An Essay on Satyr Names
An Essay on Satyr Names
Abstract and Keywords
The skilful and imaginative vase paintings of satyrs make us forget that they originated in a real spectacle. In this essay, I propose to consider satyr names as the names of actual revellers and mummers, rather than as an invention by the painters or as names of daemons, viz. as fragments of an infinitely richer world. This perspective has wider ramifications than merely shedding light on the society in which these spectacles took place and on the technical language of the Bacchic parade. It can contribute to our understanding of, for example, why in the course of Greek history descriptive names were progressively relegated to nicknames. It highlights the role of metonymy in colloquial Greek and the influence of the parade of satyrs in naming practices. And it helps to explain the sense and meaning of several Greek words and names. Part I deals with some general questions on this phenomenon. Part II discusses the meanings of 40 difficult or remarkable satyr names and deals with more specific questions, such as the use of masks and soot, and coarse names.
WE KNOW OF SOME 120 satyr names (most of them from Attic vases), though thirty are repeated and others badly preserved.1 This material has been collected by precise and careful scholars, the reading of the minute inscriptions written beside the figures is in most cases ascertained and the linguistic derivation explained. The question now is: how do we make sense of these names? The underlying idea of this essay is that they can be properly understood only when viewed against the backdrop of an old tradition of folk culture.2 This is an unusual perspective, but one which accounts for more names and facts than a purely mythical or artistic interpretation. The first part of this chapter is designed to discuss some general aspects of this phenomenon. The second deals with a group of illustrative or intriguing names and covers more practical aspects (use of masks and soot, puns, dances, coarse names, shouts and cries, etc.).
There is more than one way to make the point that the names of satyrs essentially originated as names of revellers and mummers, not least by studying the names themselves, which are openly descriptive and self-explanatory, as if created for audible, tangible and visible characters (see Part II below). Several names can be understood as running descriptions good for shouting out in the midst of a crowd (see § 3). Some have parallels in festivals from other times and places—those alluding to masks (Βρίκων, Σιμός), to blackened faces (Αἴθων, Ψολέας), to cries and shouts (hία(κ)χος, Βρίακχος), or to social types and professions (‘Hδύοινος, Καδωρός). A few even have exact equivalents later, as is the case with figures on two 6th-c. BC ‘Chalcidian’ amphorae decorated with dancing couples of satyrs and women. Together with Σιμός, ‘Flat-nosed’, Δάσων, ‘Hairy’, and Οϝατίης, ‘Big Ears’, we find here Δόρκις, Ἱππαῖος, Ἵππος, and Πόρις; in addition, a similar but older Corinthian vase in Dresden, decorated with five dancing couples (two all male), has preserved the name ϝάρις for a dancer.3 Five of these names refer to animals—the calf (Πόρις), the stag (Δόρκις < δόρξ), the horse (Ἵππος and Ἱππαῖος) and the sheep (ϝάρις). This matters, because, of all animals, the Calf (vitula, iuvenca), the Stag (cervulus), the Horse (hinnicula), and the Sheep (agnicula) were masked characters in different winter festivals, as condemned by the Fathers of the Church from around AD 370.4 Similar masquerades, usually combined with costume-changes, simulated sexual intercourse and participants running riot, are well known in winter and spring festivals, from Bulgaria to Ireland, from Scandinavia to Morocco. There is an enormous chronological gap and it is difficult to assume any direct continuity. It is more helpful to see elements of the spirit of folk carnivals that continued to exist for thousands of years, wandering from one festival to another, and acquiring new elements and meanings. For our purposes the important point is that the painters of these amphorae were not depicting mythical beings, but masked dancers—as satyrs yet with names which described their role or appearance.
