SUPERNATURAL ELEMENTS IN THE HOMERIC POEMS.
In Chapter VI we saw that the heroic poetry of the Teutonic peoples
was very largely affected by folk-tales; that supernatural beings were
frequently introduced, while ordinary human beings or animals were
credited with supernatural properties--in short that the distinction
between natural and supernatural was not clearly drawn. We saw further
that these features were by no means confined to the later stages of
heroic poetry--that on the contrary some of them were prominent even
in the Anglo-Saxon poems, while the others appeared to be of equal
antiquity.
The same phenomena appear in Greek heroic poetry. Mythical beings and
features obviously derived from folk-tales figure quite as frequently
as in the Teutonic poems. Their presence is often regarded as a proof
that the stories into which they enter and the persons with whom they
are brought into contact are themselves products of myth or fiction.
This is a question with which we shall have to deal in the following
chapters. For the present it will be sufficient to quote what may be
regarded as a typical expression of the attitude of more cautious
scholars towards the problem of the story of Troy[385]: "It is
fantastic to treat the siege of Troy as merely a solar myth--to explain
the abduction of Helen by Paris as the extinction of the sunlight in
the West, and Troy as the region of the dawn beset and possessed by the
sunrise. It is equally fantastic, and more illogical, to follow the
rationalising method--to deduct the supernatural element, and claim
the whole residuum as historical fact. Homer says that Achilles slew
Hector with the aid of Athene. We are not entitled to omit Athene, and
still to affirm that Achilles slew Hector."
It may be observed that the gods are introduced in the Homeric poems in
many different ways. The incident just cited--where Athene takes the
form of Deiphobos (Il. XXII 226 ff.)--belongs to one of the commonest
types, and one which requires comparatively little imagination, if we
are prepared to grant the existence of a belief that the gods were
capable of disguising themselves in human form. Sometimes again deities
render themselves visible only to certain individuals out of a crowd,
as in Il. I 194 ff., where Athene intervenes in order to stay Achilles
from drawing his sword upon Agamemnon. Another type is the disguise of
gods as birds, as when we find Athene and Apollo sitting upon an oak in
the form of vultures, before the combat of Hector and Aias (_ib._ VII
58 ff.). On other occasions birds are sent by a god as a sign of his
favour or protection, as in Il. XXIV 315 ff. and many other passages.
Somewhat akin to this type is the dream sent by Zeus to Agamemnon in
Il. II 5 ff.
It has been remarked that in such cases as these a sceptical person
might have accounted for everything that passed without reference to
any intervention on the part of a deity. But there are a number of
other cases where the action is affected by gods in ways which could
not be accounted for on any rationalistic hypothesis. We may refer to
Il. III 380 ff., where Aphrodite snatches Paris away from Menelaos and
conveys him to his own house in Troy. Or again to several passages in
the Diomedeia where deities show themselves almost or quite without
disguise and even take an active part in the fighting. A still greater
amount of imagination perhaps is required for the scenes which depict
the quarrels and amusements of the gods in Olympos, and their schemes
for helping or destroying the combatants. It has been held that all
such passages as these belong to a later period than those of the less
imaginative types described above.
In Teutonic stories of the Heroic Age, as we have already seen, very
few notices relating to the gods have been preserved. The appearances
of Othin in Völsunga Saga (cf. p. 114) may be compared with those of
Apollo in the Iliad or Athene in the Odyssey; for his divinity is not
recognised at once, though he does not take the form of a person known
to his favourites. Again, though I know no exact Homeric parallel
to the incident in Sigmundr's last battle, when the hero's sword is
shattered at the touch of Othin's javelin, the idea is in complete
harmony with several passages in the Diomedeia (e.g. V 129 ff., 438
ff., VI 128 ff., 306 f.). It is true that we do not know whether these
incidents in Völsunga Saga are based on old tradition or not. But a
good parallel for the last of the Homeric types is furnished by the
Langobardic story of Wodan and Fria and the victory granted by them
to the Winniles (cf. p. 115). The similarity between this story and
the incident related of Zeus and Hera in Il. XIV 153-353 gives us
some ground for suspecting that the heathen poetry of the Teutonic
Heroic Age may have possessed decided 'Homeric' characteristics in its
treatment of the gods.
As the case stands however we shall have to take our illustrations from
stories of the Viking Age. A somewhat curious parallel to the incident
of Athene and Hector in Il. XXII 226 ff. is to be found in the story
of Haraldr Hilditönn, as told in Saxo's History, pp. 255, 263. Haraldr
had a confidential servant named Bruno, whom he employed to drive his
chariot and to carry messages to his nephew Ringo (Sigurðr Hringr).
