within the text. When words were
hyphenated across pages, the number has been put before the hyphenated word.
None of this would be possible without the materials so lavishly provided by the
Internet Archive.
The English translation employed a lot of abbreviations in the footnotes, often without ever using a fuller form. In 1925 it may have been reasonable to assume that Lob. would call up Christian Lobeck (died 1860) and his major work published in 1829, but I have often found problems in tracking down such references so I am inserting here an extended version of Hillis’ list of abbreviations, to which I have added in many cases an online source for a version of the text (not necessarily the same edition as Rohde or Hillis used). Those sources are abbreviated thus: IA = Internet Archive (sometimes I give its ID for a work – putting that after the base URL should select the text in question, but as with the few complete URLs, these things are liable to change); Hathi = Hathi Trust; Migne = contained in one of the Patrologiae, texts of which are listed and linked to at various sites; Perseus = Perseus Project. For other sources I usually give only the basic website URL. For the most part I have not included abbreviations of works by ancient authors: they can be identified from the lists of works given for each writer at Perseus. Nor have I included abbreviations of English language texts.
| A. (or Aesch.) | = Aeschylus. Perseus |
| A. | = Vergil’s Aeneid. Perseus |
| AB. | = Anecdota Graeca, ed. Bekker. Hathi |
| Abergl. d. bös. Blicks | = Der Aberglaube des Bösen Blicks bei den Alten, Jahn. https://www.digitale-sammlungen.de/ |
| Abh. | = Georg Zoegas Abhandlungen, ed. Welcker. IA |
| Abh. Berl. Ak. | = Abhandlungen der Königlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften in Berlin. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Acherunt. | = Acheruntica, Ettig. Hathi |
| Ach. Tat. | = Achilles Tatius. Isag. = Eἰσαγωγὴ εἰς τὰ Ἀράτoυ φαινόμενα, in Uranologion, ed. Patavus. Google Books |
| Ac. Soc. ph. Lips. | = Acta Societatis philologae Lipsiensis. Hathi |
| Acta Lud. Saecul. | = Acta Ludorum Saecularium. |
| ad aureæ aet. fab. sym | = Ad aureae aetatis fabulam symbola, Graf. Hathi |
| adnot. crit. ad Olymp. | = Annotationis criticae supplementum ad Pindari Olympias, Tycho Mommsen. Hathi |
| Ael. | = Aelian. HA. = de natura [historia] animalium. IA VH. = Varia Historia. IA |
| Ael. Dionys. | = Aelius Dionysius, Aelii Dionysii et Pausaniae Atticistarum Fragmenta, ed. Schwabe. IA |
| Aen. Gaz., Theophr. | = Aeneas Gazaeus, Theophrastus, ed. Boissonade. Aeneas Gazaeus et Zacharias Mitylenaeus de immortalitate animae .... Hathi |
| Aen. Tact. | = Aeneas Tacticus. IA |
| Aeschin. | = Aeschines. Perseus |
| Aesop. | = Aesopus. Fabulae Æsopicae collectae, ed. Halm. IA |
| Aët. | = Aëtius. |
| Afric. | = Sextus Julius Africanus und die Byzantinische Chronographie, Gelzer. IA |
| Agatharch. | = Agatharchides. On the Erythraean Sea (excerpta) in Karl Müller’s Geographi Graeci Minores, vol. 1. IA |
| Akad. Abh. | = Gesammelte akademische Abhandlungen und kleine Schriften, Gerhard, 2 vols. IA |
| Albertäten | = Denckwürdige Curiositäten Derer, So wohl Inn- als Ausländischer Abergläubischen Albertäten ..., Männlingen. https://digitale.bibliothek.uni-halle.de |
| Alc. | = Alcaeus. In PLG., vol. 3, below. |
| Alciphr. | = Alciphron. Alciphronis rhetoris Epistolae. IA |
| Alcm. | = Alcman. In PLG., vol. 3, below. |
| Al(ex). Aphr. | = Alexander of Aphrodisias. de An. = De anima liber cum Mantissa, ed. Bruns. IA Prob. = Alexandri Aphrodisiensis quae feruntur Problematorum liber III et IIII, Usener. Hathi |
| Alkmaionis fr. Kink. | = Epicorum graecorum fragmenta, ed. Kinkel. IA |
| Allg. Gesch. d. Relig. | = Allgemeine kritische geschichte der religionen, Meiners. IA |
| Alltagsleben e. d. Frau im 18 J(ahr)h. | = Alltagsleben einer deutschen Frau zu Anfang des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts, Schultz. IA |
| Altäre v. Olymp. | = Die Altäre von Olympia, Curtius. IA |
| Altnord. Leben | = Altnordisches Leben, Weinhold. IA |
| Alt- u. Neues Preussen | = Alt- und Neues Preussen, Hartknoch. https://books.google.de/ |
| Ameis | = Anhang zu Homers Odyssee, Ameis. Hathi |
| Americ. Urrelig. (or Ges. d. ...) | = Geschichte der amerikanischen Urreligionen, J. G. Müller. IA |
| Amer. School | = Papers of the ... below. |
| Amm. | = Ammonius, ed. Brand. = Commentaria in Peri hermeneias Aristotelis. IA Diff. Voc. or Valck = De adfinium vocabulorum differentia. Hathi |
| Amm. Marc. | = Ammianus Marcellinus. Perseus |
| Ampel., LM. | = Ampelius, Liber memorialis. IA |
| An(al). Alex. | = Analecta Alexandrino-romana, Knaack. IA |
| Anal. epigr. et onom. | = Analecta epigraphica et onomatologica, Keil. IA |
| Anf. d. Dionysoscult in Att. | = Anfänge und Entwickelung des Dionysoscultus in Attika, O. Ribbeck. IA |
| Andoc. Myst. | = Andocides, de mysteriis. IA |
| Anf. Kunst | = Die Anfänge der Kunst in Griechenland, Milchhöfer. https://digi.ub.uni-heidelberg.de |
| Anm. (z.) Od. | = Erklärende Anmerkungen zu Homer’s Odyssee, Nitzsch, 3 vols. IA |
| Anon. de Incred. | = Anonymous, de Incredibilibus, in Mythographoi; scriptores poeticae historiae graeci, ed. Westermann. Hathi |
| Anon., de Vir. Herb. | = Anonymous, De viribus (aut virtutibus) herbarum. IA |
| Anon., P. Pont. Eux. | = Anonymi Periplum Ponti Euxini in Geographi Graeci minores, vol. 2. IA |
| Annali d(ell’) Inst. (Arch.) | = Annali dell'Instituto di corrispondenza archeologica. Hathi |
| Anth. Lat. Ep. | = Anthologia latina: sive poesis latinae supplementum, ed. Bücheler, in several parts. Refs. in the last chapter are to Carmina Latina Epigraphica: IA (details/anthologialatin04lommgoog) |
| Anth. Pal. | = AP. below. |
| Anthrop. | = Die Anthropologie der Naturvölker, Waitz-Gerland, 6 vols. Hathi |
| Antig. Caryst. | = Antigonus Carystius, in Rerum naturalium scriptores graeci minores, ed. Keller. IA |
| Antiph. | = Antiphon. Perseus |
| Ant. Lib. | = Antoninus Liberalis, in Mythographi Graeci, ed. E. Martini, ii (1). IA (details/mythographigrae00partgoog) |
| Ant. Wald u. Feldc | = Antike Wald- und Feldkulte, Mannhardt. IA |
| Anz. Wien. Ak. | = Anzeiger der Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-Historische Klasse. Hathi |
| AP. | = Anthologia Palatina. IA |
| Apollod. | = Ps.-Apollodorus, Bibiotheca (unless Epit. is added = Epitome). Perseus |
| Apollon., Mir. | = Apollonius Paradoxographus, Mirabilia, in Rerum Naturalium Scriptores, ed. Keller, vol. 1. Hathi |