Accepting that satyr names originated from real mummers is not to deny that they had a decorative function, that they were an integral part of the compositions or that painters could be playful with them, nor does it imply that these were historical names that referred to concrete revellers (even if they sometimes did). It means that, when it comes to the names and their origin, the focus is not on primeval Elementargeister nor on the painters’ imagination, but on the reality of (p.102) a parade—in the case of the ‘Chalcidian’ amphorae perhaps some kind of winter masquerade, in the case of the Attic vases the merrymaking and drinking contests on the second day of the Anthesteria and the parade of the Great Dionysia, a riotous and playful spectacle, older than the god it celebrated in classical times.5
2. Names and Images
Commenting on the figures on the ‘Chalcidian’ vases, Ernst Kuhnert (p. 450) observed how well suited the names were. This may be true for some of them, but not for those alluding to animals (the satyrs with such names look very similar to each other). The fact is that a considerable number of satyr names do not correspond to the specific features of the individuals represented on vases. The phenomenon is particularly evident on red-figure vases. Λάσιος is not hairy. Διθύραμβος plays the lyre, not the pipe. Στύσιππος, Σάθων, Πόσθων are not ithyphallic, but Φλεβόδοκος is. Μολκός (: μολγός = wineskin) is a thin satyr playing the pipe. Βυβᾶς (: βυβός, ‘full’) is athletic and chases a maenad. Κισσός on a chous in Oxford does not have even a leaf of ivy on his body. Nothing in Αἰετός resembles an eagle. Οἶνος is a dancing satyr with a torch, and Οἰναρεύς a satyr playing pipes. Inversely, no satyr name alludes to characteristic features such as baldness, horns, beards, tails or hoofs. Significantly, no name refers to Dionysos, a habitual presence on the vases (but see Διθύραμβος below). In order to explain these discrepancies Heydemann (p. 43) thought that the names had been invented by the painters, no matter how ill-suited they were, and chosen only with the desire to label the figures with good-sounding names. This is hardly satisfactory, if only because of the realistic and specific character of the names. In fact, the gap between names and images reflects that we are dealing with different kinds of evidence. Painters developed a language of images which captured the atmosphere of freedom, the feeling that the satyrs were somehow liberated and unconstrained—but they did not try to give a realistic picture.6 They were inspired by jugglers, acrobats and monkeys, more than by real revellers. The names, by contrast, were not subjected to this process of stylisation: they originated in (or were directly inspired by) the real spectacle, were closely linked to local folklore, and have therefore preserved realistic fragments of a rich world which is missing from the paintings. This is why they have their own aesthetic logic independently from the images. This also explains why the same name can be given to more than one satyr on the same vase, for example on ARV21253, 57 (three satyrs called Κισσός) and ARV 688 (four satyrs called Σιμός), as indeed would have happened (p.103) in a real parade, or why common personal names can be used as satyr names (below § 5).7
3. Shorthands and Metonymy
Satyr names are short (usually two-syllable) and sonorous—βραχέα ἵνα εὐανάκλητα ᾖ, as Xenophon says about dog-names (Cyn. 7. 5. 1)—ideal to be shouted among a laughing mob. Different suffixes are used, but names in -ος are the most frequent: hία(κ)χος, hίαμβος, Κισσός, Κῶμος, Μῖμος, Μολγός, Οἶνος, Σίκιννος, Σκίρτος, Φανός, Χόριλλος, etc. In a sense, these names encapsulate the spirit of the parade. What is striking here is that all the names look exactly like common nouns: one has the impression that the dividing lines between persons and objects have been weakened. Revellers were usually masked and were only identifiable by an object, an action, a dance, or a cry; no other way was at hand. In many modern languages ‘mask’ is used for ‘masked person’, and the names of instruments or weapons (cf. French un fusil, un contrebasse) can be used as personal designations, usually improvised and colloquial. This is the principle behind the use of θύρσος for thyrsos-bearer (Σ Eur. Hec. 261 = p. 283 Dindorf), a technical term among Bacchic initiates. This is the principle behind several satyr names too. Κισσός and Φανός, for example, were names of revellers holding branches of ivy or torches. Some satyrs got their names from their distinctive cries and shouts (Βάβακχος, Βρίακχος, hία(κ)χος), just as the Athenian Ἰόβακχοι, a Bacchic festal guild, were called