vast fabric of mythology. All the expressions which had attached a living force to natural objects would remain as the description of living and anthropomorphous gods. Every word would become an attribute, and all ideas once grouped round a single object would branch off into distinct personifications. The sun had been the lord of light, the driver of the chariot of the day; he had toiled and laboured for the sons of men, and sunk down to rest, after a hard battle, in the evening. But now the lord of light would be Phoibos Apollon, while Helios would remain enthroned in his fiery chariot, and his toils and labours and death-struggles would be transferred to Heraklês. The violet clouds which greet his rising and his setting would now be represented by herds of cows which feed in earthly pastures. There would be other expressions which would still remain as floating phrases, not attached to any definite deities. These would gradually be converted into incidents in the life of heroes, and be woven at length into systematic narratives. Finally these gods or heroes, and the incidents of their mythical career, would receive each "a local habitation and a "name." These would remain as genuine history, when the origin and the meaning of the words had been either wholly or in part forgotten.'

At the outset of his long chapter On the Diffusion of Myths,' Mr. Cox has the following passage relating to what he regards as the common element in solar myths:

'We can scarcely read the legends of Heraklês and Dêmêtêr, of Theseus, Kadmos, Perseus, and a host of other mythical heroes, without feeling that a few simple phrases might well have supplied the germ for the most intricate of these traditions. Every incident in the myth of the Eleusinian Dêmêtêr may be accounted for, if only men once said (with the conviction that the things of which they spoke had a conscious life), "The earth mourns for the dead summer. The "summer lies shut up in the prison of Hades the unseen,"—or, as in the language of the Northman, "She sleeps in the land of the Niflungs, the "cold mists, guarded by the serpent Fafnir; and the dwarf Andvari 66 keeps watch over her buried treasures." The tale of Endymion seems to speak for itself: "The moon comes to gaze on her beloved, "the sun, as he lies down to sleep in the evening." In the story of Niobê we seem to see the sun in his scorching power consuming those who dare to face his dazzling brightness; in that of Orpheus, we seem to hear his lamentation for the beautiful evening which has been stung by the serpent of the night, and which he brings back to life only to lose her at the gates of day. In the myth of Europê we have the journey of the sun from the far East to the Western land, until Têlephassa, the far-shining, sinks down wearied on the Thessalian plain. Still more transparent appear the tales of Kephalos and Daphnê. Prokris, even in the mouth of the Greek, is still the child of Hersê, the dew; Eôs is still the morning; Kephalos still the head of the bright sun. Daphnê we seem to behold the dawn flying from her lover and shrinking before his splendour. In the Homeric Hymn, Lêtô, the night, dark and still as death, promises that Phoibos shall long abide in Delos,

In

the bright land. Doubtless she made the same promise to Lykians, Argives, Arkadians, Athenians, and all others who called themselves the children of the light; but the sun cannot tarry, and in spite of her plighted word he hastens onward to slay the serpent of darkness. In Herakles we see the sun in other guise, loving and beloved wherever he goes, seeking to benefit the sons of men, yet sometimes harming them in the exuberance of his boisterous strength. In the tale of Althaia we read the sentence that the bright sun must die when the torch of day is burnt out. In Phaethon we seem to see the plague of drought which made men say, "Surely another, who cannot guide the "horses, is driving the chariot of the sun." The beautiful herds, which the bright and glistening daughters of early morning feed in the pastures of Thrinakid, seem to tell us of the violet-coloured clouds which the dawn spreads over the fields of the blue sky. In Bellerophon, as in Perseus, Theseus, Phoibos, and Heraklês, we find again the burden laid on the sun, who must toil for others, although the forms of that toil may vary. Perseus goes to the dwelling of the Graiai, as men might have said, "The sun has departed to the land of the pale gloam"ing." When Perseus slays Medousa, the sun has killed the night in its solemn and death-like beauty, while the wild pursuit of the immortal Gorgons seems to be the chase of darkness after the bright sun, who, with his golden sandals, just escapes their grasp as he soars into the peaceful morning sky, the Hyperborean gardens, which sorrow, strife, and death can never enter. In the death of Akrisios we have the old tale which comes up in many another legend, where Oidipous and Theseus mourn that they have unwittingly slain their fathers.'