| Apollon., V. Aesch. | = Apollonius Biographus. Vita Aeschinis, in Aeschinis Orationes, ed. F. Blass. IA |
| Apostol. | = Apostolius, in Corpus paroemiographorum Graecorum, ed. Leutsch and Scheidewin, vol. 2. IA |
| App. | = Appian. Perseus |
| App. Prov. | = Appendix Proverbiorum in Corpus paroemiographorum Graecorum, ed. Leutsch and Scheidewin, vol. 1. IA |
| Apul. | = Apuleius. Perseus, except for D. Soc. = de dea Socratis. IA |
| A. R. (or Apol. Rhod.) | = Apollonius Rhodius. Perseus |
| Ar. | = Aristophanes. Perseus. For fr., ed. Bergk: IA (details/bub_gb_nTTgAAAAMAAJ) |
| Archaeol. Aufs. | = Archäologische Aufsätze, Ross, 2 vols. IA |
| Archäol. Beitr. | = Archäologische Beiträge, Jahn. IA |
| Archäol. epigr. Mitt(heil). a. Oest(erreich) | = Archäologisch-epigraphische Mitteilungen aus Österreich-Ungarn. https://digi.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/diglit/ |
| Archäol. Unters. auf. Samoth. | = Archäologische Untersuchungen auf Samothrake, Conze, 2 vols. https://digi.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/diglit/ |
| Arch. des miss. scientif. | = Archives des missions scientifiques et littéraires |
| Arch. f. Gesch. d. Philos. | = Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie. IA |
| Arch. Zeit. | = Archäologischen Zeitung. IA |
| Archil(och). | = Archilochus. In PLG., vol. 2. |
| Areop. u. Epheten | = Der Areopag und die Epheten, Philippi. IA |
| Aret. | = Aretaeus. IA |
| Arg. (or )Arg.) | = [with Sch.] Argumenta. For Pindar, Pindari opera qvae supersvnt., ed. Boeckh, vol. 2. IA |
| Arist. | = Aristotle. Hathi has Bekker’s edition. Ἀθπ. = Athenian Constitution. Perseus |
| Arist. | = Aristides, life by Plutarch. |
| Aristarch. | = De Aristarchi studiis Homericis, Lehrs. IA |
| Aristid. | = Aristides, ed. Dindorff. Hathi |
| Aristonic. | = Aristonicus, Aristonici Peri sēmeiōn Iliados reliquiae emendatiores, ed. Friedländer. Google Books |
| [Arist.] Pepl. | = Pseudo-Aristotle, Peplos, in PLG., vol. 2, below. |
| Arist. Pseudepig. | = Aristoteles pseudepigraphus, Rose. IA |
| Arn(ob). | = Arnobius, adversus nationes. IA [Most uses of Arn. refer to Hans von Arnim, who edited various writers.] |
| Arr. | = Arrianus. Anab. = Anabasis. IA. Peripl. = Periplum Ponti Euxini in Geographi Graeci minores, vol. 2. IA |
| Artem(id). | = Artemidorus, Onirocriticon libri v, ex recensione Rudolphi Hercheri. Hathi |
| Assoc. relig. | = Des associations religieuses chez les Grecs: Thiases, Eranes, Orgeons, Foucart. IA |
| Ath. | = Athenaeus. Perseus |
| A(th). Mitt(h). | = Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung. https://digi.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/diglit/am |
| Att. Geneal. | = Attische Genealogie, Töpffer. IA |
| Att. Grabinschr. | = Die attischen Grabschriften, Gutscher. Hathi |
| Att. Proc(ess) | = Der attische Process: Vier Bücher, Schömann and Meier. IA |
| Aug. | = Augustine. http://www.documentacatholicaomnia.eu/20_40_0354-0430-_Augustinus,_Sanctus.html |
| Aur. Vict. | = Aurelius Victor. Epit. = Epitome de Caesaribus. IA as De Caesaribus liber |
| Ausf. Gramm. | = Ausfuhrliche griechische Sprachlehre, Buttmann. IA |
| Avien., Des. Orb. | = Avienius, Descriptio orbis terrae. Hathi |
| Babr. | = Babrius. IA |
| Bacch. | = Bacchylides. The poems and fragments, ed. Jebb. IA |
| Baring-Gould, Myths of M.A. | = Baring-Gould, Curious Myths of the Middle Ages. IA |
| BCH. | = Bulletin de correspondance hellénique. https://www.persee.fr/collection/bch |
| Ber(ichte) Ber(lin). Ak. | = Monatsberichte der Königlich Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Berl. Phil. Woch. | = Berliner philologische Wochenschrift. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Beros. ap. Sync. | = Berossus in Syncellus, ed. Dindorff. IA |
| Ber. sächs. Ges. Wiss. | = Berichte Über die Verhandlungen der Königlich Sächsischen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaft. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Ber. Wien. Ak. | = Sitzungsberichte der Philosophisch-Historischen Classe der Kaiserlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
Besitz in Cl. Alt. (or Bes. u. Erw.) | = Besitz und Erwerb im griechischen Altertume, Büchsenschütz. [Cl. seems Rohde’s mistake.] IA |
| Bgk. | = Bergk. |
| Biogr. d’Emp. | = La biographie d’Empédocle, Bidez. IA |
| Bös. Blick | = Über den Aberglauben des bösen Blicks bei den Alten, Jahn. https://opacplus.bsb-muenchen.de |
| Cael. Aur. | = Caelius Aurelianus, Morb. Chr. = De Morbis Acutis & Chronicis. IA Tard. = Tardae or Chronicae Passiones. IA |
| Caes. | = Caesar. Perseus |
| Call(im). | = Callimachus. Perseus Bentley ad Lav. Pall. = IA (details/callimachihymni00bentgoog) |
| Callin. | = Callinus. See PLG., vol. 2, below. |
| Callist. | = Pseudo-Callisthenes. http://www.attalus.org/info/alexander.html |
| Carm. Aur. | = Carmen Aureum. In Iamblichi De vita Pythagorica liber ... accedit epimetrum de Pythagorae Aureo Carmine, ed. Nauck. Hathi |
| Carm. Phoc. | = Pseudo-Phocylides. In PLG., vol. 2, below. |
| Cassiod. Var. | = Cassiodori Senatoris Variae. IA |
| Censor., DN. | = Censorinus, De die natali liber. IA |
| Char. | = Charikles, Becker, 2 vols. IA |
| Charis. | = Charisius. In Grammatici Latini, Keil. IA |
| Chron. altgr. Epos. | = Zur Chronologie der altgriechische Epos, Christ. Hathi. |
| Chthon. u. Todt. | = Stengel, Chthonischer und Todtencult in Festschrift für Ludwig Friedländer, 414-432. IA |
| CIA | = Corpus inscriptionum Atticarum, 1873. IA |
| Cic. | = Cicero. Perseus |
| CIG. | = Corpus inscriptionum graecarum. Some parts at Hathi. More at https://www.deutsche-digitale-bibliothek.de |
| CIL. | = Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum. https://arachne.uni-koeln.de/drupal/?q=en/node/291 |
| Claud. iv. Cons. Hon. | = Claudian, Panegyricus de Quarto Consulatu Honorii Augusti. IA |
| Claud. Mamertus, de An. | = Claudianus Mamertus, De statu animae, in Opera Omnia. IA |
| Clem. (Al(ex).) | = Clement of Alexandria. Hathi has Titi Flaui Clementis Alexandrini opera omnia, ed. Klotz. Google Books has the Dindorff volumes. |
| Cod. Theod. | = Codex Theodosianus. https://droitromain.univ-grenoble-alpes.fr |
| Com. Fr. | = Comicorum graecorum fragmenta, ed. Kaibel. IA |
| Comm. Bern. in Lucan | = Commenta Bernensia. Google Books |
| Commun. et coll. quib. Graec. | = De communibus et collegiis quibusdam Graecorum, Schöll. In Satura philologica. H. Sauppio obtulit amicorum conlegarum decas. IA |
| Conon | = Conon, Narrationes. IA (name Konon) |
| Corn(ut). | = Cornutus. Cornuti Theologiae graecae compendium, ed. Lang. IA |