after their characteristic cry ἰὼ Βάκχε. Other names originated from dances or performances, used without morphological modification as names. The phenomenon is best illustrated by a text of the Delian antiquarian Semos (c.200 BC?) who informs us that ἴαμβοι was used not only for the ποιήματα, but also for the performers themselves, where the second meaning is only a quick way the public had to refer to the ἰαμβισταί: performance and performer were referred to by the same word.8 This way of speaking can explain not only the satyr name hίαμβος, but also Διθύραμβος, Σκίρτος, Σίκιννις, Κῶμος and Μῖμος. A clear distinction between performance and performer (σίκιννις ~ σικιννιστής, μῖμος ~ μιμητής, κῶμος ~ κωμαστής, ἴαμβος ~ ἰαμβιστής, σκίρτος ~ σκιρτητής) is not found among satyrs. This explains also the use of feminine nouns, such as σίκιννις (a dance) and πόρις (calf), as satyr names, with the same change of grammatical gender found in French un cornette or un enseigne. All these names are shorthand for the different characters. Their immediacy suggests quick descriptions (p.104) in the midst of a crowd, the rowdy style and tone of carnival. Yet not all features were apt for metonymic designations. Physical traits (Βυβᾶς, Δάσων, Ὀϝατίης, Σάθων) are expressed according to the normal patterns of derivation, which provided equally economical solutions. Intriguingly, names from musical instruments (pipes, bells, drums, etc.) are also missing.
An important question is whether new meanings were created when people used these terms. The immediate answer is ‘sometimes’. In the case of Ἡδύοινος, Ἴαμβος and Κισσός there is external evidence that a new meaning was created. Φανός (like θύρσος and βάκχος) may have become a technical term. Other cases are less certain, but the use of many of these terms as names of real persons (Διθύραμβος, Ἴαμβος, Κῶμος, etc.) suggests that the new (metonymically narrowed) meaning was more widespread than our texts show.
4. Don’t Judge a Satyr by its Cover
Metonymies depend on the context in which they occur and are easily misinterpreted by people who, like us, are removed from the situation. It is no accident that the sense of several satyr names is not clear to us, even if they are etymologically transparent. There are three potential sources of error. A linguist would tend to interpret Κισσός or Σκίρτος as shortened forms—how do we distingish a metonymy from a shortened form? Is θύρσος = βακχεύων a shortened form of θυρσοφόρος or a metonymy? In the context of a parade metonymy is likelier. Shortened forms often imply familiarity, which is missing in satyr names, and only rarely look like common nouns. Metonymies are used when no other way of identification is at hand and imply speedy communication; they are usual in colloquial speech and rare in official language and onomastics.9 One could say that metonymies and shortened names have a different tempo. A further problem is that a metonymic name (which involves contiguity) can be taken as a metaphor (which involves similarity). The difference is not always clear. When Aristophanes (Pax 864) calls the agile sons of the poet Karkinos στρόβιλοι, this may be a metonymy (στρόβιλος means a pirouette) or a metaphor (it also means whirlwind). Printed on a page, the satyr names Κισσός and Μολκός can be regarded as metaphoric comparisons, but shouted in the middle of a bustling crowd (probably with a pointed finger) there is a world of difference. A more common tendency is to interpret satyr names as personifications (the Wine, the Banquet, the Dithyramb, the Violence, etc.). If we isolate the satyrs and their names from the context of a (p.105) parade and see them as the invention of learned painters (in other words, if we dehumanise them), names become allegorical, as in a ritual drama. Personification and allegory are identifiable not only by the names, but also by the context and by what characters or figures do. The young Κῶμος drinking the wine offered by Dionysos (ARV21055, 76) may be a personification, but the satyr Κῶμος dancing together with his fellows Κισσός and Χόριλλος (ARV21253, 57) is not. The same can be said about abstract nouns when used as satyr names. Ὕβρις and Φυρμός are not personifications of violence and disorder: these names have an adjectival value here, if only with extra vigour, clarity and immediacy, as when a child is called Τάραχος, ‘disorder’, or when dogs are called Ἀλκή, Ὀργή or Τάξις.10 The system of images of the parade demands individuality and concreteness: people were busy with dance, masks, music, wine, and sex, and satyr names give us a detailed presentation of this. Whenever a concrete interpretation is possible, we should opt for it.
