Ideas toward a Physics of the Symbol and of Myth

§. 26.

Recent writers, especially since the researches of Goguet,^a have laid a crude picture-history at the foundation of all symbolism, and have undertaken to derive the whole of hieroglyphics from so-called kyriological writing. On this system, all pictorial efforts are headed by the knotted cords (quipus) of the Peruvians, or the nails that the ancient Roman drove into his temples to count the years or for some other purpose.

60 Then come the various efforts of helpless peoples who, modelling in soft materials or engraving in harder ones, try with slavish fidelity to represent bodily things in bodily form. After these come images that are still corporeal but already abbreviated, since a thousand causes early demand brevity⁹³. These efforts are also regarded as the preliminary stages of alphabetic writing. It is assumed, for example, that the script of the Chinese can be derived directly from that kyriology. Starting from six basic strokes, that script has grown through manifold combinations to some 80,000 characters.

At this point, on this view, the road divides. On the one side, from the first attempt to paint sounds, word-writing, syllable-writing, and finally letter-writing arise. On the other, the invisible and incorporeal is gradually set before the eye of the mind as 61 something corporeal. In the letter, then, we would have an image of the sound; in the hieroglyph, a visible image of the concept.

§. 27.

Whether the great invention of alphabetic writing can be explained in this way we leave undiscussed here. But the essence of the symbol is not to be found by this road. This follows from a simple observation: the emblem and the symbol differ from kyriological writing not in degree, but in kind.

The whole field of iconism divides into two essentially different domains, the kyriological and the symbolic. Here and there they seem to touch at their borders, but their centres come into contact in no direction. To take the measure of the symbolic, the crude efforts of the kyriological domain cannot suffice. The explanation must seek the root of all pictorial representation within the symbolic field itself.

A glance at the poetry and religions of the peoples shows us, as an undeniable fact, the belief that prevails everywhere in a universal life of things. The primeval world in particular, which took in everything with naive and straightforward thinking, did not yet know the separation of the bodily and the spiritual that is familiar to us. To find life 62 everywhere was the most characteristic habit of this mode of thought. Indeed, not only life, but something human.

What announces itself so universally, and above all in an age whose ideas have not been turned from nature’s path by false cultivation, would have to count on that ground alone as a natural drive and the voice of nature itself. We therefore acknowledge a compulsion that moves man to set himself at the centre of the world, and in every realm of nature to see only his own reflection.

It cannot be our aim to trace the source and origin of this mode of thought, or to follow the thread of philosophical speculation back to that mystery of all existence which original thinkers of our nation sometimes call an active bond (copula) between soul and nature, and sometimes the living middle of the two.^b We must rather turn our gaze downward, to the iconic domain itself, and show there the variety and the forms of what this natural drive produces. For this purpose the one proposition just stated is enough, together with the following few laws.

First, there is the simple observation that the vividness and figurativeness of writing and speech, of thought and poetry, which prevails everywhere as noted, and especially in antiquity, is to be regarded not as an arbitrary and figurative mode of expression, but as one 63 necessary in itself and absolutely.

This natural vocation, this higher compulsion, places man at the centre of the whole creation, so that in him, as in the microcosm, the rays of all beings are gathered, and he consequently beholds all natures in his own nature. He therefore cannot regard things otherwise than according to the laws of his own self. What the abstract understanding calls an operative force is, to the original and naive way of seeing, a person.

With this, however, sex is at once given, and all the expressions that depend on it: love and hate, union and separation. The first brings begetting and birth as its immediate consequence; the second, death and destruction. And in turn, life arises anew out of death.

What we call the figurative, then, is nothing other than the stamp of the form of our thinking. It is a compulsion from which even the most abstract and sober mind cannot withdraw, but to which antiquity remained more willingly devoted. As monuments of this figurative manner we have before us the religions of the primeval world, especially the polytheistic ones, and the poems of the ancient poets. This is above all true of the theogonies and cosmogonies, whose essential nature rests on the personification of operative forces, and in which Eros, as the personified union of operative forces, has such great significance.

64 In Greece this mode of thought was a widely held belief, to which the people clung with lasting love, as the figurativeness and mythic character of its language show⁹⁴. This more innocent primeval world heard the same feeling and the same figurative language in the elements and powers of nature. People knew no otherwise than that these too could be moved by joy and sorrow, and expressed their feelings in speaking images.

The native soil mourns the death of a beloved and admired hero⁹⁵ no less than the people do. The earth must bring forth flowers that, in their colour and their speaking 65 marks, join their mourning to the laments of men. And so that the memory of the one mourned may not die out, a yearly festival is instituted, at which the mute language of those plants serves as the chief sign of remembrance.

§. 28.

After these preliminary remarks we proceed to a closer discussion of figurative expression. The features found in Aristotle’s examples⁹⁶ of metaphor (μεταφορά) and image (εἰκών) lead us at once to the fundamental concepts of symbolic representation.

If the poet says, the critic observes, “Like a lion Achilles rushes on,” he has spoken in an image. The expression “The lion rushed on,” referring to Achilles, would by contrast be a metaphor. Several qualities are here compressed by the metaphorical and pictorial designation into the focal point of a single impression, which presents itself to the soul all at once: strength, courage, irresistible terror, and so on.

This holds of every kind of tropic expression. It may 66 rest on a perceived likeness (metaphor), or on an outer or inner connection between two things (metonymy and synecdoche). It always remains an essential property of this mode of representation that it gives a single thing, an undivided whole.

What the separating and collecting understanding gathers in a successive series, as single features for the formation of a concept, and just as successively takes apart again into its components, this intuitive manner gives whole and at once. It is a single glance; at one stroke the intuition is complete. As explained above, the Greek language actually used this figurative word, προσβολή, to designate the figurative. For the slow procedure of the understanding it just as happily coined the expression διέξοδος, which recalls a long road, and whose translation we have borrowed from the Latin in the term discursive thought.

§. 29.

Now suppose the soul attempts something greater: to soar up to the world of ideas, and to make the figurative the expression of the infinite. Then a decided, cutting conflict first reveals itself. How could the bounded become, so to speak, the vessel and dwelling of the unbounded? Or the sensuous stand in for that 67 which does not fall within the senses, and can be known only in pure spiritual thought?

The soul, caught in this contradiction and aware of it, therefore finds itself placed first in a state of longing. It would grasp the essence whole and unchanged and bring it to life in the form. But the essence will not fit itself to the bounds of this form. It is a painful yearning to give birth to the infinite in the finite.