| Corresp. Würt. Gelehr. | = Correspondenz-blatt für die Gelehrten- und Realschulen Württembergs. 1881 in Google Books |
| Cosm. ad Greg. Naz. | = Cosmae hieros, commentarius
ad carmina S. Gregorii Nazianzeni. Original publication in Spicilegium Romanum, vol. II, part ii. IA (details/spicilegiumroma00unkngoog) |
| Cratin. | = Cratinus. In Comicorum Atticorum Fragmenta, vol. 1, ed. Kock. IA |
| Culturges. | = Allgemeine Culturgeschichte der Menschheit, Klemm, 10 vols. IA |
| Culturg. Streifz. Geb. Islam | = Culturgeschichtliche Streifzüge auf dem Gebiete des Islams, v. Kremer. IA |
| Culturpflanz. | = Kulturpflanzen und Hausthiere in ihrem Übergang aus Asien nach Griechenland und Italien sowie in das übrige Europa, Hehn. IA (English translation, The wanderings ..., Hathi) |
| D. (or Dem.) | = Demosthenes. Perseus |
| Damasc. | = Damascius, Princ. = Dubitationes et solutiones de primis principiis, ed. Ruelle. Hathi V. Isid. = Vita Isidori. |
| D. ant. Mysterienw. | = Gr. Mysterienw., below. |
| Darst. d. Unterw(elt) auf unterit(al). Vasen | = Die Darstellungen der Unterwelt auf unteritalischen Vasen, Winkler. Also appeared in Breslauer philologische Abhandlungen, 1888. IA |
| Darstell. a. d. Sitteng. | = Darstellungen aus der Sittengeschichte Roms in der Zeit von August bis zum Ausgang der Antonine, Friedländer. IA |
| D. Atticismus | = Der atticismus in seinem Hauptvertretern von Dionysius von Halikarnass bis auf den zweiten Philostratus, Schmid. IA |
| D. C. | = Dio Cassius. Perseus |
| D. Chr. | = Dio Chrysostom. Perseus |
| De acusmatis s. symbolis Pythag., | = De acusmatis sive symbolis Pythagoricis, Hölk. IA |
| de commun. et coll. Graecis | = De communibus et collegiis quibusdam Graecorum, Schöll. In Satura philologa, Hermanno Sauppio obtulit amicorum conlegarum decas. IA |
| De Epim. Crete | = De Epimenide Crete, Schultess. IA |
| de gentil. Att(ica). | = De Gentilitate Attica, Meier. Hathi |
| de h(eroum ap. Gr.) cult(u) | = De heroum apud Graecos cultu, Wassner. IA |
| de hymnis Orph. | = de hymnis Orphicis Capitula Quinque, Dieterich. IA |
| de immort. animi | = Disputatio de Immortalitate Animi, Wyttenbach, in his Opuscula, vol. 2. IA |
| de Lap. | = de lapidibus, Damigeron, ed. Abel. IA |
| Delect. | = Delectus inscriptionum Graecarum propter dialectum memorabilium, Cauer. Hathi |
| De lustrat. | = Epimenides s. de lustrat. below. |
| Dem. fr. | = Democriti Abderitae operum fragmenta, Mullach. IA |
| Dem. Phal. | = Demetrius Phalereus. |
| Dem. u. Pers(eph). | = Demeter und Persephone, Preller. IA |
| Denkm. | = Denkmaler des klassischen Altertums, Baumeister. IA |
| D. Enneakrunosepis. bei Paus. | = Die Enneakrunosepisode bei Pausanias, Löschcke. IA |
| de Orphei Ep. Pher. Theog. | = De Orphei Epimenidis Pherecydis theogoniis quaestiones critica, Kern. IA |
| de Pindaro theologiae Orph. censore | = De Pindaro theologiae Orphicae censore, Lübbert. IA |
| de Pos. Rhod., | = De Posidonio Rhodio, Corssen. IA |
| de Rhiani stud. Hom. | = De Rhiani Cretensis studiis homericis, Mayhoff. IA |
| Der Keilins. Sintfluthber. | = Der keilinschrifliche Sintfluthbericht, Haupt. Hathi |
| Dessau | = Hermann Dessau, Inscriptiones latinae selectae, vol. 2. IA |
| (de) soc. Pythag. | = De societatis a Pythagora in urbe Crotoniatarum conditae scopo politico commentatio, Krische. Google Books |
| de Theogon. | = Griechische Mythologie, vol. 1, Preller, ed. Kern. IA |
| de Theoxen. | = de Theoxeniis, Deneken. IA |
| Deut. Volksabergl. | = Der deutsche Volksaberglaube der Gegenwart, Wuttke. IA |
| D. Gl(aube) u. Brauch | = Deutscher Glaube und Brauch im Spiegel der heidnischen Vorzeit, Rochholz. IA |
| Dgn. | = Diogenianus. In Corpus paroemiographorum Graecorum. Hathi |
| D. H. | = Dionysius of Halicarnassus. Perseus |
| D. Hom. Epos aus d. Denkm. erl. | = Das homerische Epos aus den Denkmälern erläutert, Helbig. IA |
| Dicaearch. (or Dikaiarch.) | = Dicaearchus. In Geographi graeci minores, ed. Müller, vol. 1. IA |
| Did. | = Didymus. |
| Die Altäre v. Olymp. | = Die Altäre von Olympia, Curtius. IA |
| Diels, Parm. | = Parmenides Lehrgedicht, Diels. IA |
| Die W. u. T. des Hesiod | = Die Werke und Tage des Hesiodos, ed. Steitz. IA |
| Digest. | = Digesta, in Corpus Iuris Civilis. https://droitromain.univ-grenoble-alpes.fr/#22 |
| Din(arch). | = Dinarchus, Perseus |
| Diod. Com. Ἐπίκληρ. | = Diodorus Comicus Ἐπίκληρος, see Mein. Com. below. |
| Diogen. | = Diogenianus. In Corpus paroemiographorum Graecorum, ed. Leutsch and Scheidewin. IA |
| Dionysosc. | = Die Beziehungen des Dionysoskultus zu Thrakien und Kleinasien, Rapp. Hathi |
| Dionysosdienst in Elis | = Das Kollegium der Sechzehn Frauen und den Dionysosdienst in Elis, Weniger. Hathi |
| D(io)sc. MM. | = Pedanii Dioscoridis anazerbei De materia medica libri quinque, ed. Sprengel. IA |
| Diph. | = Diphilus. |
| Diss(ert). (phil.) Halens. | = dissertationes philologiae Halensis. Zacher is in III: de nominibus graecis ... IA |
| D. L. | = Diogenes Laertius. Perseus |
| D. Leben. nach d. Tode n. d. Vorst. d. a. Israel | = Das Leben nach dem Tode: Nach den Vorstellungen des alten Israel und des Judentums ..., Schwally. IA |
| D. Myth. | = Handbuch der deutschen Mythologie, Simrock. IA |
| Dox. | = Diels, Doxographi Graeci. IA |
| D. P. | = Dionysius Periegetes. IA |
| D. S. | = Diodorus Siculus. Perseus |
| E. (or Eur.) | = Euripides. Perseus |
| Econ. of Ath. | = The Public Economy of the Athenians, Böckh. Hathi |
| E. Gud. | = Etymologicum Graecae linguae Gudianum et alia grammaticorum scripta e codicibus manuscriptis nunc primum editam, ed. Sturz. Hathi |
| Einl. (Ges. gr. Spr.) | = Einleitung in der Geschichte der griechische Sprache, Kretschmer. IA |
| E.M. | = Etymologicum magnum. IA |
| Emped. | = Empedocles. In Vors. below. |
| Ench. | = Enchiridion of Epictetus. Perseus |
| Ep. ad Cor. | = Paul, Epistle to the Corinthians. Perseus |
| Ep. Cr. | = Epistola critica, Ruhnken, 2 vols. Google Books |
| Ep. Cycl. (Cykl.) | = Der epische Cyclus, oder, Die homerischen Dichter, Welcker, 2 vols. IA |
| Ἐφ. Ἀρχ. | = Ἀρχαιολογικὴ ἐφημερίς. Accessible from http://ancientworldonline.blogspot.com/2020/01/open-access-journal.html |
| Ephor. | = Ephorus. In FHG. below. |
| Ep(ic). Fr. | = Epicorum graecorum fragmenta, ed. Kinkel. IA |
| Epich. | = Epicharmus. In PLG., vol. 2, below. |
| Epict(et). | = Epictetus. Perseus |
| Epidemics of the M. A. | = The Epidemics of the Middle Ages, Hecker. IA |
| Epigr. Gr. (or Ep. in part of the last chapter) | = Epigrammata Graeca, ed. Kaibel. IA |
| Epiktet u. d. Stoa | = Epictet und die Stoa, Bonhöffer. IA |