5. A Gallery of Stock Characters
A fragment of a comedy by Alexis (c.375–275 BC) pinpoints three further sources of names—mythical figures, social types, and common people. In the play, a father compares his son with well-known drinkers: τοιοῦτος γέγονεν, Οἰνοπίων τις ἢ Μάρων τις ἢ Κάπηλος ἢ <καὶ> Τιμοκλῆς·μεθύει γὰρ οὐδὲν ἧττον.11 Images from the vases can help us to make sense of this curious list. Nowhere is it said that Oinopion (a mythical king of Chios) and Maron (the Thracian priest who gave Odysseus the wine used to get the Cyclops drunk) were drunkards, but it is no coincidence that Οἰνοπίων and Μάρων are recorded satyr names: Alexis was not thinking of mythical figures, but of inebriated performers called Oinopion and Maron—the inspiration for the satyrs of this name too. Another figure of comic folklore was Μαρσύας (the pipe player who challenged Apollo), also represented on vases as a satyr. The third in Alexis’ list, Κάπηλος (‘the tavern-keeper’), has troubled critics, but Oinopion and Maron can solve this little puzzle: he was another traditional character, just like the satyrs Ἡδύοινος (the ‘Wineseller’) and Καδωρός (the ‘Keeper of the wine-jar’) in Attic vase paintings. These were probably not the only professions and social categories involved in the spectacle.12 It would be interesting to know whether these characters were indeed dressed (p.106) as satyrs, as in the paintings, or whether painters used the form ‘satyr’ only as a shorthand for ‘a participant in Bacchic merriment’.
The final drunkard on the list, Timokles, would have been a familiar face to Alexis’ audience—a personal counterpoint to the previous stock characters, which probably got a loud laugh in the theatre. Vase-painters also enjoyed introducing satyrs with real personal names into the stylised universe of the paintings—Δήμων, Ἐράτων, Εὐκράτης, Εὐμᾶς, Εὔπολις, Εὐρυτίων, Καλλίας, Σάμων, Σκόπας, Σωτέλης, Τέρπης. There is more than one explanation for these names. Most are the names of revellers and actors, as seen, ahead of his time, by Otto Jahn.13 Others were names of famous people (see Τέρπης below), or perhaps even victims of public mockery (drunkards, unpopular officials, sycophants, etc.), impersonated in the parade. A few were ‘speaking names’ alluding to an outstanding feature. Καλλίας and Σιμαῖος, for example, are two satyrs dancing on either side of a maenad on a vase in Brussels (ARV264, 104): although both look similar, the former was perhaps one of those satyrs which in more realistic paintings appear carefully coiffed and chic, as opposed to the ugly Σιμαῖος. It is indeed possible that some of these names were stock characters in the parade (ὁ Καλλίας? ὁ Σιμαῖος?), just as with modern carnival masks.14 Beyond the single causes, this irruption of the real into the poetic world of the vases made the images livelier and was no doubt appreciated by the public.