The spirit, placed in the night of this underworld, would rise and press through to the full clarity of serene day. It would see, in itself and without a veil, what alone truly is and abides unchanged, and set it forth in likeness in this changeable world of shadowy existence.

Seen in this way, the soul hovers between the world of ideas and the domain of the senses, striving to join the two and to win the infinite within the finite. How, then, could what it strives for and has won not bear the marks of its origin, and betray that double nature in its very essence? And indeed, the essential properties of the symbol, its elements as it were, let us recognize that double descent clearly.

§. 30.

68 First, that hovering itself is its lot. I mean its indecision between form and essence. In the symbol a general concept has risen, which comes and flees, and slips from our gaze as we try to grasp it.

On the one hand, radiated from the world of ideas as from the full splendour of the sun, it may be called sun-like, to use a Platonic expression. On the other hand, it is dimmed by the medium through which it falls into our eye. The play of colours in the rainbow arises when the image of the sun is broken on the dark cloud. In the same way, the simple light of the idea is broken up in the symbol into a coloured ray of significance.

For the symbol becomes significant and stirring precisely through this incongruence of essence and form, and through the superabundance of its content compared with its expression. The more it gives us to think, the more it stirs us. For this reason the ancients held it to be especially effective for waking man out of the habits of daily life to a higher striving. A critic who reflected with uncommon acuteness on the nature of language therefore remarks very aptly: “Everything that is only divined is more fearful than what lies 69 unveiled before the eyes. That is why the secret doctrines are delivered in symbols, as in night and darkness. The symbolic is to be compared to darkness and night.”⁹⁷

§. 31.

This stirring, and sometimes shattering, quality hangs together with another property, its brevity. It is like a spirit that suddenly appears, or like a flash of lightning that lights up the dark night all at once. It is a moment that lays claim to our whole being, a glance into a boundless distance from which our spirit returns enriched.

For this momentary quality is fruitful for the receptive heart. The understanding dissolves into its components the abundance that the pregnant moment of the image locks up, and appropriates it little by little. As it does so, it feels a lively pleasure, and is satisfied by the fullness of the gain, which it gradually comes to survey.

Hence the ancients’ fondness for this mode of designation. A happy natural instinct first led them to it, and 70 afterwards they gave themselves an account of its nature. Because of its fruitful brevity they compare it in particular with laconism, and Demetrius expresses himself aptly on this point too:

“In other respects too the Laconian loves brevity by nature. For what is brief is more forceful, and suited to command; to be long-winded belongs rather to entreaty and supplication. That is why symbols too have so much force: they are so like brachylogies. For with what is said briefly, most of it must be guessed, just as with symbols.”⁹⁸

But only pregnant brevity is forceful. That stirring significance stands in direct proportion to the importance of the content. Whoever has something commonplace to say, and tries to stamp it as uncommon by affected terseness, misses his aim and becomes ridiculous. So too in the symbolic. To hide every slight thought under the veil of the symbol would be to cover poverty with a costly garment. The understanding that seeks instruction would feel only the displeasure of a disappointed expectation, which takes its revenge in laughter.

71 Only the meaningful, then, can become significant, and only the important can accord with the dignity of the symbol. The symbol needs, and strives to unite with itself, the things that make us divine and fear: what gives us much to think, what lays claim to the whole man, what recalls the mystery of our existence, what fills and moves our life. These are the dearest bonds and relations, union and separation, loving and leaving, or at least whatever the outward welfare of a whole life depends on.

At important junctures of life, where every moment hides a future rich in consequences and holds the soul in suspense, in fateful moments, the ancients were therefore expectant of divine indications, which, as already noted, they called symbola. An example will make this mode of thought clearer.

Helenus⁹⁹, fleeing Troy, his native city, has sought a home through long and toilsome wandering. Now at last, on the coast of Epirus, he offers the epibateria [sacrifices on landing]. The sacrificial bull is not felled by the death-blow. It tears loose, plunges into the sea, swims across a bay, lies down on the shore there, and dies. That was a divine symbol. The hero 72 takes it in this sense¹⁰⁰. He at once lays the foundation stone of his city on that spot, and names the place after the wounded bull: Βουτρωτός.^c

This symbol was mysterious. How many interpretations the unlooked-for event allowed! Yet for the hero it had a definite sense, although it was a sign from those dark powers that were called gods. It was a highly significant symbol: significant through its origin and occasion, at an act of worship; significant and important through its object, the welfare of life, the winning of a fatherland. Finally, this story is noteworthy for us as an example of name-symbolism. As we shall see below, this is objectionable in the domain of art, but the ancients prized it greatly in religious use.

§. 32.

This leads us to the heightening of the symbol, or to its higher use. When the forming spirit comes into contact with art, or ventures to set down religious divination and belief in visible forms, the symbol must, as it were, expand toward the infinite and boundless. At this stage it 73 is to rise above itself and embody the most universal and highest concepts.

But if the inexhaustible fullness and unfathomable depth of the essence are to become manifest in the form, a task is set which, taken absolutely, would cancel itself. Could the conditioned take the place of the unconditioned, and the mortal be the bearer of the immortal? From this inadequacy of the power to the task there arises a twofold striving.

Either the symbol follows its natural inclination, which is directed toward the infinite. Concerned only to satisfy that inclination, it seeks above all to be truly significant. In this striving it is not enough for it to say much; it wants to say everything. It wants to measure the immeasurable, and force the divine into the narrow space of human forms.

This insatiability follows only the dark drive of nameless divination and belief. Heeding no laws of nature, it roams beyond every bound, and for that very reason must become riddling, in a hovering indeterminacy. Here the ineffable predominates. In seeking expression, it will at last burst the earthly form, as too weak a vessel, by the infinite power of its essence. With that, however, the clarity of beholding is itself destroyed, and only a speechless astonishment remains.

We have thereby described the extreme, and we call 74 symbolism of this character the mystical. Even when it is given over to this direction, it still serves religious belief as a happy and significant expression, so long as it acknowledges limits and does not seek the uttermost.

Or the symbolic limits itself, and keeps modestly to the delicate middle line between spirit and nature. In this moderation it achieves the hardest thing of all: it is able to make even the divine visible, in a certain measure. So far from lacking significance, it becomes in fact highly significant, through the great content of its essence. It draws the contemplating man to itself with irresistible force, and necessarily, like the world-spirit itself, it takes hold of our soul. A welling exuberance of living ideas stirs within it. What reason, joined with the understanding, strives for in successive inference, it here gains whole and at once, in league with the senses.