| Epimenides s. de lustrat. | = Epimenides sive de veterum gentilium lustrationibus syntagma, Lomeier. IA |
| Epitaph. | = Epitaphius, in Hyperidis Orationes sex cvm ceterarvm fragmentis, ed. Blass. IA |
| Ep., Sent. | = Epicurus, Sententiae. IA |
| Erläut. zu Herodots 2. B. | = Herodots zweites Buch mit sachlichen Erläuterungen, Wiedemann. IA |
| Ersch-Gruber | = Allgemeine Encyclopädie der Wissenschaften und Künste, Ersch, Gruber, et al. IA |
| E.T. | = English Translation. |
| Ét. de mythol. et d’arch. égypt. | = Études de mythologie et d'archéologie égyptiennes. Vol. 1 at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k555206.texteImage
|
| Eth. Eud. | = Ethica Eudemica, Aristotle. Perseus |
| Eudoc., Viol. | = Pseudo-Eudocia, Violarium recensuit et emendabat, fontium testimonia subscripsit Ioannes Flach. Hathi |
| Eun. VS. | = Eunapius, Vitae Sophistarum. https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k62357919/f471.image |
| Eus. Arm. | = Eusebius (Armenian: text of Chronicon) see Hier. below. |
| Eust. | = Eustathius. IA has his commentaries on Homer. |
| Exc. | = Schliemann's excavations: an archaeological and historical study, Schuchhardt. IA |
| Ἐξηγ. | = Ἐξηγητικόν. |
| ἐξηγ. πυθόχρ. | = ἐξηγηταί πυθόχρηστοι. |
| Fast. Att. | = Fasti Attici, Corsini. IA |
| Fest. | = Festus, De Verborum Significatione. Hathi |
| Festg. f. Ihering | = Festgabe der Göttinger Juristen-Fakultät für Rudolf von Jhering. Hathi |
| FHG. | = Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum. http://www.dfhg-project.org |
| Firm. (Mat.) | = Firmicus Maternus. Error. P.R. = De errore profanarum religionum. IA |
| Flor. | = Florus. IA |
| Forsch. zu Arist. Ἀθ. πολ. | = Literarische und historische Forschungen zu Aristoteles Athenanion POLITEIA, Bauer. IA |
| F(ouil). d’Epid(aur). | = Fouilles d’ Epidaure. https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k3174772.texteImage |
| Frag. Epic. | = Ep. Fr. above. |
| Fr. Trag. | = Tragicorum graecorum fragmenta, Nauck. IA |
| Gal. | = Galen. https://www.biusante.parisdescartes.fr/histoire/medica/ |
| GDI. | = Sammlung der griechischen Dialekt-Inschriften, Collitz. IA |
| Gebärden der Gr. u. R. | = Die Gebärden der Griechen und Römer, Sittl. IA |
| Gell. | = Aulus Gellius. Perseus |
| Geog. | = Geographie von Griechenland, Bursian. IA |
| Gesch. d. Abip. | = Geschichte der Abiponer, eine berittenen und kriegerischen Nation in Paraquay, Dobrizhoffer, 3 vols. IA (E.T. at Project Gutenberg) |
| Gesch. Ideen Islam | = Geschichte der herrschenden Ideen des Islams: der Gottesbegriff, die Prophetie und Staatsidee, v. Kremer. IA |
| Ges. d. Psychol. | = Geschichte der Psychologie, Siebeck. IA |
| Ges. Schr. | = Gesammelte Schriften. |
| Get. | = Getica, in Romana et Getica, ed. Mommsen. IA |
| Gothofred. ad Cod. Theod. | = Gothofredus, De statu paganorum sub christianis imperatoribus: seu commentarius ad titulum X de paganis libri XVI codicis Theodosiani. IA |
| Gottesdienstl. Alterth. | = Lehrbuch der gottesdienstlichen Alterthümer der Griechen, Hermann. IA |
| Gött. Gel. Anz. | = Göttingische Gelehrte Anzeigen. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Gp. | = Geoponica. IA |
| Graecoitalische Rechts. | = Graecoitalische Rechtsgeschichte, Leist. IA |
| Gr. Alt. | = Handbuch der griechischen Staatsaltertümer, Gilbert, 2 vols. Hathi |
| Gr. Culte u. Mythen | = Die griechischen Culte und Mythen in ihren Beziehungen zu den orientalischen Religionen, Gruppe. Vol. 1 at IA |
| Gr. Dial. | = Die griechischen Dialekte auf Grundlage von Ahrens’ Werk: “De Graecae linguae dialectis”, Meister. IA |
| G(ree)k Pap(yri) in B.M. | = Greek Papyri in the British Museum, Kenyon. IA |
| Greg. Cor. | = Gregorii Corinthii et aliorum grammaticorum libri de dialectis linguae graecae, ed. Schaefer. IA |
| Greg. Nz. | = Gregory Nazianzus. Migne. |
| Gr. Etym. | = Grundzüge der griechischen Etymologie, Curtius. IA |
| (Gr.) Götterl. | = Griechische Götterlehre, Welcker, 3 vols. IA has 1 and 3, all at Hathi |
| Gr. Gramm. | = Griechische Grammatik, Meyer. IA |
| Griech. Märchen von dankbaren Thieren | = Griechische Märchen von dankbaren Tieren und Verwandtes, Marx. IA |
| Griech. Personennamen | = Die griechischen Personennamen nach ihrer Bildung erklärt und systematisch geordnet, Fick. IA |
| Griech. Sicil. Vasenb. | = Griechische und sicilische Vasenbilder, Benndorf. IA |
| Grimm | = Grimm, Deutsche Mythologie, translated as Teutonic Mythology, by J. S. Stallybrass, 1880. IA |
| Gr. Insc. in B.M. | = The collection of ancient Greek inscriptions in the British Museum. IA |
| Gr. Lit. | = Griechische Literaturgeschichte, Bergk, 4 vols. IA |
| Gr. Märchen | = Griechische Märchen, Sagen und Volkslieder, Schmidt. IA |
| Gr. Mysterienw. | = Das antike Mysterienwesen in seinem Einfluss auf das Christentum, Anrich. IA |
| Gr. Rechtsalt. | = Lehrbuch der griechischen antiquitäten: Lehrbuch der griechischen Rechtsaltertümer von
Dr. Karl Friedrich Hermann, revised Th. Thalheim. IA |
| Gr. Roman | = Der griechische Roman und seine Vorläufer, Rohde. IA |
| Gr. Staatsalt. | = Lehrbuch der griechischen Staatsalteertümer, aus dem standpuncte der geschichte entworfen, Hermann. IA |
| Gr. u. alb. Märchen | = Griechische und albanesische Märchen, Hahn. IA |
| Gr. Vereinswesen | = Das Griechische Vereinswesen, Ziebarth. IA |
| h. (Hom.) | = [Homeric] Hymn. Ap. = Apollo; Cer. = Demeter; Merc. = Hermes; Ven. = Aphrodite. Perseus |
| Halm | = Fabulae Æsopicae collectae, ed. Halm. IA |
| h. crit. com. | = historiam criticam comicorum graecorum = Vol. 1 of Mein. Com. below. IA |
| Harp. | = Harpocration. Perseus |
| Hcl. | = Heraclit. below. |
| Hdn. Gr. | = Herodianus Grammaticus, Herodiani Technici Reliquiae, ed. Lenz. IA |
| Hdt. | = Herodotus. Perseus |
| [Hdt.] V. Hom. | = Pseudo-Herodotus, Vita Homeri. Not at Perseus, some editions of Herodotus include it at IA |
| Hegesipp. | = Hegesippos. In AP. above. |
| Heliod. | = Heliodorus, Aethiopicorum libri decem, ed. Bekker. IA |
| Hellan. | = Hellanicus. In FHG. above. |
| Hemst. Luc. | = Hemsterhuis, Lucani Samosatensis Opera, 10 vols. Hathi. |
| Heort. | = Heortologie: antiquarische Untersuchungen über die städtischen Feste der Athener, Mommsen. IA |
| Heraclid. (or Herakl(id).) (Pont.) Pol. | = Heraclides Ponticus, Politica. IA |
| Heraclit. | = Heracleitus. In Vors. below. |
| Heraklit. Briefe | = Die Heraklitischen Briefe: ein Beitrag zur philosophischen und religionsgeschichtlichen Literatur, Bernays. IA |
| Herod(es) Att. | = Herodes Atticus. IA |
