the father of Aphroditê, who were her husbands and her children? I doubt it; and when Homer introduces him to us, speaking of this life and of the higher powers that rule it, Eumaios knows only of just gods, who hate cruel deeds, but honour justice and the righteous works of men.'

In short, as the mythology grew more complicated, and in some parts more degrading, the ideas of morality and religion became more reasonable and more pure. If we turn to the Hesiodic 'Works and Days,' we find the poet bidding his friend to deal with all men according to the rule of righteousness which comes from Zeus, and telling him that justice and truth shall in the end prevail, that they who do evil to others inflict evil on themselves, that the eyes of God are in every place, that the way of evil is broad and smooth, and the path of good rough and narrow at first. But in the same poem we are told how Zeus bade the gods make Pandora fair to look upon, but evil within, and laughed at the thought of the miseries which should overtake mankind when all the evils should be let loose from her box, while, to crush them utterly, hope should remain a prisoner within it. If in relating such tales the poet was not conscious that the Zeus who thus cheats and torments mankind is not the Zeus who commands them to do justice and mercy, how is it possible to explain the fact that he can use the same name without a thought seemingly that he is dishonouring the just and holy god whom he reverences?

In these poems, then, we have a religion, and we have a mythology; but between the two there is an absolute severance. What grounds have we, therefore, for asserting that the case stands otherwise with the mythology and theology of the Iliad and the Odyssey? Writing before Mr. Gladstone's 'Homeric Studies' were given to the world, Professor Max Müller had expressed his deliberate opinion that among the lowest tribes of Africa and America we hardly find anything more hideous and revolting than the stories told of Kronos and his offspring; and he had added that 'it seems blasphemy to consider these fables of the heathen world as corrupted and misinterpreted fragments of a divine revelation once granted to the whole race of mankind.' By Mr. Gladstone's admission the expressions or figures by which these beliefs were imparted were at best only adumbrations of things to come, while, to prove his hypothesis, there is need of a never baffled Athênê, and of an Apollo 'who is alone and always in absolute harmony with the will of the eternal Zeus;' nor can this conclusion in its turn be established except by severing that myth in the Iliad or Odyssey from the same myth as exhibited in Greek lyric or tragic poetry. That this severance cannot be justified or warranted by the facts of the case, has been shown conclusively. Even in the Iliad Athênê is signally baffled in the conspiracy to

APPENDIX II.

361 dethrone Zeus, in which she is an accomplice with Hêrê and Poseidon; and if in the case of Apollo it was necessary to believe that there was an absolute harmony between himself and Zeus, of what practical avail would this belief be if it was confined to the author or authors of a single poem? This belief was certainly not shared by Euripides, who speaks of Zeus as smiting with his thunderbolt the son of Phoebus because he raised the dead. Elsewhere we are told that Phoebus, in his fierce wrath at the death of his son, smote the Kyklôpes (Cyclopes); that for this offence he was compelled to serve the Trojan Laomedon, who cheated him of his wages, and that then he found a more genial master, but a master still, in the Thessalian Admetos. That the dragon slain by him at Pytho had in the Achaian mind no connexion with the idea of human disobedience, and that it was simply one of the demons of drought slain by gods or heroes in all lands, we have already seen. So completely is the image of the Hellenic Phoebus opposed to the form which, confining his view to the Iliad and the Odyssey, Mr. Gladstone ascribes to it. But if the Olympian system falls to the ground, or if, rather, it would appear never to have had a substantial existence, the issue is one which surely brings into clearer light the action of the Divine Spirit on the soul of man. If Greek mythology was not the same thing as Greek religion, we can understand how the latter, as set forth in the Hesiodic poems and in the teaching of the great dramatists, rose steadily to a higher standard, while the former became more cumbrous, arbitrary, and repulsive in its complications. We can see in the one the working of the Spirit from whom all holy desires, all good counsels, and all just works proceed; in the other a necessary growth from forms of thought and language which had reference to the incessantly changing phenomena of the sensible world.

I may refer the reader who wishes to examine the subject more in detail, to the 'Mythology of the Aryan Nations.'

II.

THE HISTORICAL VALUE OF THE NIBELUNGENLIED.

COMPARATIVE mythologists have made no attempt to conceal the conclusion that the Volsunga Saga is mythical, or, in other words, that its chief, if not indeed all its incidents, can be traced to phrases which spoke originally of the phenomena of the outward world, and of these only; that these incidents are found in the myths of all Aryan lands; and that as the Volsung tale is itself a development of the Helgi Sagas, so the Nibelung story has grown up in the same way from that of the Volsungs, the later growth

being in its incidents not a whit more historical than the earliest. These inferences or conclusions are, it is now asserted, altogether upset, and the results of comparative mythology generally impugned, by the fact that some half-dozen names in the Nibelungenlied sound like the names of persons who lived in the fifth or sixth centuries of the Christian era. 'The story of Sigurd, the hero of the Edda,' we are told, with all the accessory characters, and all the adventures—a favourite example of the solar myth with the new school-is so closely imitated to all appearance in the Nibelungenlied, the great Gerinan epic composed centuries after it, that here if anywhere comparative mythology appears to have won a great victory. The names are the same, and the adventures very like. It would then follow necessarily that the later poem at all events (if not both) was mythical and not historical. But, strange to say, there is an historical basis for this later poem-an historical basis so certain, that not even the mythologers can gainsay it. Closely as the names appear to correspond to those of the Edda, they correspond just as closely to historical personages who lived after the Edda was known and referred to in literature. Sigurd represents Siegbert, king of Austrasia, 561-75 A.D. Gunther represents Gundicarius, king of Burgundy, in 435 A.D. So Brynhild, Irenfried, Dietrich, and Atli, are the reflexions of Brunehault, Hermannfried (Irminfried?), Theodoric, and Attila. Here then, where comparative mythology might possibly have explained everything; here, where, in default of other evidence, we should all have been quite content to accept its explanation, it is shown to be a false and delusive guide.' Mahaffy, Prolegomena to Ancient History,' p. 89.