Here the essence does not strive toward the transcendent.^d Obedient to nature, it fits itself to nature’s form, and pervades and animates it. The conflict between the infinite and the finite is thus resolved, because the infinite, limiting itself, has become something human.

From this purification of the figurative on the one hand, and from the voluntary renunciation of the immeasurable on the other, 75 blossoms the most beautiful fruit of all symbolism. It is the symbol of the gods, which wondrously unites beauty of form with the highest fullness of essence. Because it is most perfectly realized in Greek sculpture, it may be called the plastic symbol.

§. 33.

These highest expressions of the formative faculty we call symbols. In strict scientific usage the name ought to stay confined to this narrower circle of embodied ideas. It says everything that is proper to this genus and raises it to the highest rank: the momentary, the total, the unfathomable nature of its origin, the necessary. A single word here designates both the appearance of the divine and the transfiguration of the earthly image. As has been shown, this accords entirely with the higher usage of the ancients, although they also extended this many-meaning word to lesser concepts.

The German Sinnbild [“emblem”], by contrast, wholly lacks that meaningful dignity. It should therefore stay confined to the lower sphere of this kind of image-making, and be kept entirely away from symbolic utterances.

The name Sinnbilder has also often been given to one kind within this whole genus, the kind that needs 76 writing to help it out. Greek art seldom made use of such support in its works, and then chiefly in high antiquity, on reliefs and vases¹⁰¹. To that extent such images may also be called emblems, although this last word has so far been used in very different senses.

The ancients applied it first to the visual arts. They meant by it especially the figures attached to silver, gold, and similar vessels that could be removed from them, as the rapacious Verres had often done in Sicily. An old Roman poet had already used the word, somewhat boldly, as a metaphor for the anxiously sought ornament of an elegantly composed speech¹⁰².

Later the word was drawn wholly into the circle of emblem-making. Sometimes it designated verses, especially distichs, that were meant to indicate in 77 compressed brevity the meaning of an emblem, and were usually printed with it¹⁰³. Sometimes the emblems themselves were called by that name. In any case, the word too should stay confined to the lesser expressions of the formative faculty. Emblem, no more than Sinnbild, should ever be applied to the symbols of the gods or to the mysterious symbols of religion.

§. 34.

The mention above of emblems with added writing leads us to certain requirements of the symbol. We confine ourselves here to the chief ones; the rest will emerge from what follows.

First, clarity. Yet this requirement seems to contradict itself, since it threatens to destroy 78 the very essence of the symbol. For if it is true, as the ancients already recognized, that “the nature of the symbol is precisely what darkens and what glimmers in twilight,” how could the symbol deny its own nature and be clear?

In striving to render in an image what has no image, the divine element of a highest idea, the symbol will certainly not be able to send out the full sunlight of the divine ray undimmed. The twilight and the dimmer glow of its expression will betray its earthly descent. But on the other hand, in seeking to wrest itself from the earth and strive toward the highest, it easily overshoots itself if it pays no heed to the laws given to it.

The requirement of clarity, then, means only to recall these laws of nature, which are never broken with impunity. In other words: the symbol wants to say much, and ought to say much; it wants to indicate the divine, and ought to. But what it has to say, it ought to say decidedly, without circumlocution or confusion. It ought to speak simply to the senses.

These requirements are made especially of the symbolism of art. The Greeks in their best periods fulfilled them strictly. They removed every distracting accessory. Where more recent symbolism has needed elaborate contrivances, a few speaking features sufficed for them. How much they achieved with little! They stayed true to nature and avoided the immoderate. 79 In this way they avoided the unintelligible as well.

Brevity was their second law. They sought to reach their goal by the most direct path. They sought significance only in such a way that it pleased the senses. Not to offend the senses was their first care. And so, with strict self-restraint and the concurrence of happy circumstances, they were bound to achieve the lovely and the beautiful. The circle of their art had fitted itself to this measure.

Yet they also knew another symbolism. When they wished to express their higher knowledge, and to impress teachings that departed from common belief, the symbol had to become the organ of mysterious truths and presentiments. In this vocation it sought chiefly to be significant, and cared less for the pleasing and the beautiful. The more it served this sacred need, the greater its inclination toward the unintelligible, until at the extreme it finally became an embodied riddle.

A great part of the whole temple symbolism of the oldest Greece and Rome lies along this path. How often, therefore, it happened that a truly significant temple image admitted of several interpretations¹⁰⁴! This holds in a still higher degree 80 of the properly mystical symbol. One need only read, for example, what Clement of Alexandria says about the many interpretations of the Orphic thallophoria.^e It is almost astonishing that so apparently simple a custom had become so ambiguous. The key had been lost, the one received in the instruction of the Mysteries. For all the symbolism of this secret worship presupposed a teaching that the initiate received only from the priests and exegetes of the order.

The art symbol, then, expressed itself wholly and completely, and what is called cultivation was already enough to make one capable of understanding it. Here, on the contrary, a special instruction had to supply the means to break, as it were, the hard shell under which the sense lay hidden.

§. 35.

We have so far presented the symbolic as the root of all figurative expression, and have at the same time recognized in it the highest expression, the blossom so to speak, of all figurative expression. This proposition still needs to be confirmed by comparing the symbol with the other principal products 81 of iconism.

First, with allegory, which ordinary usage so often confuses with the symbol. The essence of the allegorical image is easily explained by contrast with the historical image, or, as it might perhaps more properly be called, the kyriological.

Set before a kyriological image a viewer from whom we ask an explanation of what he sees. What does he have to do as explainer? He reports: he tells us in words what he sees in the picture. If painting is, as the ancients said, a mute poetry, the explainer lends it speech. He turns the expression of the picture into another expression; but he adds nothing from his own soul. He reports; he does not interpret.

Now let the explainer step before an allegorical picture. Let him too report what his eye sees. Has he thereby exhausted the sense of the picture, drawn out what lies within it? By no means. His bare report will leave every hearer unsatisfied. He must add something further, something that opens up for us the sense lying behind the surface. He must say something other than what he sees. He must interpret it.