| Heroenvögel in d. gr. Myth. | = Heroenvögel in der griechischen Mythologie mit einem Anhange über Diomedes in Italien, Holland. IA |
| Herond. | = Herondas. IA |
| Hes. | = Hesiod. Persius |
| Hier. Chr. | = Jerome, Chronicon. IA |
| Hier. Rh. frag. | = Hieromymi Rhodii peripatetici fragmenta, ed. Hiller. IA |
| Hiller v. Gärtr. | = Hiller von Gärtringen. Ref. in note 6 of chapter 3 is to https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/RE:Aristaios_1 |
| Him. | = Himerius. Himerii sophistae quae reperiri potuerunt... Google Books. |
| Hipp(ol). RH. | = Hippolytus, Refutatio Omnium Haeresium, https://www.deutsche-digitale-bibliothek.de |
| Hippocr. | = Hp. below. Hippocrates, π. παρθενίων (Littré) is at https://www.biusante.parisdescartes.fr/histoire/medica/ |
| Hippon. | = Hipponax. In PLG., vol. 2, below. |
| Hist. Num. | = Historia Numorum, a Manual of Greek Numismatics, Head. http://hno.huma-num.fr |
| hist. Zeits. | = Historische Zeitschrift. Hathi |
| H. Mag. | = Hymni Magici. |
| H. Mag. Hec., Abel, Orph., | = Abel, Orphica. IA |
| Hom. = Homer, who is quoted by the majuscules of the Greek alphabet for the books of the Iliad, by the minuscules for the Odyssey. Perseus |
| Hom. Epos. | = Das homerische Epos aus den Denkmälern erläutert, archäologische Untersuchungen, Helbig. IA |
| Hom. Schiffskat. | = Der homerische Schiffskatalog als historische Quelle betrachte, Niese. IA |
| H(om). T(heol). | = Homerische Theologie,
Nägelsbach. IA |
| Hor. | = Horace. Perseus |
| H. Orph. | = De Hymnis Orphicis Capitula Quinque, Dieterich. IA |
| Hp. | = Hippokrates. http://galen.bbaw.de/epubl/online/editionencmg_01.html |
| Hsch./Hesych. | = Hesychius. Lexicon. IA |
| H. Smyrn. | = Hermippus of Smyrna. IA (details/hermippifragmen00hermgoog) |
| Hug, Plat. Symp. | = Platons Symposion, ed. Hug. IA |
| Hyg(in). | = Hyginus. Hygini Fabulae. Hathi |
| Hyp. | = Hyperides. Epit. = Epitaphios, Funeral Oration. Perseus. |
| Iamb. | = Iamblichus, de Myst. = De mysteriis. IA Protr. = Protrepticus. IA Theol. Arith. = Theologumena arithmeticae. Hathi VP. = De vita Pythagorica. IA |
| IG. | = Inscriptiones Graeciae. |
| IG. Ant. | = Inscriptiones graecae antiquissimae praeter atticas in Attica repertas, ed. Roehl. IA |
| IGM. Aeg. | = IG., Vol. XII, Inscriptiones insularum maris Aegaei praeter Delum, several vols. |
| IGS(ept). | = IG., Vol. VII, Inscriptiones Graeciae septentrionalis. IA |
| IG. Sic. et It. | = Inscriptiones Graecae Siciliae et Italiae. IA |
| Ind. Schol. Bonn. hib. | = Index scholarum quae, ..., in Universitate Fridericia Guilelmia Rhenana ... publice privatimque habebuntur. Commentatio de Pindaro dogmatis de migratione animarum cultore, Lübbert. https://digitale-sammlungen.ulb.uni-bonn.de/periodical/titleinfo/5849103 |
| Ind. Schol. Götting. hib. | = Index scholarum publice et privatim in academia Georgia Augusta....., Commentariolum Metricum II, Wilamowitz--Moellendorff. Google Books |
| Ind. Stoic. | = Stóicorum Index Herculanensis, ed. Comparetti, in “Papiro Ercolanese Inedito”, Rivista di filologia e di istruzione classica iii (1875). IA |
| Inscr. Cos, | = The Inscriptions of Cos, Paton and Hicks. IA |
| Ins(cr). Perg. | = Inschriften von Pergamon ed. Fraenkel. https://www.deutsche-digitale-bibliothek.de |
| Introd. to Scient. Myth. | = Introduction to a Scientific System of Mythology, Müller. IA |
| IPE. | = Inscriptiones antiquae orae septentrionalis Ponti Euxini Graecae et Latinae, ed. Latyschev. IA |
| Is. | = Isaeus. Perseus |
| Isig(on). | = Isigonus in FHG. above. |
| Isoc. | = Isocrates. Perseus |
| Jahrb. arch. Inst. | = Jahrbuch des Kaiserlich Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Jahr(b). (f.) Phil(ol). | = Jahrbücher für classische Philologie. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Jb. Philol. Supp. | = Jahrbücher für classische Philologie. Supplementband. Gruppe is in IA (details/jahrbcherfrclas01flecgoog)
|
| Jb. Prot. Theol. | = Jahrbücher für protestantische Theologie. http://idb.ub.uni-tuebingen.de/opendigi/jpth |
| JHS. | = Journal of Hellenic Studies. https://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/webbin/serial?id=jhellenicstudies |
| J. M. | = Justin Martyr. Hathi |
| Jos. | = Josephus. Perseus |
| Jul. | = Julian. Chr., = Iuliani imperatoris librorum contra Christianos quae supersunt, ed. Neumann. IA Ep. = Epistulae, Or. = Orationes, both in Iuliani imperatoris quae supersunt praeter reliquias apud Cyrillum omnia, ed. Hertlein, vol. 1. IA |
| Jul. Valer. | = Julius Valerius, Res gestae Alexandri Macedonis translatae ex Aesopo graeco. IA |
| Justin. | = Justinus, historiarvm Philippicarvm T. Pompeii Trogi libri xliv in epitomen redacti. IA Co. ad Gr. = Cohortatio ad Graecos, attributed falsely to Justin Martyr. Migne |
| Kink. | = Kinkel. Usually referring to Epicorum graecorum fragmenta, IA |
| Kl. S(chr). | = Kleine Schriften. |
| Königsb. Stud. | = Königsberger Studien. Vol. 1. Google Books |
| Kuhns Ztschr. | = Zeitschrift für vergleichende Sprachforschung auf dem Gebiete des Deutschen, Griechischen und Lateinischen. 1860 at Google Books |
| Kynanth. | = Das von der “Kynanthropie” handelnde Fragment des Marcellus von Side, Roscher. IA |
| Kypros u. Ursp. Aphrod. | = Kypros und der Ursprung des Aphroditekultus, Enmann. IA |
| Laber. | = Laberius, in Comicorum Latinorum reliquiae, ed. Ribbeck (vol. 2 of Scenicae Romanorum poesis fragmenta). IA |
| Lac. Culte | = Lakonische Kulte, Wide. Hathi |
| Lact(ant). | = Lactantius. Inst. = De divinis institutionibus. Hathi has Lucii Caecilii Firmiani Lactantii Opera omnia. |
| (La) magie et l’astrol. dans l’antiq. | = La magie et l'astrologie dans l'antiquité et au moyen age, Maury. IA |
| Lamprid. | = Lampridius. Alleged author of part of the Historia Augusta. IA |
| Leben n. Todt n. Vorst. alt. Israël | = Das Leben nach dem Tode: Nach den Vorstellungen des alten Israel und des Judentums, Schwally. IA |
| Leg. Novell. Theodos. | = Liber Legum Novellarum Divi Theodosii. https://droitromain.univ-grenoble-alpes.fr/ |
| Leg. Sacr. | = Leges Graecorum Sacrae ..., von Prott and Ziehen. IA (1906 edition, not 1896) (Dissert. seems to be by von Prott alone.) |
| Leip(z). Stud. | = Leipziger Studien zur classischen Philologie. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Les lécythes blancs attiques à représ. funér. | = Étude sur les lécythes blancs attiques à représentations funéraires, Pottier. https://www.persee.fr/doc/bch_0007-4217_1884_num_8_1_4109 |
| les rel. des peuples non-civ. | = Les religions des peuples non-civilisés, Réville, 2 vols. Vol. 1 at Google Books |
| Lex. | = Myth. Lex. below. |
