Jean-Jacques Rousseau (c. 1712-1778)
“Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains.”
Many ancient philosophical writers from Greece and the Roman Empire had reservations and questions about the worldview that was proposed to them by their culture’s folklore and religion. In an age when belief in all manner of monsters and supernatural creatures was rampant, a number of philosophers, historians, and similarly-minded authors wrote skeptically about the fantastical elements from their ancestral tales, especially the far-fetched monstrosities that were featured in the old stories. One such critic of the folkloric worldview of the time was the satirist, Lucian of Samosata (c. 120-180+), who publicly wrote against believing in mythical beasts. A while before Lucian’s time, a similar situation occurred with the Greek-Sicilian historian, Diodorus Siculus, (c. 1st century BCE), who made an interesting approach with mythological subjects—he siphoned away the divine and fantastical elements of the ancient myths but claimed they were inspired by real events. For instance, he proposed that dragons and fire-breathing bulls featured in the Jason and the Argonauts legends may have evolved from names of actual ancient Black Sea region people, whose exotic names were morphed into monsters by storytellers. Lucian of Samosata, for his part, was even more skeptical of monsters than Diodorus. Lucian wrote, “just like Hippocentaurs and Chimaeras and Gorgons, and all other creations of dreams and unfettered imaginings of poets and painters, things that never existed and couldn’t exist. Yet most people believe them, and are charmed by seeing or hearing such things because they are strange and outlandish” (Lucian, Hermotimus or On Philosophical Schools, section 72). As the quote conveys, Lucian of Samosata agreed that monsters were likely the creation of storytelling, but, unlike Diodorus, Lucian was less willing to believe that monsters had any basis in history or reality.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Cropped section of Perseus and Andromeda in landscape, from the imperial villa at Boscotrecase, dated last decade of the 1st century BCE, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and the MET).
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This illustration, labeled “Runokuvitus, Der Zauberlehrling” in the Finnish National Gallery, was created by the German artist Johann Baptist Sonderland (c. 1805-1878). Sonderland’s artwork and its title reference the poem, Der Zauberlehrling, by the famous German writer, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (c. 1749-1832). The poem featured the cautionary tale of the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, warning against prematurely utilizing abilities that are not fully understood. Curiously, the tale that inspired Goethe’s poem dates all the way back to ancient Rome. Lucian of Samosata (c. 120-180) wrote down the first known iteration of the Sorcerer’s Apprentice tale, featuring the well-known scene of a magician casting a spell to bring to life common house tools, such as brooms, and compelling them to fetch water and do other household chores. Lucian, narrating as the apprentice, commented on this, stating, “whenever we came to a lodging-place, he would take the bar of the door or a broom or even the pestle, dress it in clothes, utter a spell and make it walk, looking to everyone else like a man. Then it would go off, draw water, buy food, prepare meals, and in everything serve and wait on us dexterously” (Lucian, Lovers of Lies or The Skeptic, section 35). This display of the sorcerer’s power is what inspired the artwork above. Nevertheless, as it is a cautionary tale, something eventually went wrong. As the famous tale goes, the apprentice memorized the words of the magic spell and decided to try out the trick alone after the sorcerer left for an errand. Upon carrying out the magical ritual, the unfortunate apprentice realized that he had never learned how to undo the spell, and the result was that the sorcerer’s house was flooded with water fetched by the unceasing magically-animated servants. Eventually, the sorcerer returned, and with palpable disappointment, the magician undid the spell and promptly abandoned the apprentice.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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John Jay (c. 1745-1829)
“It has until lately been a received and uncontradicted opinion, that the prosperity of the people of America depended on their continuing firmly united, and the wishes, prayers, and efforts of our best and wisest citizens have been constantly directed to that object. But politicians now appear, who insist that this opinion is erroneous and that instead of looking for safety and happiness in union, we ought to seek it in a division…”
Theodore Roosevelt, while ranching in the Dakota Territory between 1884 and 1886, had an acquaintance on a nearby tract of land whose cattle ranch was plagued by a large and aggressive bear. When the bear slaughtered a big bull and left the carcass near the man’s ranch house, the ranchman finally decided to get revenge on the predatory beast. Believing the bear would come back to continue eating whatever was left on the bull’s carcass, the ranchman laced the animal’s body with poison and then hoped for the best. On this topic, Theodore Roosevelt wrote, “A large bear will make short work of a bull: a few months ago one of the former killed a very big bull near a ranch house a score of miles or so distant, and during one night tore up and devoured a large part of his victim. The ranchman poisoned the carcass and killed the bear” (Theodore Roosevelt, Ranch Life and the Hunting Trail, chapter 3). According to Roosevelt’s tale, the ranchman’s poisoning plot was successful, and the killer bear (or some unfortunate passerby) was slain by the tampered remains.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribute: (Theodore Roosevelt as a Rough-Rider at Tampa, Florida, dated c. 1903, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons and Ajuntament de Girona).