Suppose the painting shows the transformation of the companions of Odysseus. If we regard it as a historical picture, we need only say what we see with our eyes. But if, with Socrates and other ancients, we put into that poem, and so into the picture, the sense of man’s degradation through 82 sensual pleasure¹⁰⁵, then we must interpret it.

Both names for this kind of figuration express this. The older one called it ὑπόνοια [“under-sense”]; the later one, ἀλληγορία. The first denotes a veiled, a hidden sense; the second, that the image says something other, means something other¹⁰⁶.

83 From this the difference between symbolic and allegorical representation follows at once. Allegory signifies merely a general concept, or an idea, that is different from itself. The symbol is the idea itself, made sensible and embodied.^f In allegory a substitution takes place. An image is given which, when we look at it, points us toward a concept that we must now go in search of. In the symbol, this concept has itself descended into this bodily world, and in the image we see the concept itself, and immediately.

The difference between the two is therefore also to be placed in the momentary, which allegory lacks. In the symbol an idea rises in a single instant and whole, and seizes all the powers of our soul. It is a ray that falls in a straight line from the dark ground of being and thought into our eye, and passes through our whole being. Allegory lures us to look up and to follow the course that the thought hidden in the image takes. In the symbol there is momentary totality; in allegory, progress through a series of moments.

That is also why myth falls under allegory, 84 not under the symbol¹⁰⁷. Myth’s essence is most perfectly expressed by the progressive epic, and only in the theomythy, as we shall see below, does myth strive to compress itself into the symbolic.

There is therefore something very true in the fact that some rhetoricians called allegory the carrying-through, or so to speak the unfolding, of one and the same image (trope, metaphor, and so on). This carrying-through and continuing of the figurative is indeed an inborn tendency of allegory. That is why combining wit and the reflecting understanding have their proper field here. There are features to be gathered up and compared in due order with the marks of the concept; like is to be joined with like, and unlike set apart. Here, therefore, there is more freedom, and the playful pleasure of fancy hovers about the thought before the spirit takes possession of it.

In the symbol, our soul feels itself seized, and the necessity of nature rules over us. The two are alike 85 in that both hide an important, often a deep, truth in the darkness of their veil. But the symbol is more like the half-closed flower-bud, which locks up what is most beautiful, still undeveloped, in its calyx. Allegory is like the branches of a luxuriantly growing plant that trail out in breadth. The most successful allegories of the ancients can furnish proofs of this kinship and difference between the two kinds¹⁰⁸.

§. 36.

Let us look somewhat more closely at the character of necessity that we ascribed above to the symbol. We may also call it the symbolic language of nature. Nature commands silently in its unchanging laws. Just as quietly, and as though without will, an eternal truth commands in that significant image. For in its origin and its ancient stamp, is the symbol not merely a reminder of 86 what speaks emblematically to man in nature as unchanging law?

The primeval world loved this reminder dearly, and renewed it on every important occasion. The poetry of antiquity and its history furnish examples in abundance. Ethical motives, the self-determinations of freedom, are made sensible through such symbols. If a man wishes to show that his will is firm and unchanging, for example, he binds his resolve to the unchanging laws of nature. Achilles swears:

“Truly, by this sceptre, which never again will put forth leaves and branches,
Now that it has left its stump in the mountains;
Never again will it sprout, for the bronze has stripped it round
Of leaf and bark; and noble sons of Achaea
Now bear it in their hands, the judges, to whom the son of Kronos
Has entrusted his laws: let this be to you the great oath!”¹⁰⁹

In a similar way the Phocaeans swear not to return to their fatherland until the stone they have sunk in the sea floats on its surface. 87 Afterwards this oath was used as a motto for the eternal duration of the Roman Empire¹¹⁰.

Here the believed eternity of a human institution was made vivid by a pregnant saying. In the same way, other works of men were dedicated to eternity by a symbolic reminder of the eternal course of nature. The bronze maiden on the tomb of Midas speaks¹¹¹:

“A maiden of bronze am I, and I lie on the mound of Midas;
So long as water still flows, and tall-stemmed trees still blossom,
Ever enduring here at the tomb of many tears,
I shall tell the wayfarer that here lies Midas buried.”

So the naive mind of antiquity composed. It lent nature speech, and 88 let nature call out important truths to man. This was no product of artful reflection. It blossomed out of the mystery of all life, out of that eternal and hidden union of the soul with nature itself.

The old pastoral life may well have favoured this mode of thought, as shepherd peoples, and men in general at the stage of free development and fresh strength, are especially given to it. Yet it springs properly from a basic drive of our whole being. When the nomadic Arab, or the Greek of the old heroic age, enters into a personal relation with his horse and lends it human feeling, we must think first of a compulsion that drives him to this belief. Only then should we take into account the occasion that favours it.

From the same deep root of all existence grows the tendency, prevailing throughout antiquity, to ascribe ethical laws to inanimate and animal nature, and to make it the mirror of conduct for free beings. The living interchange of all the powers and parts of the visible creation, and above all of the animals, had to serve as lesson and warning for human relations.

Such a word of lesson and warning, in which an image came vividly before the soul, was called a word of the wise, a word full of content, a useful word, a word worthy of admiration and of being 89 taken to heart¹¹². Significant brevity was its oldest character. Later rhetoric did distinguish the shorter word of symbolic teaching from the elaborated apologue. But originally the one as much as the other was called a weighty word (αἶνος).

What we call a proverb (Sprichwort), so far as it lives in the mouth of the people; or a maxim (Denkspruch), so far as it is a rule of life laid down in memory; or finally a Sinnspruch, in which nature speaks to the mind (a saying through and for the senses): in short, everything that was later called παροιμία was called αἶνος. And this weighty gnome, this ponderous word of wisdom, was originally also wholly symbolic. It 90 was a nod, a pointing to the mirror of nature, a reminder of its eternal laws. For that very reason it also became vivid: it became a Sinnspruch, a saying for the senses¹¹³.

But, as noted, the wisdom of the primeval world also sought to become significant through darkness. Hence the riddle too became an age-old expression of higher knowledge. This proposition needs no detailed proof. The form of a great many oracles confirms it, as does the poetic figure of the Sphinx. In ancient Egypt she was a symbol of divine wisdom, and the Greeks immortalized her as a giver of riddles. The East loves this form extraordinarily to this day.