| Liban. | = Libanius, Orationes. https://opengreekandlatin.github.io/libanius-dev/ |
| Litt. Ztg. | = Deutsche Literaturzeitung für Kritik der internationalen Wissenschaft. 1896 at IA |
| Lob. | = Lobeck. Agl. = Aglaophamus, 3 books. IA Aj. = his edition of Sophocles’ Ajax. IA, Paralip. = Paralipomena grammaticae Graecae, 2 vols. IA Pathol. prol. = Pathologiae sermonis graeci, prolegomena. IA Rhemat. = Rhematikon sive, Verborum graecorum et nominum verbalium technologia. IA |
| Localsage von den Gräbern Agamem. | = Die mykenische Lokalsage von den Gräbern Agamemnons und der Seinen im Zusammenhange der griechischen Sagenentwicklung, Belger. A pdf is available at https://tpsalomonreinach.mom.fr |
| Luc. | = Lucian. Perseus |
| Lucr. | = Lucretius. Perseus |
| Lustr. | = de Veterum Gentilium Lustrationibus Syntagma, Lomeier. IA |
| Lyc. | = Lycophron. Perseus |
| Lyc. Inscr. | = The Lycian Inscriptions ..., Schmidt. IA |
| Lycurg. | = Lycurgus. Perseus |
| Lyd. Mens. | = (John) Lydus, de Mensibus. IA |
| Lys. | = Lysias. Perseus |
| Macr(ob). | = Macrobius. IA |
| Malal. | = Malalas, John. chronographia. Hathi |
| M. Ant. | = Marcus Aurelius. De rebus suis, sive, De eis quæ ad se pertinere censebat, libri XII..., ed. Gataker. IA |
| Marcellin. V. Th. | = Marcellinus, Vita Thucydidis. Hathi |
| Marc. Emp. | = Marcellus Empiricus, De medicamentis liber, ed. Helmreich. IA |
| Marin., V. Procli | = Marinus, Vita Procli. IA |
| Mart. | = Martial. Perseus |
| Mart. Cap. | = Martianus Capella. De nuptiis philologiae, et Mercurii, et de septem artibus liberalibus libri novem. IA |
| Max. T(yr). | = Maximus Tyrius. IA |
| Mein. Com. | = Fragmenta comicorum Graecorum, ed. Meineke, 5 vols. in 7 parts. Vol. III IA (details/fragmentacomico11meingoog); Vol. IV IA (/details/fragmentacomicor04meinuoft) |
| Melanipp. | = Melanippides. In PLG., vol. 3. |
| Mém. de l’Inst. de Fr., Ac. des Ins. | = Mémoires de l’Institut national de France, Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres. The article by Raoul-Rochette is here: https://www.persee.fr/doc/minf_0398-3609_1838_num_13_2_1291?q=Raoul+Rochette |
| Mém. sur les îles et la course cons. à Achille | = Mémoire sur les îles et la Course consacrées à Achille, Koehler. |
| Menand. | = Menander. Menandri et Philemonis reliquiae, ed. Meineke. Hathi. |
| Men(and). Rhet. | = Menander Rhetor. In Rhetores Graeci, ed. Spengel, vol. 2. IA (details/bub_gb_g31KAAAAYAAJ) |
| Metrod. | = Metrodorus, ed. Körte. IA |
| Mimn. | = Mimnermus. In PLG., vol. 2. |
| Min(uc). (Fel.) | = Minucius Felix. Perseus |
| Mission arch. de Macédoine | =
Mission archéologique de Macédoine, Heuzey and Daumet. https://arachne.uni-koeln.de |
| Mit. arch. Inst. röm. Abt. | = Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung. https://www.digizeitschriften.de/en/dms/toc/?PID=PPN783873484 |
| Mon. Germ., Chron. | = Monumenta Germaniae Historica; the quotation is from Die Limburger Chronik des Tilemann Elhen von Wolfhagen, ed. Wyss. https://www.dmgh.de/mgh_dt_chron_4_1/index.htm#page/(25)/mode/1up |
| Mon(um). d(ell’) Inst(it). | = Monumenti dell' Instituto. |
| Myth. Gr. | = ? Mythographoi scriptores poeticae historiae Graeci, ed. Westermann. IA [the ? because the numbers in note 4 of ch. 7 do not properly fit] |
| Myth. Lex. | = Ausführliches Lexikon der griechischen und römischen Mythologie, ed. Roscher, several volumes. IA (guide at https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/Ausführliches_Lexikon_der_griechischen_und_römischen_Mythologie) |
| Mythol. d. gr(iech). St. | = Mythologie der griechischen Stämme, Müller. IA |
| Mythol. Forsch. | = Mythologische Forschungen, Mannhardt. IA |
| Myth. v. d. Weltaltern | = Abhandlung über den Mythus von den fünf Menchengeschlechtern bei Hesiod und die indische Lehre von den vier Weltaltern, Roth. https://publikationen.uni-tuebingen.de/xmlui/bitstream/handle/10900/44017/pdf/RothVerzeichnis-1860.pdf |
| Nachhom. Theol. | = Die nachhomerische Theologie des griechischen Volksglaubens bis auf Alexander dargestellt, Nägelsbach. IA |
| Nek. | = Nekyia, Dieterich. IA |
| Nemes., Nat. Hom. | = Nemesius, de natura hominis. IA |
| Nep. | = Cornelius Nepos. Perseus |
| Neunzahl | = Die Neunzahl bei den Ostariern, Kaegi. Hathi |
| Nic(andr). Th. | = Nicander, Theriaca et Alexipharmaca ed. Otto Schneider. IA |
| Nic. Dam., Paradox. | = Nicolaus of Damascus, in Paradoxographoi. Scriptores rerum mirabilium graeci, ed. Westermann. Hathi |
| Nicol. Prog. | = Nicolaus Rhetor, Progymnasmata. IA |
| Nonn., D. | = Nonnus, Dionysiaca. IA |
| Nordd. Sag. | = Norddeutsche Sagen, Märchen und Gebräuche, Kuhn and Schwartz. IA |
| Nouv. annales des voyages | = Nouvelles annales des voyages. https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/cb32826375m/date |
| Novell. Valentin. | = Liber Legum Novellarum Divi Valentiniani. https://droitromain.univ-grenoble-alpes.fr/ |
| O. | = Orpheus. fr. in Abel, see Orph. below. |
| Obs. | = Iulius Obsequens. Rohde used Julii Obsequentis quae supersunt ex libro de prodigiis, IA; Hollis adds this version: https://documentacatholicaomnia.eu/03d/0300-0400,_Iulius_Obsequens,_Prodigiorum_Liber,_LT.pdf |
| Oinom. | = Oenomaus. |
| Onomakr. | = Onomakritos. |
| Opp., H. | = Oppian, Halieutica. Perseus |
| Op(usc). | = Opuscula (Bergk: philologica = Kleine philologische Schriften, 2 vols. IA) (Ritschl: philologica, 5 vols. IA has vols. 1 and 4) |
| Opusc. Ac. | = Opuscula Academica, Göttling. https://opacplus.bsb-muenchen.de |
| Orchom. | = Orchomenos und die Minyer, Müller. IA |
| Orelli, Ins. | = Inscriptionum Latinarum Selectarum Collectio, 2 vols. (1259 is in vol. 1). Hathi |
| Orig., Cels. | = Origen, contra Celsum. (L. = Lommatzsch.) IA |
| Orph. | = Orpheus. Arg. = Orphei Argonautica, in Orphica, ed. Abel. IA H. = Hymns. Ibid. [Orph.] L. = Orphei Lithica, v. de Lap. above, or ibid. |
| Or. Sib. | = Oracula Sibyllina, Alexandre. IA (The reference [and ii] seems more pertinent to his Excursus ad Sibyllina, also IA.) |
| Ov. | = Ovid. Perseus |
| Pall. | = Palladius, de Re Rustica. IA |
| P. Anastasy | = Papyri Anastasi. |
| Pantsch. | = Pantschatantra: fünf Bücher indischer Fabeln, Märchen und Erzählungen, Benfey. IA |
| Pap. Mag. | = Prolegomena ad papyrum magicam Musei Lugdunensis Batavi, Dieterich. IA (also in his Kleine Schriften, IA) |
| Paradoxogr. | = Paradoxographus Apollonius in Rerum naturalium scriptores graeci minores, ed. Keller. IA |
| Paraphr. ant. Lyc. | = Lycophronis Alexandra, cum paraphrasibus ad codicum fidem recensita et emendata, indices subiecti, ed. Scheer, 2 vols. IA |