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This painting, by the Italian artist Pietro Paolini (c. 1603 – 1681), was inspired by a peculiar myth about Achilles’ recruitment into the Trojan War. As the story goes, Achilles’ parents—the Nereid nymph Thetis and King Peleus of the Myrmidons at Phthia—received a prophecy that their son would die in the Trojan War. Horrified by this oracle, the worried parents decided to hide their son from the Greek recruiters who were mobilizing the might of Greece for war. To achieve their objective, Peleus and Thetis smuggled Achilles to King Lycomedes on the island of Scyros, where they hoped to disguise Achilles as a woman and hide him among Lycomedes’ large household of daughters. There, Achilles’ parents hoped that their costumed son could blend in with the princesses at Scyros and avoid the war. The ploy worked for a time, and it might have succeeded in the long run, too, had cunning and observant Odysseus not been the recruiter searching for Achilles. A scholar known as Pseudo-Apollodorus (c. 1st-2nd century) summarized the ancient accounts of the tale:
“When Achilles was nine years old, Calchas declared that Troy could not be taken without him, but Thetis—who knew in advance that he was fated to be killed if he joined the expedition—disguised him in women’s clothing and entrusted him to Lycomedes in the semblance of a young girl…Achilles’ whereabouts were betrayed, however, and Odysseus, searching for him at the court of Lycomedes, discovered him by causing a trumpet to be sounded. And so it came that Achilles went to Troy” (Apollodorus, Library, 3.13.8).
It is this myth that is playing out in the painting above. It either shows Achilles relinquishing his weapons and armor as he is being originally disguised in womanly clothing by Lycomedes’ household. Or, perhaps, it shows Achilles taking up his sword and shield once again after being discovered by Odysseus. Whatever the case, it is this myth of Achilles at Scyros that the painting depicts.
While the tale of Achilles with the daughters of Lycomedes was a popular story, there were competing narratives. Most notably, Homer wrote a totally different story in The Iliad, in which an undisguised Achilles eagerly and excitedly accepted Odysseus’ invitation to join the Trojan War. Homer wrote a scene where the character, Nestor, reminisced about recruiting Achilles and his friend Patroclus, saying, “We had come to Phthia and the welcoming palace of Achilles’ father Peleus to recruit troops…At that moment, Odysseus and I appeared at the gate. Achilles was amazed and sprang to his feet, took us by the hand, brought us in…I began to speak, urging you [Patroclus] and Achilles to join us. You were more than willing, and your fathers both started giving you advice” (Homer, The Iliad, book 11, approximately lines 770-780). Nevertheless, Pietro Paolini (c. 1603 – 1681) and many other artists obviously rejected Homer’s version of Achilles’ recruitment, and instead opted for the alternative tale of Achilles being discovered among Lycomedes’ daughters.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Franz Kafka (c. 1883-1924)
“You have never really had any contact with our authorities. All these contacts are only apparent, but because of your ignorance of the circumstances you take them to be real.”
According to a peculiar strain of ancient Roman folklore, it was believed that supernatural hags and nefarious witches treasured for their potions a suspicious substance known as hippomanes, which can be translated to horse-frenzy or “mare madness.” As the words of horse and mare give away, hippomanes was, indeed, said to have been harvested from horses. The incredibly awkward origin of this ingredient was graphically described by the famous Roman poet, Virgil (c. 70-19 BCE), in his Georgics. It should be warned, the poet’s description is very blunt and devoid of any obscurative euphemisms, and it could be unsettling to some readers to learn exactly where the supposedly magical substance of “mare madness” allegedly came from. That warning aside, Virgil wrote:
“…a viscous fluid, which herdsmen have good cause
to call ‘mare madness’, oozes out of their vaginas,
a mucus hags crave to collect to mix with herbs and hexes
and so concoct their wicked potions”
(Georgics, 3.280-283)
Specifics on what kinds of potions were supposedly brewed with hippomanes is vague, but a semblance of an idea can be gleaned by the characteristics commonly ascribed to mares within Greek and Roman myths. In ancient Mediterranean mythology, mares were often portrayed as potentially violent and wild animals, prone to be driven mad by desire—such attributes could be what the ingredient was meant to contribute in magical potions. Whatever the case and purpose of the substance, Roman folklore held the belief that hippomanes (or horse frenzy or mare madness) was an ingredient utilized by malicious forces such as witches and prisoners.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
Picture Attribution: (Cropped horse from Ovid among the Scythians, by Eugène Delacroix (1798–1863), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).
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This artwork, by the Norwegian artist Gerhard Munthe (1849–1929), is a depiction of the Norse god, Odin. The print features several key iconographic details linked to Odin, including the god’s magical spear, his unique horse, and his ever-watchful pair of ravens. Each of these details were discussed by the prolific Icelandic writer, Snorri Sturluson (c. 1179-1241), whose Prose Edda contained descriptions of the god’s powers, gear, and animal companions. In regard to Odin, himself, he was described as a warrior and magician who restlessly searched for knowledge and powers to avert the prophesied doom of his godly family. His search was aided by his two ravens. As told by Snorri Sturluson, “Two ravens sit on Odin’s shoulders, and into his ears they tell all the news they see or hear. Their names are Hugin [Thought] and Munin [Mind, Memory]. At sunrise he sends them off to fly throughout the whole world, and they return in time for the first meal. Thus he gathers knowledge about many things that are happening, and so people call him the raven god” (Prose Edda, Gylfaginning, chapter 38). In addition to the ravens, the artwork also depicts Odin’s interesting horse, named Sleipnir. This mount, an eight-legged stallion, was oddly birthed by the mischievous god, Loki, while he was shapeshifted in the form of a mare. As for Odin’s spear, the weapon was a dwarven-forged polearm, named Gungnir, that was magically assured to pierce its enemies cleanly, without getting stuck. Such are the mythical elements that inspired the artwork by Gerhard Munthe.
Written by C. Keith Hansley
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Euripides (c. 485-406 BCE)
“A woman who is quick-tempered—a man too for that matter—is easier to guard against than one who is clever and keeps quiet.”