That ancient Greece too had developed it is shown by the classification in which later writers set out its kinds¹¹⁴. And figurative as 91 the riddle of the Greeks was in its original nature, it also had a figurative name. It was called γρῖφος, a rush-net, because in the riddle speech sets a net for the reflecting understanding. This word indicated the intertwined, from which only the practised thinker can wind his way out. The other name, αἴνιγμα, indicated the darkness of such a word of wisdom¹¹⁵.

92 However many distinctions the separating understanding may have made afterwards, the symbolic originally runs like a ground-thread through the whole gnomic wisdom of antiquity. Proverb, maxim, riddle, gnome: each alike was a word from the book of nature, a character from its unchanging picture-writing. The abiding habit of the plant world and the ever-constant nature of animal characters were early taken as a fixed point on which to rest a principle for life. In this way poets like Homer and Kalidasa made vivid the actions and passions of their heroes.

§. 37.

But these inextinguishable images were used not only for the free play of fancy. They were also used for the earnest purpose of teaching. Indeed, one may ask which use was the more frequent. At least this second use was just as original, and no less grounded in a drive natural to man, than the first. This is especially true of 93 the Oriental, whose mind is more receptive to intuitions than to inferences and conclusions.

The symbolic mode of teaching did not stop at weighty words and sayings. Early on, out of matured observation, a more perfected form blossomed, and unfolded into what is now properly called ainos (αἶνος), or the so-called apologue¹¹⁶. No land of antiquity that had ripened to any degree of cultivation lacked this ethical kind of poetry. From India, through Persia and Palestine, across Asia Minor, and over into Greece and Italy, this ethical circle of animals encompasses the world,^g and the light of wisdom that runs through it shines beneficently on the peoples.

Each land, of course, lies under its own sign of the heavens. In its own nature, in its own plants and kinds of animals, it sees the emblems of its doing and living. The Indian teachers Vishnu Sarma and Pilpay used sandal trees and 94 jackals¹¹⁷ to make the laws of morality sensible. The Hebrew too had his ainos, and in the well-known fable of the trees¹¹⁸ a truth important for civil society is set forth 95 significantly. So too old Lydia told a fable of how, once upon Tmolus, an olive tree contended with a laurel for precedence¹¹⁹.

It became the custom thenceforth, especially among the Greeks, to place at the head of such poems the formula “The old saying goes”¹²⁰. In this way the teaching they contained was transported back into the dark background of the distant primeval age: to the beginning of things, as it were, into the state of innocence in which man stood nearer the deity, received its teachings directly, and was not yet subject to the errors of human thought. The belief that a truth descended from the world of the gods made it more impressive and more precious.

Ancient Greece seems to have been especially rich in this genre as well. The didactic poems of the heroic 96 period, such as those of Pittheus¹²¹, were surely often cast in this symbolic character. Homer was credited with this kind of poetry only very improperly; in the bright mirror of the epic he by no means represented animals with a didactic purpose. But Hesiod, in the Works, had given a great example in his fable of the hawk and the nightingale. The older lyric poets followed it too: Archilochus, whose fables were very famous, and Stesichorus, with his apologue of the horse and the man, which made a political maxim vivid, like the well-known fiction of the Roman Menenius Agrippa.

In all these apologues the hearer was pointed to the symbols in the visible creation. This is what distinguished them from the parable, which chooses an invented case from human life to set forth an important teaching¹²². It distinguished them still more from the example 97 (παράδειγμα), which looks for a similar case from real history by way of confirmation. Neither of these has the necessity that is proper to the ainos. The example illustrates, but it does not compel. A parable makes probable, but gives no convincing certainty. In both, a fact is presupposed as possible¹²³.

98 And now that we have surveyed the symbolic circle of teaching in antiquity, we can ask how symbol and ainos are related to each other.

They plainly agree in the importance of the truth they set forth. Just as the symbol does not serve what is insignificant, so an ainos must be invented on an important occasion. Both also rest on what endures in nature, and make a concept impressive through the settled character of plants, animals, and the like.

They differ, however, in form and in content. In form: the ainos does not have the momentary totality that we ascribed to the symbol. It prefers to unfold in successive sequence. It leads us toward the image of nature rather than stepping forth as one itself. In content they differ as follows. The truth of the ainos is a practical teaching, usually an ethical one. The symbol also has its truth, but it is not necessarily an ethical one. It is often a deep truth, a mystery of thought and belief, a mystery of nature. That is why the ainos lacks the depth proper to the symbol. In a word: the ainos, in its old natural form, might perhaps be called an ethically turned and expanded symbol.

§. 38.

99 It remains to consider myth, both in itself and in its relation to the other figurative kinds. First, its genesis.

But who could count the countless occasions that give it existence, especially if heroic legend proper is taken into account? Suppose a more cultivated stranger has succeeded in sowing the seed of a foreign culture among wild tribes, or a tribal chief has distinguished himself by qualities of body and mind. Once he has been called a son of the gods, and festivals have been instituted in memory of his benefactions, gratitude and admiration know no more bounds, and the tribal legend, seizing on everything, advances without end.

Trieterids, penteterids, and yearly festivals are founded, so that what is memorable may not perish. Images, processions, scenic costumes, and mimed actions must help to glorify the solemnity of the time and place. First formulas, then invocations and songs, announce the occasion and praise the object of the feast. In this way the content of legend is given, as the forerunner of history. The legend, like the festival itself returning in regular order, still took the place of written annals.

The physical occasions are perhaps even more numerous than the historical ones. 100 Sometimes the salient character of an animal, or the extraordinary power ascribed to it, gives rise to a legend¹²⁴. Sometimes it is the expressive shape, or the unusual quality, of a natural object that draws men’s gaze¹²⁵, and the attempted explanation is then handed down as an equally speaking myth.

The hidden forces of nature stirred the poetic fancy still more. Their secret working and forming, and their living breath that pervades all beings, must have drawn men to reflect all the more, the more this early man of nature was exposed to their most immediate effects. And this reflection expressed itself 101 figuratively, as it could not do otherwise. With that, a multitude of narratives was given, in which a physical element or a remarkable natural phenomenon appeared as an acting person. Field and forest, mountains, rivers, and grottoes now became the stage for the events and deeds of those beings of nature and their sons, the glorified heroes.

Language itself becomes a fruitful mother of gods and heroes. Figurative and emblematic as it was, among another people and at some distance in time it often had to take on a very strange appearance, and the misunderstood expression was stamped out in an explanatory myth. So, perhaps, the ivory shoulder of Pelops, originally only a laudatory epithet, was reinterpreted into a strange legend of the crime of Tantalus.^h Pindar could not reconcile that legend with his worthier ideas of the deity, and he tries to evade its sense in a way that shows clearly enough that in his time the key to the true explanation was already lost. If figurative expressions in old Greek songs could suffer this fate, how much more was the foreign bound to be misunderstood!