This man eventually was drowned; but Othin took his place and form, and
exerted himself to sow discord between the two kings. It was not until
the battle at Bravalla had begun that Haraldr had any suspicion of the
treachery which had been played upon him. Then suddenly recognising
the identity of his charioteer he begged him to grant him victory. But
Othin threw him out of the chariot and slew him.
The story of Haraldr Hilditönn refers, it is true, to times for
which we have no historical records. But a still more graphic story
of intervention on the part of divine beings occurs in connection
with a well-known event--the expedition made against Norway by the
Jómsvíkingar. In the latter part of the tenth century a number of
Scandinavian adventurers had established and fortified a settlement at
Jómsborg on the island of Wollin at the mouth of the Oder. About the
year 994 their leaders, Sigvaldi and Búi, made a vow to attack Haakon,
earl of Lade, who then ruled Norway. The earl was taken by surprise
and had not been able to muster all his forces when he encountered the
hostile fleet at Hiörungavágr, near the mouth of the Romsdal Fjord.
The battle at first went against him; and, according to the story, he
took advantage of a respite in the fighting to retire to one of the
islands and pray to Thórgerðr Hölgabrúðr. He was not able to obtain
her assistance until he had sacrificed to her his youngest son. When
he resumed the fight, the weather, which had been hot, underwent a
complete change. A snow-storm came from the north and beat in the
faces of the pirates, so that they were numbed with the cold and could
neither move nor see. But worse was to come. "It is said that Hávarðr,
one of Búi's companions, was the first to see Thórgerðr in Haakon's
fleet; but soon she was seen by many, both those who had second sight
and those who had not. When the snow abated a little they saw also
that arrows were flying, as it seemed, from every one of the demon's
fingers, and each arrow brought about a man's death." Then they tell
Sigvaldi, who says: "It seems to me that we have got to fight today not
against men, but against the worst of devils." Still he continues the
fight. When Haakon saw that the snow was abating he cried with all his
might to Thórgerðr and her sister Irpa, reminding them how much he had
given up to them in sacrificing his son. Then the storm began again,
and soon Hávarðr saw two female figures on Haakon's ship, both acting
as the one had done previously. Then Sigvaldi said that he would now
take to flight and that all his men were to do likewise, for they had
made no vow to fight against devils[386].
Here also we may cite a story connected with another historical event,
which took place about ten years before the battle of Hiörungavágr.
Eric the Victorious, king of Sweden, expelled his nephew Styrbiörn from
the kingdom; and the latter invaded the country with the help of the
Danish king Harold Blue-tooth. On the eve of the battle Eric went into
Othin's temple and in order to obtain victory promised to give himself
up dead at the end of ten years. Soon afterwards he saw a big man
with a long hood, who put a cane into his hand and told him to throw
it over Styrbiörn's army saying: "You all belong to Othin." When he
threw the cane it seemed to turn into a javelin and brought blindness
upon Styrbiörn and all his host. On the same occasion Thor was seen
in Styrbiörn's camp[387]. Such cases are by no means isolated. Olafr
Tryggvason, who reigned over Norway from 995 to 1000, is said to have
been visited both by Othin and Thor[388].
Of dreams perhaps the most interesting case is a story told of an
Icelander named Glúmr, a contemporary of Earl Haakon of Lade. A
certain Thórkell possessed an estate which he was compelled to sell to
Glúmr. Before leaving he went to Frey's temple, sacrificed an ox and
prayed that Glúmr likewise might be forced to give up the estate. This
actually came to pass. But before he left, Glúmr dreamed that he saw a
great crowd on the river banks coming to see Frey, who was seated on
a chair. In his dream he asked who they were. They replied that they
were his departed relatives and that they were praying Frey that he
(Glúmr) should not be driven from his estate. But it was of no use;
Frey answered curtly and angrily, remembering the ox which Thórkell had
given him[389].
For the action of Homeric deities in sending birds as a mark of favour
or omen of success a good parallel is to be found in another incident
in the life of Earl Haakon of Lade. When Jutland was invaded by the
Emperor Otto II in 974 Harold Blue-tooth summoned Haakon to his
assistance. After the campaign the Danish king adopted Christianity
and compelled Haakon to do likewise. But the latter set off with his
fleet as soon as possible and, landing on the coast of Östergötland,
proceeded to offer a great sacrifice. Thereupon there came two ravens
flying by and screaming loud. The earl interpreted this as a sign that
Othin had accepted the sacrifice and that he would have a favourable
time for battle[390].
