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 (?e???a?t????) 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.