Above all, a whole host of legends demonstrably issued from the veil of the symbol and the closedness of the hieroglyph. In particular, the Oriental mode of thought, brought into contact with the mobile spirit of the Greek, produced much that was mythical. 102 Most of all this was true of the hieroglyphic architecture and sculpture of the Egyptian, out of which the witty Greek, with the magic wand of his fancy, called forth a whole series of fables. The silent statue did not satisfy him; he preferred the garrulous, detailed legend.

It cannot be denied that Egyptian popular instruction was itself largely very mythical. For that very reason, the priesthood, which lived in another world, must have found the Greek, with his many gods and hero-myths, very immature. Always, and on the whole, that people remained faithful to the symbolic in its higher representatives. Greece, by contrast, early became the fruitful mother of myths¹²⁶.

To pursue in all its directions this tendency to turn the hieroglyphic and the symbolic into a legend would require an investigation of its own, and a rich one. Here a few examples must suffice.

The Nile jar of the Egyptian, which was joined with a human head and decorated with serpents on its handles, was bound by its striking shape to excite the Greek’s curiosity. The meaning of this vessel, which was used in the secret worship of Isis, was naturally explained in the instruction that went with it. 103 Little concerned with such explanation, Greek wit knew how to manage. The symbol was reinterpreted as the memorial image of a Greek hero, and, joined to the Trojan heroic legend, it had to serve as the support of a detailed myth.ⁱ This emblem sometimes appeared in other modifications, and, combined with the lamp of Anubis, made sensible national ideas of the elements. That did not trouble the Greek either. Rather, a new legend was invented, so as not to be left without an answer here too.

The strange story of the Cretan Minotaur has no other origin. Here too the original meaning of an age-old physical symbol was lost, and the busy understanding of the Greek spun out a long story. Its crudeness of spirit proves how early myths arose from such occasions.

So not only nature, significant and speaking, but also history, and the emblematically teaching primeval world itself, gave the human mind an inexhaustible material for countless legends and traditions. Only the most striking of these could be indicated here, briefly.

§. 39.

According to its content, then, myth divides into two main branches. Either it contains old events, and 104 to that extent it is called legend (Sage)¹²⁷. Or it contains old belief and old doctrine, and we call it by a word that more precise usage might reserve for this genus alone: tradition (Überlieferung).

The old epic song already distinguished these two kinds, as happens in the following passage of the Theogony, even if it should not come from the poet of the rest:

“The glorious deeds of the men of old,
and the gods on the blessed heights of Olympus”¹²⁸

That each of these two elements contains a great variety hardly needs remarking. We therefore confine ourselves to indicating what is most essential¹²⁹.

First, the historical branch spreads into various twigs. It may report legends from abroad: the events of the Asiatic primeval age, the wonders of foreign 105 lands, especially of Egypt, the land of wonders, sailors’ tales, and the reports of other travellers. Or it may report native events: the migrations of one’s own tribe, the settling of a region, the founding of a city, the deeds of a tribal prince, and the remarkable events of old royal houses.

The same holds of the other element. Here too essential components are to be distinguished, which people have tried, very awkwardly, to gather under the name philosophemes. The term theologumena would have been more fitting, or more correctly theomythies, since, as is well known, the whole sum of belief and knowledge among the oldest peoples lay in the lap of religion. From our own standpoint we distinguish various branches here too:

• first, the convictions that related to man, nature, and God as the objects of holy belief: theological myths in the narrower sense;
• then the definitely ethical propositions that make up the whole content of some myths;
• further, definitely physical traditions, in which old knowledge of nature, and especially of the stars, is contained;
• finally, myths that already betray a more practised thinking, in which speculations of ancient wisdom are made sensible. These may be called philosophemes in the narrower sense.

Yet here too, as with all the other traditions, one cannot mistake the religious centre 106 to which all the divining and knowing of the primeval world was referred.

§. 40.

So much for the content of myth. Seldom, however, does it appear so pure and so sharply bounded. Myth has grown wild, and nature does not separate and distinguish as the concept and reflection do. It works and forms in flowing transitions. That is why these mythic elements interpenetrate one another, in great things as in small. The branches and twigs have their own branchings and twiggings, and the whole stands before us as a single great tree, grown from one root, but spread out on every side with countless leaves, blossoms, and fruits.

First of all, legend almost never appears pure, as a strictly historical report. Almost never has the fact been handed down unmixed in the mouth of the people, and that for a thousand reasons. It was festivals and religious customs, as noted above, that chiefly gave rise to legend. A festive mood and religious feeling were therefore bound to shine through in its expression. Such feelings do not confine themselves to the narrow circle of reality, but everywhere seek the boundless and the extraordinary.

It is in any case the nature of the youthful fancy 107 of a fresh and vigorous man of nature to pass over into the unusual, and to pour out the overflow of his full strength in free invention. And if the event related comes from abroad, then at the earlier stages of culture the closed nationality proper to them is bound to become an obstacle to grasping the truth purely and rendering it purely. The more marked a people’s character, the more easily it will distort a foreign legend with native additions. The honour of the tribe also has a voice, and patriotic pride, which regards the homeland as the centre of all things, imperceptibly gives the story its tone and colour.

For these and similar reasons, then, the fact appears in legend turned and coloured mythically¹³⁰. This happens in one of two ways. Either the two main elements of all myth, old event and old belief, are mixed with one another as wholes and in the mass. Sometimes the factual forms the foundation and the religious has been added; sometimes the divine has been drawn down into the circle of human events. In this way now the one, now the other is added as a mythic supplement¹³¹.

Or else the 108 individual twigs of those two main branches appear manifoldly grown into one another. Here a physical myth is paired with a tribal legend, an event of nature with the fate of the people. There an astronomical doctrine is joined with heroic legend. Either the hero was set among the stars, to be immortalized in a constellation, or the priests clothed an astronomical truth in the garment of an old event and attached civil divisions of time and festivals to it. Elsewhere an ethical proposition is bound up with a sailor’s tale, as in the Odyssey, where, on the interpretation of the ancients, a fabled enchanted island served to make a moral teaching sensible. In a word, the most manifold combinations and proportions occur in these relations among the elements of myth.