The importance of the last case is enhanced by the fact that it is
derived from a contemporary poem, the Vellekla (cf. p. 16), in which
the ravens are mentioned. In the other cases given above no such early
authority is extant, and our texts themselves are separated by a period
of from two to three centuries from the events which they relate. But
there is no reason for doubting that the stories had long been in
existence. It is questionable indeed whether the account of the battle
of Hiörungavágr could have been invented after all recollection of
Haakon and his religious observances had died away. The earl's devotion
to the worship of Thórgerðr Hölgabrúðr is known from other sources;
but she seems not to have been a generally recognised member of the
Northern Pantheon.
However that may be, no doubt can be entertained with regard to the
poem Hákonarmál, which deals with the death of King Haakon I at the
battle of Fitje in 961 (cf. p. 15). The author, Eyvindr Skaldaspillir,
was himself present at the battle. The poem relates how Göndul and
Skögul were sent by Othin to select a prince of Yngvi's line, who
should go and dwell with him in Valhöll. Then, after a short account of
the battle, we are told that "the princes sat with their swords drawn,
with scarred shields and mail-coats pierced; in no cheerful mood was
the host which had to make its way to Valhöll. Then said Göndul, as she
leaned upon her spear: 'Now will the forces of the gods be increased,
since they have summoned Haakon to their abodes with a great host.'
The prince heard what the noble Valkyries were saying. Thoughtful was
their mien, as they sat on their steeds, with helmets upon their heads
and holding their shields before them. 'Why hast thou thus decided the
battle, Skögul? Surely we have deserved success from the gods.' 'We
have brought it about that thou hast won the day and that thy foes
have fled. Now,' said the mighty Skögul, 'we must ride to the green
homes of the gods, to tell Othin that a monarch is coming to enter his
presence.'" Then the scene changes to Valhöll; and Othin sends Hermóðr
and Bragi out to meet the king and bid him welcome[391].
Such poems as Hákonarmál and Eiríksmál must be regarded as products of
vivid poetic imagination. They are clearly in the nature of conscious
fiction, though it should not be assumed that the pictures of the
gods and their abode which they present were conceptions altogether
unreal to the poets' audiences. I suppose that ultimately this type of
composition is derived from visions or dreams, such as the story of
Glúmr given above. For, though the latter in its present form dates
from a period at least two centuries later than Hákonarmál--both
referring to persons who lived more or less about the same time--it
will probably be agreed that the conception there is far more primitive.
Now we have good evidence that visions which took the form of visits
to the home of the gods did really obtain credence in the Viking Age.
When St Ansgar visited Sweden for the second time, not long after 850,
he found that the success of his mission was seriously endangered. A
man had come to Birca (Biörkö, on the Mälar), where the king, Olaf,
was residing, and stated that he had been present at an assembly
of the gods, who had sent him to deliver a message to the king and
nation. This was to the effect that the gods had long been gracious
to the Swedes and had preserved their land in peace and prosperity.
Yet now the Swedes were abandoning their accustomed sacrifices and
introducing a strange god. If they wished to retain their favour the
sacrifices must be resumed on a larger scale, and the new god must
be refused admittance. "But if you desire to have more gods, and we
are not sufficient for you, we unanimously enrol in our body Eric who
was formerly your king, so that he shall be counted among the gods."
This story created a profound impression among the inhabitants. "They
founded a temple in honour of the above-mentioned king, who had long
been dead, and began to offer prayers and sacrifices to him as a
god[392]."
The Life of St Ansgar, from which this story is taken, is practically a
contemporary authority. It was written by St Rembert, one of Ansgar's
disciples, who succeeded him as Archbishop of Hamburg in 865 and died
in 888. In face of such evidence we have no reason for doubting that
stories such as that of Glúmr would readily obtain credence. Indeed
it seems scarcely impossible that the doings of Thórgerðr Hölgabrúðr
at Hiörungavágr may have been believed by persons who were alive at
the time. Yet credulity was no special characteristic of the Northern
peoples. We learn from inscriptions that Asclepios was in the habit
of showing himself to pilgrims in his temple at Epidauros. Still
more striking evidence is furnished by Herodotus' story (I 60) that
Peisistratos recovered the tyranny at Athens by dressing up a woman
to personate Athene and accompanying her in a chariot to the city.