| Papers of the Amer. School at Athens | = Papers of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens. https://digi.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/diglit/ascsapapers |
| Parth. | = Parthenius. IA |
| Paul. Fest(i). | = Paulus = Sexti Pompei Festi, De verborum significatu quae supersunt com Pauli epitome. IA |
| Paul., Sent. | = Paulus, Sententiae. https://droitromain.univ-grenoble-alpes.fr/Responsa/paulus.html |
| Pauly-Wiss. | = Pauly-Wissowa, Realencyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Paus. | = Pausanias. Perseus |
| Pers. | = Persius. Perseus |
| Pers. | = Auli Persii Flacci Satirarum liber, ed. Jahn. IA [mostly a play by Aeschylus] |
| Petr(on). | = Petronius. Perseus |
| Pherecr. | = Pherecrates. In Comicorum Atticorum Fragmenta, vol. 1, ed. Theodor Kock. IA |
| Philarg. | = Philargyrius. IA (details/commentariiinvi01servgoog) |
| Phil. d. Griech | = Die Philosophie der Griechen in ihrer geschichtlichen Entwicklung, Zeller. Hathi |
| Phil. d. mittl. Stoa | = Die Philosophie der mittleren Stoa in ihrem geschichtlichen Zusammenhange, Schmekel. IA |
| Philem. | = Philemon. |
| Philo | = Philo, Incor. Mund. = De Incorruptibilitate Mundi Leg. ad G. = Legatio ad Gaium. http://www.documentacatholicaomnia.eu/ Leg. Alleg. = Legum Allegoriæ. IA (details/bub_gb__hQJAQAAIAAJ/) Q. omn. Prob. = Quod Omnis Probus Liber. http://www.documentacatholicaomnia.eu/ Mund. Op. = De Opificio Mundi. http://www.documentacatholicaomnia.eu/ Q. rer. div. = Quis Rerum Divinarum Heres Sit. http://www.documentacatholicaomnia.eu/ Spec. Leg. = De Specialibus Legibus. IA (details/bub_gb_jTA1AAAAIAAJ/) Vit. Cont. = De Vita Contemplativa. http://www.documentacatholicaomnia.eu/ Vict. Off. = de victimas offerentibus. IA (details/operaomnia04phil) |
| Philoch. | = Philochorus. In FHG. |
| Philod(em). | = Philodemus, Mort. = On death. In Academicorum philosophorum index herculanensis, ed. Mekler. IA Piet. = On piety, Philodem über Frömmigkeit, ed. Gomperz. Hathi |
| Philol. | = Philologus. IA |
| Philos. d. Heraklit im Lichte der Mysterienidee | = Die Philosophie des Heraklit von Ephesus im Lichte der Mysterienidee, Pfleiderer. Hathi |
| Philos(tr). | = Philostratus. Perseus |
| Phld. | = Philodemus. IA |
| Phlegon, Macr. | = Macrobii, in Rerum naturalium scriptores Graeci minores, ed. Keller. Hathi |
| Phot. | = Photius, Lexicon. IA Bibl. = Bibliotheca. Migne |
| Phryn. | = Phrynicus, Phrynichi eclogae nominum et verborum atticorum, ed. Lobeck. Hathi |
| Pi. | = Pindar. (PLG., vol. 1.) Perseus |
| Pl. | = Plato. Perseus |
| Platon. Frage | = Zur Lösung der Platonischen Frage, Pfleiderer. IA |
| Pl(aton). Fr(age) | = Die platonische Frage, Teichmüller. IA |
| Platon. Staat | = Der platonische Staat, Krohn. IA |
| Plaut. | = Plautus. Perseus |
| Plb. (or Polyb.) | = Polybius. Perseus |
| PLG. | = Poetae Lyrici Graeci, Bergk, 3 vols, ed. 4. IA |
| Plin. | = Pliny (the Elder), NH. = Naturalis Historia. Perseus Ep. = Epistulae of Pliny the Younger. Perseus |
| Plot. | = Plotinus. IA |
| Plu. | = Plutarch. Perseus |
| PMagPar. | = Paris Magical Papyrus, ed. Wessely. Actually in Denkschriften der Kaiserlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-historische Classe, 1888. IA (details/DenkschriftenPhilHist36) |
| Poll. | = Pollux, Onomasticon. IA |
| Polyaen. | = Polyaenus, Polyaeni Strategematon libri octo ex recensione Edvardi Woelfflin. IA |
| Popul. Aufs | = Populäre Aufsätze aus dem Alterthum vorzugsweise zur Ethik und Religion der Griechen, Lehrs. IA |
| Porph. | = Porphyrius, Abs(t). = De abstinentia ab esu animalium Antr. = De antro nympharum VP. = Vita Pythagorae. IA have these in Porphyrii Philosophi Platonici opuscula selecta, ed. Nauck Ep. Aneb. = Epistula ad Anebonem. IA in a text by Iamblichus de Myst. V. Plot. = Vita Plotini. |
| Pos. | = de Pos. Rhod. above. |
| Poseid. | = Poseidonius. |
| Prescott, Peru | = History of the Conquest of Peru, Prescott. IA |
| Preuss. Exped. nach Ostasien | = Die preussische Expedition nach Ostasien während der Jahre 1860-1862, Spiess. IA |
| Proc. Gaz. | = Procopius Gazaeus. Ep. in Epistolographi graeci. ed. Hercher. IA |
| Procl. | = Proclus. On Hesiod, Gainsford (ed.),
Poetae minores Graeci, vol. 2: Scholia ad Hesiodum. https://books.google.it/ For Chrest. see Ep. Fr. above. |
| Procop. | = Procopius. Perseus |
| Proleg. zu Platons Staat | = Prolegomena Zu Platons Staat Und Der Platonischen Und Aristotelischen Staatslehre, Dümmler. Hathi |
| Prop. | = Propertius. Perseus |
| Prud. Sym. | = Prudentius, Contra Symmachum. Perseus |
| Psychol. d. Naturv. | = Die Psychologie der Naturvölker, Robinsohn. IA |
| Quaest. Pseudohippocrat. | = Studia pseudippocratea, Ilberg. IA |
| quaest. sacr. | = Quaestiones Sacrificales, Stengel. IA |
| Quint. Decl. | = Quintilian, Declamationes. IA |
| Q.S. | = Quintus Smyrnaeus. IA |
| R. | = Rose (for Aristotle: Aristoteles pseudepigraphus, IA). |
| Realencykl. d. christl. Alterth. | = Realencyklopädie der christlichen Alterthümer Bd. II, Kraus. IA |
| Reise d. Geg. nörd. Griechen | = Reise durch einige Gegenden des nördlichen Griechenlands, Stephani. https://www.deutsche-digitale-bibliothek.de |
| Rel. d. Ved. | = Die Religion des Veda, Oldenburg. IA. (IA also has the French translation Hollis often refers to.) |
| Relig. d. Afrikan. Naturv | = Die Religion der afrikanischen Naturvölker, Schneider. IA |
| Rel. rom. d’Aug. aux Ant. | = La religion romaine d'Auguste aux Antonins, Boissier. IA |
| Rev. Arch. | = Revue archéologique. https://gallica.bnf.fr |
| Rhaps. Theog. | = Die rhapsodische Theogonie und ihre bedeutung Innerhalb der orphischen Litteratur, Gruppe. Hathi |
| Rhes. | = Rhesus play by Euripides. |
| Rh(et). Gr. | = Rhetores graeci, ed. Walz, 9 vols. IA |
| Rh. Mus. | = Rheinisches Museum. https://rhm.phil-fak.uni-koeln.de/suche |
| Röm. Myth(ol). | = Römische Mythologie, Preller. IA |
| Röm. Staatsverw. | = Römische Staatsverwaltung, Marquardt. IA |
| Ross, Arch. Aufs. | = Archäologische Aufsätze, Ross. https://digi.ub.uni-heidelberg.de/diglit/ross1855ga Inscr. Gr. = Inscriptiones graecae ineditae, several volumes. IA |
| Rufin., Vit. Patr. | = Rufinus, Vitae Patrum. IA |
| Ruhnk., Tim. | = Tim. Lex. below. |
| S. (or Soph.) | = Sophokles. Perseus |
| Sall. | = Sallust. Perseus |
| Sallust., de Dis | = Sallustius, De Dis et Mundo. IA |
| Samml(ung) Sab(uroff). | = Die Sammlung Sabouroff: Kunstdenkmäler aus Griechenland, ed. Furtwångler. https://digi.ub.uni-heidelberg.de |