Here it will be seen that in Mr. Cox's strongly-prepossessed imagination a few simple phrases' are deemed sufficient to explain the complex and highly-organised creations of Greek mythology. These phrases are found in the Vedic hymns-the oldest monument of Sanskrit we possess, which Mr. Cox, in common with the supporters of the same theory, regards as solving the great riddle of mythology, as at once 'disclosing its most hidden treasures.' But the attempted proof of this position will hardly be satisfactory to those who look for definite evidence in support of novel views, and are accustomed to scrutinise it with care. Out of more than three hundred pages which Mr. Cox devotes to the exposition of his theory, about three are given to the proof of its cardinal position, and we must say, that considering the importance of the topic, they are amongst the least satisfactory pages in the volumes. Referring to the Vedic hymns of the Mantra period. for authoritative proof of the main positions of the Aryan theory, Mr. Cox says:

'When, therefore, in these hymns, Kephalos, Prokris, Hermes, Daphnê, Zeus, Ouranos stand forth as simple names for the sun, the dew, the wind, the heaven and the sky, each recognised as such, yet

each endowed with the most perfect consciousness, we feel that the great riddle of mythology is solved, and that we no longer lack the key which shall disclose its most hidden treasures. When we hear the people saying, "Our friend the sun is dead. Will he rise? Will the dawn come back again?" we see the death of Heraklês, and the weary waiting while Lêtô struggles with the birth of Phoibos. When, on the return of day, we hear the cry, "Rise! our life, our spirit is come back, the darkness is gone, the light draws near!" we are carried at once to the Homeric hymn, and we hear the joyous shout of all the gods when Phoibos springs to life and light on Delos. The tale of Urvasî and Purûravas (these are still the morning and the sun) is the tale of Orpheus and Eurydikê. Purûravas, in his dreary search, hears the voice of Urvasî saying, "I am gone like the first of the "dawns; I am hard to be caught, like the wind." Yet she will come back to him at the close of the night, and a son bright and beaming shall be born to them. Varuna is still the wide heaven, the god "who can be seen by all;" the lord of the whole earth: but in him we recognise at once the Greek Ouranos, who looks lovingly on Gaia from his throne in the sky. Yet more, we read the praises of Indra, and his great exploit in that "He has struck the daughter of Dyaus (Zeus), a woman difficult to vanquish!-Yes even the daughter of Dyaus, the "magnified, the Dawn, thou O Indra, a great hero hast ground to pieces. The Dawn rushed off from her crushed car, fearing that "Indra, the bull, might strike her. Thus her car lay there, well "ground to pieces: she went far away." The treatment is rude, but we have here not merely the whole story of Dauphnê, but the germ of that of Europê borne by that same bull across the sea. More commonly, however, the dawn is spoken of as bright, fair, and loving, the joy of all who behold her. . . . Still more remarkably, as exhibiting the germs of the ideas which find their embodiment in the Hellenic Athenê and the Latin Minerva, is the following hymn: "The wise "priests celebrate with hymns the divine, bright-charioted, expanded "Dawn; worshipped with holy worship, purple-tinted, radiant, leading on the sun. The lovely Dawn, arousing man, goes before the sun, preparing practicable paths, riding in a spacious chariot; expanding "everywhere she diffuses light at the commencement of the days. "Harnessing the purple oxen to her car, unwearied she renders riches "perpetual; a goddess praised of many, and cherished by all, she shines. "manifesting the paths that lead to good. Lucidly white is she, occu"pying the two regions (the upper and middle firmament), and mani"festing her person from the East: she traverses the path of the sun, "as if knowing (his course), and harms not the quarters of the horizon. "Exhibiting her person like a well-attired female, she stands before "our eyes (gracefully) inclining like (a woman who has been) bathing "(Aphroditê Anadyomenê). Dispersing the hostile glooms, Ushas, "the daughter of heaven, comes with radiance. Ushas, the daughter "of heaven, tending to the West, puts forth her beauty like a (well"dressed) woman; bestowing precious treasures on the offerer of "adoration, she, ever youthful, brings back the light as of old." We can but wonder at the marvellous exuberance of language, almost every

expression of which may manifestly serve as the germ of a mythical tale.'