Herodotus himself remarks that this took place at a time when the
Greek race had long been distinguished from the rest of mankind by its
superior sagacity and freedom from silly credulity--and in a state too
which was held to be intellectually supreme among the Greeks. Whatever
doubt may be entertained as to the truth of the story it is significant
enough that Herodotus should record it, apparently without any
hesitation, in less than a century after Peisistratos' death. Some four
centuries earlier men may well have been ready to hear that the gods
took an active part in the battles of their fathers or grandfathers,
while the latter themselves may have been quite as ready to attribute
their success or failure to the disguised agency of the same powers.
It is clear at all events that the Scandinavian evidence fails to
provide any justification for the view that poems which introduce the
gods must date from times far removed from the events which they claim
to commemorate. In the contemporary Hákonarmál we find two of the most
advanced Homeric types. First, we have deities participating without
disguise in battle; then a change of scene carries us to the actual
home of the gods. The second scene in Hákonarmál--which is likewise the
scene of Eiríksmál--may be compared both with the various 'Olympic'
episodes and also with the two Nekyiai. For, since Othin is a god of
the dead, his abode corresponds in a sense both to Olympos and the
home of Hades. On the whole perhaps the nearest affinities of the two
Norwegian poems are with the second Nekyia (Od. XXIV 1-204), which is
commonly regarded as one of the latest portions of the Odyssey.
Lastly, the Scandinavian evidence gives no support to the belief that
the more imaginative types of divine intervention necessarily belong to
a later date than the others. In principle of course it may be admitted
that they are less primitive. But in Old Norse literature it so happens
that they occur in both earlier and more nearly contemporary works. The
explanation lies doubtless in the fact that the theological apparatus
of Norse poetry was fully developed before the time of our earliest
authorities. So far as I can see, there is no good reason for denying
that the same remark holds good for the Homeric poems. But if so it is
futile to use evidence of this kind as a criterion for determining the
date of the various portions.
* * * * *
Monsters and theriomorphic demons are by no means unknown in Greek
heroic stories, though in the poems which have come down to us they
figure prominently only in episodes dealing with past events. The
nearest Homeric analogies to Beowulf's adventures are perhaps to be
found in the stories of Bellerophon and Meleagros[393] (Il. VI 178 ff.;
IX 538 ff.). It may be that these stories and others, such as that of
Perseus, themselves once formed the main themes of heroic poems, and
that the backward position which they ultimately came to occupy, as
compared with stories of anthropomorphic deities, is due to the growth
of poetic art and humanistic tendencies. But on the other hand we have
to remember that heroic poetry is always liable to the intrusion of
folk-tales, in which adventures with monsters form one of the favourite
themes.
The chief store-house of folk-tales in the Homeric poems is the
narrative of his adventures given by Odysseus to the Phaeacians (Od.
IX-XII). This narrative contains a considerable number of incidents, of
which ten may be regarded as more or less distinct: (i) the encounter
with the Cicones, (ii) the visit to the land of the Lotus-eaters, (iii)
the adventure with Polyphemos, (iv) the two visits to Aiolos, (v) the
disaster in the land of the Laistrygones, (vi) the two visits to Circe,
(vii) the journey to the home of Hades, (viii) the singing of the
Sirens, (ix) the adventure with Scylla and Charybdis, (x) the slaughter
of the cattle of Helios.
The first of these incidents bears no obvious traces of derivation or
influence from a folk-tale; but it is the only one of the series of
which this can be stated with any confidence. The adventures with the
Lotus-eaters and the Laistrygones should perhaps be regarded rather as
travellers' stories--founded possibly on actual experience of foreign
peoples--yet the latter at least contains certain distorted features
which may fairly bring it within our category. As to the origin of the
adventure with Polyphemos there can be little doubt. It appears to be
found with slight variants in many different parts of the world[394].
The last incident of the series is perhaps the one least widely known;
but a parallel may be cited from one of Saxo's stories (p. 286 f.). A
certain Danish king named Gormo[395] was an ardent explorer. Above all
he desired to visit the abode of Geruthus (Geirröðr), which lay beyond
the ocean in a land of perpetual darkness. Taking with him as guide an
experienced traveller, named Thorkillus, he set sail with three ships
and made his way beyond Halogaland (the north of Norway). There, having
lost its way in a storm, the expedition came to be in want of food.
Eventually they arrived at an island which contained herds of extremely
tame cattle. Against the advice of Thorkillus the mariners slaughtered
a large number of these. The following night they were attacked by
monsters, one of whom declared that they would not be allowed to sail
away until they made compensation for the losses they had inflicted on
the herd of the gods. In order to save themselves they had to give up
one man from each ship.