6. Invented Names
Not all satyr names belonged to traditional figures or characters. Names which were used only once and unparalleled formations (especially if they perfectly suit the images) are unlikely to be traditional. There is no single origin for this group. Take the famous black-figure aryballos of Nearchos (ABV 83, 4: c.550 BC) decorated with three masturbating silens, whose names—Ψωλᾶς (: ψωλή, ‘erected penis’), Δοφίος (: δέφω, ‘to masturbate’), and Τερπέκελος (probably a compound of κῆλον, ‘dart’ or ‘penis’)—suit the images just as perfectly as the images fit into the small area on the back of the handle. Are these names of daemons of fertility, as scholars of old would have thought? Are they comic nicknames of real people?15 Or are they rather a jocular invention of the painter designed to enhance (p.107)
the images? Or take the famous amphora of the Berlin Painter (Figure 5.1), where the satyr Ὀρείμαχος on one side is opposed by Ὀροχαρής (of antithetic meaning) on the other side—spatial and semantic symmetry: one may wonder if the names were made up or if they come from some kind of farce or performance where the opposition of wild and civilised satyrs played a role.16
From at least c.510–500 BC explicit visual elements (musical accompaniment, costumes) show that some depictions were derived from dramatic performances (satyric drama) and some names may have been invented ad hoc for actors.17 This may be the case of the Brygos cup in London (ARV2370, 13: c.500–450 BC), with two groups of attacking satyrs, whose names (Δρόμις, Λῆψις, Ὕδρις, etc.) fit perfectly with the scene and can be compared with those of Sophocles’ satyrs (Τρέχις, Δράκις, Μέθυσος, etc.). None of these were names of traditional characters, such as Σιμός, Κισσός, Σκίρτος or Κῶμος, but it would be wrong to see here learned or artificial elements, alien to the traditional spirit of the parade. Painters, poets and revellers knew the style of these folkloric-festive forms, they lived in the same world, breathed their atmosphere, used their language—and created new (p.108) names based on the same festive logic. These are not a different category from the rest of the names and some of them are dealt with in Part II of this chapter.18
7. Names or Descriptions?
On the whole, satyr names (either traditional or invented) point straight to the role, appearance, sounds and revelry of each character (they were originally designed to identify them in the middle of the crowd). Some (such as Κίσσος, Κῶμος, Μαρσύας, Σιμός, Σκίρτος) are used repeatedly on vases (sometimes more than once on the same one) and, in fact, we can easily use the plural and talk not only about Σιληνοί and Σάτυροι, but also about Μαρσύαι, Σκίρτοι, Σίκιννοι, Κίσσοι, Κῶμοι or Σιμοί. This particular characteristic appears clearly if we compare names of satyrs and names of maenads. There is a striking difference between these two groups: while the first are openly descriptive and sometimes crude, maenads have more normal names, usually alluding to positive physical characteristics (Εὐόπη, Εὐριδίκη, Γαλήνη, Καλή, Οἰνάνθη, Πολυνίκα, etc.). Kossatz-Deißmann (p. 145) saw here euphemistic names (a contrast to the maenads’ wild nature), but this is unlikely. Maenads were not masked and did not perform in a parade (or at least not as satyrs did). Just as few iconographic indexes allow us to distinguish a woman from a maenad, maenad names hardly differ from normal women’s names. To find something similar to the names of individual satyrs we have to consider Maenads’ generic names, and only then do we find the same kind of descriptive appellatives—θυιάδες (: θύω = ‘to rage’), εὐάδες (: εὐάζω = ‘to shout εὐαί’), κλώδωνες (: κλώζω = ‘to utter shrieks and cackles’), μαινάδες (: μαίνομαι), μιμαλλόνες (: μιμάζω = χρεμετίζω), οἰνάδες (: οἶνος), etc. This alone suggests that satyr names are not proper names as we understand them today. A satyr called Σῖμος was flatnosed, Δάσων was hairy, Ὀϝατίης had big ears, and Σάθων a big σάθη. Τέρπων is a known satyr name, but on a vase in Munich is an epithet: the wine is as pleasant as the silen is τέρπων. The name of the satyr Εὔπνους appears at Pollux (Onom. 4. 71) among those epithets which εἴποις δ᾿ ἂν αὐλητὴν ἐπαινῶν—is this a name or only an epithet? Do Βρίακχος (= ὁ βριαρῶς ἰάκχων), Ἄγριος, Αἴθων, and Ψολέας describe or name? Is Ἐλασίστρατος a personal name or a designation for the leader of a troupe of satyrs? Do Κάδωρος and Ἡδύοινος indicate the satyrs’ role in the parade or are they just names? Σκίρτος can be a proper name for a satyr but it also defines a category—the Σκίρτοι (Cornutus, Theol. Graec. 59. 8).19 This ambiguous quality, just like the use of masks, big phalli, and animal costumes, was part of the (p.109) satyrs’ comic and at the same time wild nature. In fact, satyr names can be compared with names of animals such as oxen, cows and horses (not names of pets, which come from the way small children speak). These are names that originated when dealing with animals and it is impossible to trace a sharp line between mere description and name. Each individual is understood as a variant of the species and gets a name from a distinctive or outstanding characteristic. The ‘names’ chosen can even change according to perspective and circumstances.20 It is significant that scholars have disagreed on whether the known Mycenaean oxen names (Αἴολος, Κέλαινος, Οἴνωπος, Ξοῦθος) are names or appellatives:21 like satyr names, they are descriptive denominations, halfway between proper names and appellatives.