| Sarkophagstud. | = Sarkophag-Studien, Fredrich. In Nachrichten von der Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen. Philologisch-Historische Klasse, 1895. IA (details/nachrichten1895akaduoft) |
| S. (or St.) Byz. | = Stephani Byzantii Ethnicorum quae supersunt, ed. Meineke. IA |
| Sch. | = Scholium. |
| S. E. | = Sextus Empiricus. IA |
| Semon. | = Semonides of Amorgos. In PLG., vol. 2. [spelt Simonides]. |
| Sen. | = Seneca. Perseus |
| Serv. | = Servius. Perseus |
| Sicil. u. unterital. Vasenb. | = This seems to be a mistake for Griech. Sicil. Vasenb. above (whose p. 33 addresses what is missing on vase paintings of funerals). |
| SIG. | = Dittenberger, Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum. IA |
| Simon. | = Simonides of Keos. In PLG., vol. 3 above. |
| Simp., de An. | = Simplicii in libros Aristotelis De anima commentaria: consilio et auctor ..., ed. Hayduck. IA |
| Sitzb. Berl. Ak. | = Sitzungsberichte der Königlich Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Sitzb. Wien. Ac. | = Sitzungsberichte der Philosophisch-Historischen Classe der Kaiserlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| [Socr.] Epist. | = Epistulae Socraticae. In Epistolographi graeci, Hercher. IA |
| Sol. | = Solon. In PLG., vol. 2. |
| Solin. | = C. Ivlii Solini Collectanea rervm memorabilivm. Hathi |
| Sop. | = Sopater. In Rh. Gr. above. |
| Sophr. | = Sophron. |
| Soran., V. H(ip)p. | = Soranus, Vita Hippocratis. http://cmg.bbaw.de/epubl/online/cmg_04.php?p=197 |
| Soz., HE. | = Sozomen, ecclesiastica historia. Hathi |
| Spec. Leg. | = De specialibus legibus, Philo. https://opengreekandlatin.github.io/philo-dev/ |
| Spracheinh. d. Indog. Europ. | = Die ehemalige Spracheinheit der Indogermanen Europas, Fick. IA |
| Staat in Il. u. Od. | = Der Staat in der Ilias und Odyssee, Fanta. IA |
| Steph. Baluz., Vit. Pap. Avinion. | = Vitae Paparum Avenionensium, Stephanus Baluzius. IA |
| Sts. | = Stesichoros. in PLG., vol. 3. |
| Stob. | = Stobaeus. Hathi |
| Sto. Vet. | = Stoicorum veterum fragmenta collegit Ioannes ab Arnim. IA |
| Str(a). | = Strabo. Perseus |
| Struve, Opusc. Crit. | = Caroli Ludovici Struve opuscula selecta edidit Jacobus Theodorus Struve, Vol. 2. IA |
| Stud. u. Charact. | = Studien und Charakteristiken zur griechischen und römischen Literaturgeschichte, Teuffel. IA |
| Stud. z. Ges. d. Begr. | = Studien zur Geschichte der Begriffe. Teichmüller. IA |
| Suet. | = Suetonius. Perseus |
| Suid. | = Suidas. IA |
| Syll. | = Sylloge epigrammatum Graecorum, ex marmoribus et libris collegit et illustr. F.T. Welcker. IA |
| Syll. Insc. Boeot. | = Sylloge inscriptionum Boeoticarum, Keil. IA |
| Sync. | = Syncellus, ed. Dindorff. IA |
| Synes., Aeg. | = Synesios des Kyrenaeers Aegyptische Erzählungen über die Vorsehung: Griechisch und Deutsch, Krabinger. Hathi |
| System d. Vedânta | = Das System des Vedânta, Deussen. IA |
| Tab. Defix. | = Tabellae Defixionum ed. Wünsch (Appendix to CIA.). IA |
| Tac. | = Tacitus. Perseus |
| Tat. Gr. | = Tatian, Oratio ad Graecos. Hathi |
| Tert(ul). | = Tertullian. https://www.tertullian.org |
| Th. | = Thucydides. Perseus |
| Theb. Held. | = Thebanische Heldenlieder, Bethe. IA |
| Themist., de An. | = Themistius, In libros Aristotelis De anima paraphrasis .... IA |
| Theoc. | = Theocritus. Perseus |
| Theod. Met. Misc. | = Theodorus Metachites, Miscellanea philosophica et historica. IA |
| Theodoret. Gr. Aff. C. | = Theodoreti Graecarum affectionum curatio. IA [The reference is to page 207 of the IA version, edited by Raeder, in which it is chapter vii; it was sermo viii in Sylburg’s edition. I do not know what 599 is doing.] |
| Theogon. | = De Orphei Epimenidis Pherecydis theogoniis quaestiones critica, Kern. IA |
| Theol. Lehr. d. Gr. D(enker) | = Die theologischen Lehren der griechischen Denker, Krische. Hathi |
| Theol(ogum). Arith(m). | = Theologumena arithmeticae. IA |
| Theopomp. | = Theopompus. |
| Thgn. | = Theognis. IA |
| Thphr. | = Theophrastus. Perseus |
| Tibull. | = Tibullus. Perseus |
| Tim. Lex. | = Timaeus, Lexicon vocum Platonicarum, ed. Ruhnken. IA |
| Treb. Poll. | = Trebellius Pollio. Alleged author of part of the Historia Augusta. IA |
| Tylor | = Primitive Culture, Tylor, ed. 4. IA |
| Tyrt. | = Tyrtaeus, in PLG. above. |
| Tz. | = Tzetzes. On Lycophron, Google Books. on Homer, IA (details/tzetzaeallegori00pselgoog) |
| Val. Max. | = Valerius Maximus. Perseus |
| Verh. der Philologenvers. zu Rostock | = Verhandlungen der dreißigsten Versammlung deutscher Philologen und Schulmänner in Rostock vom 28. September bis 1. October 1875. IA |
| Verh. Wien. Philol. | = Verhandlungen der zweiundvierzigsten Versammlung deutscher Philologen und Schulmänner, Wien,
vom 24 bis 27 Mai, 1893. IA |
| Vg. | = Vergil. Perseus |
| Vitruv. | = Vitruvius. Perseus |
| V.M. | = Valerius Maximus. Perseus |
| Volksl. d. Neugr | = Das Volksleben der Neugriechen und das hellenische Alterthum, Schmidt. IA |
| Volksthüml. a. Schwaben | = Volksthümliches aus Schwaben, Birlinger, 2 vols. IA |
| Vors. | = Diels, Fragmente der Vorsokratiker ed. 4 (vol. i unless otherwise indicated). IA |
| Voy. en Perse | = Voyages du Chevalier Chardin en Perse, .... https://books.google.fr/books?id=lwgPAAAAQAAJ |
| W. (or Wachsm.) | = Wachsmuth, Curt. |
| West. | = Westermann, Antonius. |
| Woch. Klass. Phil. | = Wochenschrift für klassische Philologie. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Wyttenb. | = Wyttenbach. Most references are in IA |
| X. (or Xen.) | = Xenophon historicus. (HG. = Hellenica) Perseus |
| Xen. Eph. | = Xenophon of Ephesus. Perseus |
| Xen(ok). | = Xenokrates, Heinze. IA |
| Zeit Constantins d. G. | = Die Zeit Constantins des Grossen, Burckhardt. IA |
| Z. Ges. Wegebaus Gr. | = Zur Geschichte des Wegebaus bei den Griechen, Curtius. Hathi |
| Znb. (or Zenob.) | = Zenobius. IA |
| Zos. | = Zosimus. IA |
| Zschr. f. Ethnologie | = Zeitschrift für Ethnologie. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Ztsch. f. Gymn. | = Zeitschrift für das Gymnasial-Wesen, 1880 IA (details/sokrateszeitsch21berlgoog) |
| Ztschr. f. öst. Gymn. | = Zeitschrift für die östereichischen Gymnasien. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Ztschr. vergl. Sprachf. | = Zeitschrift für vergleichende Sprachforschung auf dem Gebiete der indogermanischen Sprachen. https://de.wikisource.org/wiki/ |
| Ztschr. Völkerpsych. | = Zeitschrift für Völkerpsychologie und Sprachwissenschaft. https://www.digi-hub.de/viewer/ppnresolver?id=BV041216885 |
| Zu d. gr(iech). Grabschr(iften) | = Zu den griechischen Grabschriften, Loch, in Festschrift für Ludwig Friedlånder, 275-295, 1895. IA |
. . . . . .