What is the meaning of these propositions? The assertion that the Nibelung song has a sure historical basis would seem to justify the supposition that the song contained a certain amount of history-in other words, that it recorded a number of facts which were done by the men or women to whom they were attributed, and that these persons were known to be and can be proved to be historical. But these sentences are, beyond doubt, not intended to convey this meaning. It is admitted that the actors in the Nibelung tale were, speaking generally, the same as those of the men and women who play their part in the Volsung story, and that the adventures attributed to the former are very like those of the heroes of the latter. The historical basis (astonishing as it seems) is limited to the names. These correspond closely, we are told, to the names of some persons who lived about the fifth or sixth century, and as this resemblance of names cannot be denied, therefore the poem is historical. This is really equivalent to asserting that the Arthur romance would become an historical poem of the nineteenth century, if a version of it were published which for the

name of Arthur the British king should substitute that of Arthur Duke of Wellington. It would not be pretended that the actions of the duke were those of the Celtic chief; but if with his name a few other names should be given of contemporaries of the Duke of Wellington which correspond to those of the Arthur romance, the story would have an historical basis so certain that not even the mythologers could gainsay it. The argument is even more ridiculous, and, in the strict sense of the word, impertinent. Sigurd, or rather Siegfried, is said to represent the Austrasian king Siegbert; but he is the lover of Brynhild, who is the sister of Gunther or Gundicar, king of the Burgundians. They belong therefore to the same generation; but the Siegbert and Gundicar with which Mr. Mahaffy identifies them were separated by an interval of nearly a century and a half. If this throwing of dust into our eyes is to be suffered, probably no poem has ever been written which might not lay claim to a strictly historical character. The truth is that, in spite of the fancied resemblance of a few names which is not nearly so close as he represents it to be, Mr. Mahaffy puts no more trust in the narrative of the poem, as a history, than if these names were not found in it at all. He does not believe, nor does he pretend to believe, that the historical Gundicar or Siegbert or Attila did any of the things which in the poem they are said to have done. He merely wishes, on the strength of a certain resemblance of a very few amongst a multitude of names occurring in the same poem, to discredit the method and the conclusions of a science which has laid its foundations on the laws of language and on the analysis of a vast mass of myths which are the common inheritance of all the Aryan nations. The argument is scarcely ingenuous, nor can it be regarded as prompted by a disinterested love of truth.

We might therefore be justified in saying that further reply is uncalled for. But it may be well to show that Mr. Mahaffy's assertions have not even the poor significance which he claims for them. The question, beyond doubt, turns less on the names of the actors than on their careers; and of this fact it cannot be questioned that Mr. Mahaffy is well aware. If the series of deeds attributed to Sigurd and Etzel, Jörmunrek, and Gunnar, were done by Siegbert and Attila, Hermanric, and Gundicar, the tradition would certainly become historical; but, of course, Mr. Mahaffy does not pretend that this is the case. The resemblance and indeed the close correspondence of the Nibelung names to those which occur in the Saga of the Volsungs, is not denied; but it has been remarked that Jornandes, who wrote long before the murder of the Austrasian Siegbert, already knew the daughter of the mythic Sigurd, Swanhild, who was born, according to the Edda, after the murder of her father, and who was after

wards killed by Jörmunrek, whom the poem has again historicised in Hermanicus, a Gothic king of the fourth century.' (Max Müller, Chips from a German Workshop,' ii. 112.) If we had no other warrant for the inference, this resemblance of names would justify the surmise that popular tradition is tempted to assimilate the names of ancient heroes to those of persons living at the time when the tradition takes shape; and this surmise would not be weakened by the fact that the character of Etzel in the Nibelungenlied is utterly unlike that of the historical Attila. But this temptation was not confined to names. The epic poems of a nation may be regarded as giving a tolerably faithful picture of the society of the age in which they are composed; but the age of the Nibelungenlied was in manner and form of thought separated from the age of the Volsung story by no gulf which would render the task of adapting the poem to a later time a matter of any special difficulty. If any names in the Nibelungenlied reflect the names of historical persons of the fifth or later centuries of the Christian era (and even this is in a high degree doubtful), the utmost that can be said is that the names of some kings and queens and warriors of those times lent themselves easily to the purpose of the more modern poet; but this facility (even if we admit the fact) was purely accidental, and thus the resemblances of name impart no historical character to the poem, if by this term we mean a claim to credibility for the incidents related in the narratives. (Max Müller, Chips,' ii. 113.) That the colouring thrown over the poem should be made, so far as it was possible, to suit the political and social conditions of the age when it was composed, is in no way surprising: but so far as the incidents are concerned, it is no more than a colouring, and writers who would willingly trace the historical elements of the tale have found themselves compelled to admit that the real events noticed in the poem are very few in number.

The historical Attila had a brother whose name is given as Bleda. The Etzel of the Nibelung lay is the son of Bludi, or Budli, not his brother; and Bunsen has acknowledged the difficulty of making an expedition of Attila himself to the Rhine fit in with what we know of the history of those years. ("God in History,' ii. 478. See also 'Mythology of the Aryan Nations,' i. 289, note.) All that can be said is that the poet or poets of the Nibelung lay have adapted the names of the older legend to names of living or recently living persons, whenever it was possible to do so; that they have introduced some fresh names which were likewise borne by historical persons, and that they have further imparted to the story some appearance of agreement with great events of their own or of a recent age. Nor can the fidelity with which the poet adheres to the manners of his time be ascribed