It will be seen that this incident bears a general resemblance to the
slaughtering of the cattle of Helios, and we need scarcely hesitate
to regard both stories as variant forms of a folk-tale. As to its
origin we are not altogether without evidence in the Northern case. In
Alcuin's _Vita Willebrordi_, I cap. 10, it is stated that a certain
island (now Heligoland) was entirely sacred to a god named Fosite.
So great was the sanctity with which it was regarded that no one
ventured to touch any of the animals which grazed upon the island. The
violation of the sanctuary, in this and other respects, cost one of St
Willebrord's companions his life. Hence there is no need to doubt that
a basis of fact underlies the stories of islands in which animal life
was held sacred--just as in holy woods throughout the north of Europe.
It is scarcely impossible that similar island sanctuaries may once have
been known in the Mediterranean.
The subsequent course of the story has a certain affinity with that
of Circe. After leaving the island Gormo and his men sailed in safety
to the farther part of Permland, where they were met by a giant named
Guthmundus[396], the brother of Geruthus, who invited them to his
house. Thorkillus strictly enjoined his companions to abstain from all
food and drink offered them, even from the fruits which grew in the
garden, and to avoid contact with members of the household. Those who
yielded to temptation, as a few eventually did, would have to spend the
rest of their lives among monsters. There is no actual transformation
as in the story of Circe; but this in itself is a widely known incident
in folk-tales.
When the travellers at length reach the abode of Geruthus the scene,
though horrible in every way, seems to be a variety of the Enchanted
Castle rather than a parallel to the home of Hades[397]. We have
seen above that the poems Hákonarmál and Eiríksmál may in a sense be
compared with the two Nekyiai; for Valhöll is the abode not only of
the chief god but also of the spirits of fallen warriors. But here
we have to deal with elaborate conceptions of court poetry which are
further removed from the spirit of the true folk-tale than either of
the passages in the Odyssey[398]. A better parallel to the first Nekyia
is perhaps to be found in another of Saxo's stories (p. 31). Once upon
a time, when King Hadingus was feasting, there appeared to him a woman
who was carrying hemlocks. She wrapped him in her mantle and took him
with her underground in order to show him where the hemlocks grew. On
the way they passed through a dark cloud and then along a well-worn
path, where they saw many men richly attired. After viewing the sunny
regions where the hemlocks grew, they crossed a rapid river and then
saw two armies engaged in desperate conflict. The woman told Hadingus
that these were men who had been slain by the sword and continually
rehearsed the manner of their death. They are obviously to be connected
with the _einheriar_ of Old Norse poetry--the slain warriors who dwell
in Valhöll and spend their days in combat--though possibly this passage
represents a more primitive form of the idea. It is to be observed that
Saxo himself explicitly interprets the story as a visit to the region
of the dead.
Stories of this kind are to be found in many parts of the world--among
peoples as widely apart as the Algonquins, the Zulus and the
Maoris[399]. There can be little doubt that to a large extent the first
Nekyia belongs to the same category. At the same time of course I do
not mean to imply that it is wholly to be regarded as a folk-tale.
In the interview with Agamemnon and his companions (vv. 385-564) we
find ourselves in much the same world of ideas as is presented to us
in Eiríksmál and Hákonarmál. Again, it is to be remembered that the
object of Odysseus' journey was to consult the spirit of Teiresias, and
this is perhaps the original kernel of the story. Such an idea however
may be derived from ancient religious observances rather than from a
folk-tale. Herodotus (V 92) records that Periandros, tyrant of Corinth,
about the close of the sixth century, sent an embassy to the oracle of
the dead (νεκυομαντήϊον) on the river Acheron in Thesprotis, in order
to consult the spirit of his wife Melissa. After making all allowance
for antiquarian and etymological speculation[400] it seems probable
that this oracle did influence the conceptions of the home of the dead
current in Greek poetry.
It would appear then that in the composition of the first Nekyia we
have to take account of the influence of at least three different
elements--court poetry, folk-tale and religious (necromantic)
observances. If we are right in supposing that Aeolis was the true
home of all Homeric poetry, the absence of any precise geographical
indications is easily accounted for. During the centuries which
intervened between the end of the Heroic Age and the beginning of
the historical period there is extremely little evidence, whether
traditional or archaeological, for communication with distant lands;
and it is likely enough that at that time Thesprotis was as unfamiliar
as Egypt to the inhabitants of Aeolis. Few scholars will dispute
that the geographical indications throughout the story of Odysseus'
wanderings are both vague and contradictory. Sometimes he appears
to be in the west; sometimes again he is following the track of the
Argo--presumably in the Black Sea. That is after all the kind of
confusion which might reasonably be expected from poets who were
dealing with traditions of voyages made long before in regions now
altogether forgotten.