In this extract, what will most strike ordinary readers is perhaps Mr. Cox's power of unconsciously reading into the lines the meaning he wants to find there. Excepting about a dozen short sentences from other hymns describing the dawn, this is all the direct evidence adduced by Mr. Cox to prove that the whole Greek Pantheon, the entire mythology of Aryan people indeed, is to be found in germ and substance in these hymns. Yet so Yet so completely satisfied is he with the evidence, that immediately after giving the verses we have quoted, he bursts forth in the following rapturous and triumphant

strain :—

every

Thus the great mystery of Greek as of other mythology is dispelled like mist from the mountain-side at the rising of the sun. All that is beautiful in it is invested with a purer radiance, while much, if not all, that is gross and coarse in it is refined, or else its grossness is traced to an origin which reflects no disgrace on those who formed or handed down the tale. Thus with the keynote ringing in our ears, we can catch at once every strain that belongs to the ancient harmony, although it may be heard within the din of many discordant voices.'

If the greater number of Greek legends have thus been reduced to their primitive elements, the touch of the same wand will lay open others which may seem to have been fashioned on quite another model. Even the dynastic legends of Thebes will not resist the method which has disclosed so many secrets. For most other tales the work is done. There is absolutely nothing left for further analysis in the stories of Orpheus and Eurydikê, of Kephalos and Prokris, of Selênê and Endymion, Niobê and Lêtô, Dêmêtêr and Persephonê, Kadmos and Europê, Daphnê and Apollôn. Not an incident remains unexplained in the legends of Heraklês, of Althaia and the burning brand, of Phaethon, Memnon, and Bellerophôn. If there are bypaths in the stories of Ariadnê, Medeia, Semelê, Prometheus, or of the cows of the sun in the Odyssey, they have been followed up to the point from which they all diverge.'

This is sufficiently sweeping. But Mr. Cox is so enamoured with the new theory of interpretation that he extends it to literature as well as mythology, and in the preface directs special attention to the novelty as a contribution of his own to the new science. An outline of Mr. Cox's general views would be incomplete without some notice of his extension of the physical theory to the great European epics. On this point he says:

Of one fact, the importance of which if it be well ascertained can scarcely be exaggerated, I venture to claim the discovery. I am not

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aware that the great writers who have traced the wonderful parallelisms in the myths of the Aryan world have asserted that the epic poems of the Aryan nations are simply different versions of one and the same story, and that this story has its origin in the phenomena of the natural world, and the course of the day and the year. This proposition is, in my belief, established by an amount of evidence which not long hence will probably be regarded as excessive.' . . .

.....

The great epic poems of the Aryan race sprang into existence in the ages which followed the dispersion of the tribes, and during which all intercourse between them was an impossibility; yet these epic poems exhibit an identical framework, with resemblances in detail which even defy the influences of climate and scenery. . . . . . But if the story of Achilleus, as told in the Iliad, is only another form of the legend which relates the career of the Ithakan chief in the Odyssey; if this tale reappears in the Saga of the Vorsungs and the Nibelungen Lied, in the epical cycles of Arthur and Charlemagne, in the lay of Beowulf and the Shahrameh of Firdusi, and if, further, all these streams of popular poetry can be traced back to a common source in phrases which described the sights and sounds of the outward world, the resemblances thus traced are nevertheless by no means so astonishing as the likeness which runs through a vast number of the popular tales of Germany and Scandinavia, of Greece and Rome, of Persia and Hindustan. On the hypothesis of a form of thought which attributed conscious life to all physical objects, we must at once admit that the growth of a vast number of cognate legends was inevitable. Nor is there anything bewildering in the fact that phrases which denoted at first the death of the dawn, or her desertion by the sun as he rose in the heavens, or the stealing away of the evening light by the powers of darkness, should give birth to the legends of Helen and Guenevere, of Brynhild and Gudrun, of Paris and of Lancelot, of Achilleus and Sigurd. All that this theory involves is that certain races of mankind, or certain tribes of the same race, were separated from each other while their language still invested all sensible things with a personal life, and that when the meaning of the old words were either wholly or in part forgotten, the phenomena of the earth and the heavens reappeared as beings human or divine, and the Pani, or Night, which sought to lure Saramâ, the Dawn, into his dismal cave, became the Paris who beguiled Helen to Troy, and the Lancelot who corrupted

the faith of the wife of Arthur.'

These extracts indicate the general theory of the comparative mythologists, and its extended application in Mr. Cox's hands. As we have already intimated, the theory appears to us justly exposed to a good deal of adverse criticism. It would, however, be unfair not to recognise what is really good in the method and point of view of its supporters. They have undoubtedly rendered a service to the history of civilisation by their way of looking at the whole subject. Instead of regarding mythology as a hopeless riddle, as a mere heap of con