§. 40 [bis].^j

We now discuss the character of myth, its stages, and its relation to the symbol and to the other main kinds of iconism.

In the symbol a general concept puts on the earthly garment and steps forth, as an image, significantly before the eye of our mind. In myth the filled soul utters its divination or its knowledge in a living word. Myth too is an image, but one that 109 reaches the inner sense by another way, through the ear.

Originally, image and word do not diverge from each other. Grown from one root, they were intimately wedded and interpenetrated each other. Whether a thought was first stamped out as an image or spoken as a word, in the one case as in the other it kept to the most sensuous vividness. Persistent figurativeness is the fundamental character of the oldest ordinances, articles of belief, and commandments.

If we attend to the spirit of the oldest myths, however, we must go further, and maintain that very many of them, if not most, are originally nothing but symbols put into words. The priestly interpretation, the pronouncement of an exegete on the sense and purpose of a symbol, without doubt first gave existence to many myths. What character must such a most ancient myth have had? None other than that of the symbol itself, only naturally in the transformation that speech brought with it.

Originally, then, it must have appeared as a bare formula or ordinance, a compressed announcement, just as the explanations of old hieroglyphs that the Greeks give here and there are nothing but formulas. Dry, abrupt, and hard, this most ancient myth recalled the work of sculpture, whose essence is what persists in space, more than the progressive nature of language and speech.

It was not only by its figurativeness and brevity, however, that myth 110 betrayed its origin from the symbol. It did so also by the weight and depth of its content. To embrace the unbounded and to fathom the unfathomable was its inborn striving. Like the symbol, it sought above all to be truly significant, or at least to bring the divine element of a highest idea, as far as possible, to immediate intuition. Hence, in this very significance, the strangeness of its nature and the darkness of its expression.

Let no one suppose that this character distinguishes only the theological and mystical myth. Even historical legend cannot wholly deny it. The oldest heroic myth too sets itself down in compressed brevity, like a firmly founded statue, and through its bodily expression speaks almost more to the eye than to the ear. The heroic deed is vivid in itself. But here the motives of action and the movements of the heart also press toward the senses in an outward image. The hero’s character becomes an animal, and every trait of the hero is set before the eyes in what the animal does and how it behaves. That is why the symbolic East, in the sayings of the prophets, lets the nations appear as animals, and why the poems of Homer contain a whole series of images of characters made sensible in this way.

These myths of the oldest style resemble the Sesostrid sculptures on temple walls, where in the heroic battle the brightly 111 coloured victor treads the black fugitive to the ground. So too the old heroic legend loves stark colouring and the plastic, fixed on the surface of the stone.

But it is precisely the heroic action that carries myth further and, as it were, frees it from its ground of stone. Song first tries to derive the outstanding deed from its occasions, and to represent it in all its moments, in their sequence. It is no longer the imposing moment that appears in a brief figurative word: the whole progress becomes visible, in all its vivid moments. Song learns to limit itself more and more humanly, and legend too fits itself to this measure. What can be represented is separated ever more sharply from the transcendent; the refined sense becomes the sole judge; the epic reaches its perfection as the measured representation of what progresses; and myth is pervaded through and through by this poetic nature.

In this development, legend moves ever further from the resting symbol and draws wholly near to narrative and to striding song. The historical in it now loses its stark colouring and becomes, in gentler tints, more pleasing to the senses. But the theological, too, almost entirely renounces the significance of its content. At this stage myth is a friend of the beautiful, but stripped of its old mystical dignity. As in the epic, 112 the historical predominates in it¹³². And just as the epic strives to raise the heroic action to the summit of a sensuously beautiful appearance, so the myth that serves it loses its secret significance altogether.

With this, only the two end points have been marked between which the mythology of the ancients, and especially of the Greeks, appears. That a series of intermediate stages lies between them follows of itself. Nor does a myth often express one of the main characters described so wholly decidedly. Even in its old symbolic form a leaning toward legend already betrays itself. And conversely, many a tradition wholly pervaded by the epic can seldom so entirely leave its kind, as we shall see at once from Homeric examples, that it bears no traces of an old high significance.

The worth of myth and its perfection will appear differently from the standpoint of theology and philosophy than from the purely poetic one. Poetry, paying no heed to significance, would rather 113 see myth in its full beauty. The religious way of looking at things laments that through the poetic mythology of the Greeks the highest earnestness of the grey primeval age has degenerated into a free play of fancy, or that the mysterious essence of the great world-spirit has been dissolved into a light breath that fills the flutes of the Greeks¹³³.

§. 41.

So myth had become a mere means of delight. In this the clear understanding of the ancients also recognized its chief difference from the ainos. The ainos never served mere amusement; its final aim was always ethical. That is why it was admissible in a demegoria (a speech in a public assembly), from which myth, by contrast, remained excluded¹³⁴. Likewise the ainos early announced its practical destiny by the choice 114 of prose. One of the oldest masters of the genre, Aesop, had already delivered it in prose, much as Sophron and Xenarchus later composed their mimes in prose too, because they wished to take a direct and practical hold on the truth of life.

Myth, on the other hand, left the low ground of reality, rose with the rhythm of poetry, and on the tragic stage became the means of ideal creations. But even if the practical aims of immediate instruction and improvement were foreign to it as such, it had nevertheless already hinted at deep mysteries of nature in the epic, even under frivolous images, as in the story of Ares and Aphrodite.

We need not wonder, then, that Plato too loved to lay down the highest results of his philosophizing in myth, as for example in the Critias, the Timaeus, the Symposium, the Phaedo, and the books of the Republic. “Here the highest truth touched mythic poetry”¹³⁵. A later admirer of that philosopher said of it: “Plato spoke many an earnest word in myths”¹³⁶.

In this philosophical 115 use of the mythical, legend takes the place of discursive teaching. Both have progress and successive representation. Only, in discursive teaching understanding and reason work in a series of articulated inferences; here reason and sense represent, in a sequence of vivid actions.

§. 42.