* * * * *
The ascription of supernatural properties to men or animals is not a
very striking feature in Homeric poetry--unless we include under this
head stories of exaggerated prowess. As an example we may cite Il.
XIX 404 ff., where one of Achilles' horses speaks and prophesies his
master's death. Incidents such as the flame on the same hero's head in
Il. XVIII 205 ff. and the changes in Odysseus' appearance (Od. XIII 429
ff., etc.) are attributed to the direct action of deities. On the other
hand exaggeration is common and often carried out systematically. Among
such cases we must include the feats of valour performed by some of the
combatants, and also presumably the numbers of the forces stated in the
catalogues, if we admit that the story of the siege of Troy has any
historical foundation.
On the whole it appears that those elements in the Homeric poems
which may quite safely be derived from myth or folk-tale resemble
the corresponding elements in Teutonic heroic poetry very closely.
We may perhaps doubt whether the gods ever figured so conspicuously
in Teutonic poetry as they do in the Iliad and Odyssey; but the
difference between the two cases is one of degree only. In the use made
of folk-tales the difference is very slight. It remains for us now
to consider whether the remaining elements in the poems--their main
groundwork in fact--should be regarded as of similar origin in both
cases.
FOOTNOTES:
[385] Jebb, _Introduction to Homer_, p. 147.
[386] Jómsvíkinga Saga, cap. 44 (Fornmanna Sögur, XI p. 136 ff.);
Flateyiarbók, I 191 f. Snorri gives a different account of the battle
in the Heimskringla (Olafs S. Tryggv. 43 ff.); but he was acquainted
with at least part of the story given above.
[387] Styrbiarnar Tháttr, cap. 2 (Fornm. Sög., V p. 250).
[388] Olafs S. Tryggv. A (Heimskr.), cap. 71; Olafs S. Tryggv. B, cap.
213 (Fornm. Sög., II p. 182 f.).
[389] Víga-Glúms Saga, cap. 9, 26.
[390] Olafs S. Tryggv. (Heimskr.), cap. 27 f.
[391] This latter part of the poem is copied from Eiríksmál (cf. p.
15), in which Othin sends out Sigmundr and Sinfiötli to meet Eiríkr. We
do not know either the date or the author of Eiríksmál; but it would
seem from the Saxon Chronicle that Eiríkr was still alive about the
year 954.
[392] _Porro, si etiam plures deos habere desideratis, et uobis non
sufficimus, Ericum, quondam regem uestrum, nos unanimes in collegium
nostrum asciscimus, ut sit unus de numero deorum.... Nam et templum in
honore supradicti regis dudum defuncti statuerunt, et ipsi tanquam deo
uota et sacrificia offerre coeperunt._ Rembertus, _Vita S. Anscharii_,
cap. 23.
[393] The first stage in the growth of such a story as this may be
illustrated from the message of the Mysians given by Herodotus, I 36.
The development which it may ultimately attain can be seen from the
story of Kilhwch and Olwen.
[394] Cf. Macculloch, _The Childhood of Fiction_, p. 279 ff.
[395] The historical connections of this story are somewhat obscure.
But this is immaterial for our purpose, as the part with which we are
dealing is clearly derived from folk-tales.
[396] Guðmundr of Glæsisvellir is a well-known figure in the
unhistorical parts of sagas.
[397] A better parallel is perhaps furnished by Thorkillus' subsequent
visit to the abode of Ugarthilocus (p. 292 ff.). The description of
this place recalls that of Náströnd in Völuspá 39, Gylfaginning, cap.
52.
[398] The home of Hades resembles the abode of Hel rather than Valhöll.
To this also we have a visit (by the god Hermóðr) in Gylf. 49.
[399] Cf. Tylor, _Primitive Culture_⁴, I p. 346, II p. 50 ff.
[400] As seen (e.g.) in the application of the name Κωκυτός to a
tributary of the Acheron. The presumption is that this name was
originally a creation of poetic fancy, just as much as Πυριφλεγέθων.
The diffusion of the names Acheron and Acherusia in other regions
(Italy, the Black Sea, etc.) is doubtless due to the influence of
poetry or tradition.