That myth in its oldest form, through compressed brevity and the momentary totality of its effect, clings still more faithfully to the symbol, and only gradually, turning away from it, dissolves into what flows: of this a few examples will convince us. Homeric poetry furnishes several. Let the first be the journey of the gods to Oceanus:

“Zeus went yesterday to the feast of the blameless Ethiopians
At the stream of Oceanus, and the heavenly ones all followed him.
But on the twelfth day he returns home to Olympus.”¹³⁷

Whatever interpretation one gives to this much-treated passage, in which some have wished to find an astronomical proposition about the twelve signs of the zodiac and the twelve 116 months conceived as gods by the Egyptians, others an allusion to the twelve intercalary days of the old Egyptian year, still others a mention of the twelve-day yearly festival at Diospolis, this much is certain: in these verses we possess the interpretation of a hieroglyph or of a symbolic work of art. The Greek readers of Homer had already seen this¹³⁸.

The whole passage speaks to us as a short, abrupt report of what appeared to the eye on an old zodiac or in a hieroglyph, as do the two others just cited. They keep to a brief indication of the pictorial, in space. They are nothing more than an abrupt pointing to the relief that showed the animals of the zodiac, or the boat crossing the Nile with the images of old divine figures.

The famous passage on the golden chain of Zeus¹³⁹, although already more elaborated, bears the same character of the oldest 117 language of images, and at the same time is already far more distinguished by a deep significance. We shall dwell on it a little, since it shows so clearly the passage from the substantial theological myth to the insignificant epic one.

The ancients already found a figurative philosopheme in it; they only divided in interpreting it. Plato found an image of the sun; the Stoics referred it to their world-soul and to the binding power of fate. Others recognized in it the system of the cosmic gradation and the dependence of all things on a highest being. The great significance of the idea of an all-pervading and binding world-soul in the system of the Ionian philosophers is well known. That the ancient East endeavoured to realize this idea in bodily symbols may be surmised from its whole mode of thought. A welcome example of a characteristic Oriental stamping of this idea is now given us by a passage of an Indian poem, as significant as it is beautiful.

Krishna, or Vishnu in his eighth incarnation, under the name Bhagavan, consoles a hero with the doctrine of the unchanging eternal unity, and says among other things:

“But know in me another, higher being than this,
Which quickens earthly things, Arjuna, and upholds and bears the world here.
118 This is the mother of all things together; believe it, friend!
I am the origin of the whole universe, and its destruction too.
Beyond me there is nothing other, nothing higher anywhere, O friend!
On me this All is strung together, as the pearls upon the string.”¹⁴⁰

Here the great philosopheme is spoken in a single verse. It speaks to us as a literal, faithful copy of a symbolic archetype, as significant as the archetype itself, and no one will fail to see its perfect congruence with the sense of the Homeric passage. Here, then, we see idea, symbol, and word still in perfect harmony. Perhaps in an older saying of some religious singer the golden chain of Zeus had been mirrored just as faithfully. We call this case the first stage.

At a second stage, another poet had turned the philosophical symbol into a fact. Now it was a short myth: Zeus has fastened all the fundamental forces and bodies of the universe to Olympus with a golden chain. Here too the brevity and significance of the original idea and its 119 image were still immediately given.

But now the singer of the Iliad takes hold of this myth, weaves it into the whole of the action of the Trojan War, and, unmindful of its first meaning, makes it a sensuous motive for gods who feel and act sensuously. Zeus speaks, threatening the other gods:

“Come then, you gods, make trial, that all of you may know it:
Fasten a golden chain from heaven above;
Then hang on it, all you gods and all you goddesses:
Still you would never drag from heaven down to the ground
Zeus, the ordainer of the world, however hard you strained at the work!
But if I in earnest chose to pull,
I would draw you up with the earth itself, and with the sea;
And then I would bind the chain about the rocky peak of Olympus,
So that the universe would hang aloft in the air!
So far do I surpass the gods in might, so far mankind!”^140bisk

Here, then, the fundamental drive of myth is plainly visible: to turn what is thought into something that happens. 120 But of course, what was full of content and significant as idea and symbol has become strange and odd as a fact, transposed into reality. Yet even so transformed, the original essence of the idea has not been able to perish entirely, and the profound content still betrays itself even under the veil of this tale.

The same spirit, and the same descent from old figurative wisdom, are betrayed by the other passage, on the punishment of Hera, where this queen of heaven appears hanging in the air with two anvils on her feet¹⁴¹, and likewise by the one on the intended binding of Zeus and on the hundred-armed Briareus¹⁴². That is why the weighty myths of the East in particular have this strange and absurd appearance. Critics who separate things have found passages like the last ones named incompatible with the purely poetic spirit of Homeric song. But it was entirely in the manner of the ancient Oriental to give room to an unfettered fancy in the strangest fictions and the oddest compositions.

To be convinced of this, one need only 121 read the Indian myths of the incarnations of Vishnu, especially the first two, of Vishnu as fish, and then those of the elephant and the tortoise, together with the striking story of the churning of the Sea of Milk. But Greek myths too roamed out into the monstrous wherever they aimed at religious fullness and philosophical sense rather than beauty of form. The Orphic myths, especially those of the cosmogony, and those of the elder Pherecydes, who philosophized wholly in the Oriental manner, are conceived in this spirit and bear this form.

The Orphic Chronos, or Heracles, has the heads of a lion and a bull, a human or rather divine face, and wings on his back. Born of earth and water, he lies with Adrastea, who is bound with her giant body to the ends of the world¹⁴³. He wholly recalls the philosophical symbolism of the East, which renounced the beautiful and sought only to preserve the great content of old belief in speaking images. Even 122 the Hesiodic epic not seldom pays homage to this spirit, as for example in the terribly grand song of the castration of old Uranus by his son Kronos¹⁴⁴.

The myth wholly pervaded by the epic, on the other hand, usually has nothing of such mysterious significance. Or if it does enclose a deeper sense, this sense has been brought into harmony with the pure form of poetry. The Homeric Hymn to Demeter proves sufficiently how even the mystical becomes human and moderate in the pure epic, and so achieves a pleasing appearance. For the truly poetic myth is properly meant to give only a sensuous sequence of actions, kept within human measure.

This progressing and flowing of narrative legend forms a sharp contrast with the persistence of the symbolic. In the same way, its light, sensuous nature stands far from the weighty content of the firmly and deeply grounded symbol. This marks the widest separation of the two kinds, between which several points of approach lie. Now more persistent and significant, now more fleeting and empty, myth hovers in the distance, while the symbol always commands, resting and silent.

Myth in its 123 freest flight might be compared to the butterfly, which now plays with its colours in the sunlight on light wings; the symbol to the chrysalis, which kept the light creature and its wing still unfolded beneath a hard covering.

[End of Chapter Three.]