The closest phenomenon in personal onomastics is that of certain kinds of slave names and nicknames, which treat each individual as a variant of the species, not as something beyond description—as most personal names did in the classical period.22 This is why, incidentally, nicknames are perceived as a backward and degrading practice (they put people on the same level as animals)23 and why descriptive names (just like Ἄγριος, Δάσων, Λάσιος, Ὀϝατίης, and others, documented both for satyrs and people) were progressively replaced, not only in Greece, by less ‘personal’ and more impenetrable ones.
8. Satyr Names as Personal Names
The parade of satyrs was such a colourful and impressive spectacle that the names of the various mummers became a source of inspiration for personal onomastics. Names of the stem of Σάτυρος are not documented before the 5th c. BC and were first used in Attica, most frequently in the Hellenistic period (4th–2nd c. BC)—a hint that the use of this word as an appellative for people (and as a personal name) originated in theatrical performances (satyric drama), just as the French use of diable (diablot, diablet etc.) in the sense of ‘(naughty) child’ originated in the diableries of the medieval mystères, performances with actors disguised as devils, jumping on the stage (and sometimes running riot through the streets), like the Greek σκίρτοι and σίκιννοι.24 Until recently theatre used to exercise a powerful (p.110) influence on ordinary people.25 Names formed on σιλανός ~ σιληνός are less frequent, but older: Σιλανός (Si-ra-no) is documented as an anthroponym in the Mycenaean period (KN V 466, 1), viz. many centuries before the first documentation of the word σάτυρος (Hesiod fr. 123 M/W ap. Strab. 10 p. 471). Mycenaean si-ra-no could be a common appellative (of unknown meaning) that only at a later stage was specialised for a kind of masked reveller, but it may well have had the same meaning as σιλανός ~ σιληνός in classical times. This should not surprise us if we keep in mind that the σιλανοί were not a sudden product of the early Archaic period, as vase paintings might seem to indicate, but figures of a culture of folk humour that developed over thousands of years. But there is more: people called Μαρσύας, Οἰνοπίων, Σκίρτος, Σικίννος, Ἡδύοινος, Κίσσος, Κῶμος, Χόριλλος or Οἰνόβιος may have got their names from stock characters in the parade (most of these names are first documented for satyrs and only later for normal people, and this may not be pure coincidence): parents probably found it amusing to call their frolicking children after these figures of comic folklore. The significance of this usage extends beyond onomastics. Silens and satyrs appear in literature rather sporadically, whereas (misleadingly for historians, if they are not careful) they are extremely frequent on vases. The use of satyr names for people shows that these names were not invented by painters (unless we assume that parents were inspired by vase paintings), and at the same time alerts us to the fact that the parade was a powerful source of words, names and images that went beyond the actual spectacle.26 One should not be surprised to find its influence not only in the vase paintings, but also in personal onomastics, in forms of popular literature and in myth.27
Very helpfully, the big mythological lexica record satyr names, tacitly assuming that these were the names of theriomorphic daemons belonging to the substratum of Greek religion or mythical companions of Dionysos. Although it may look bizarre to find the satyr Bάτυλλος (meaning a kind of effeminate dancer) on the same level as the Twelve Olympians, nevertheless this is probably correct, if only because it would be anachronistic not to consider the parade of satyrs a religious phenomenon. Already Hesiod fr. 123 M/W (ap. Strab. 10 p. 471) made the satyrs (p.111) descendants of Phoroneus, and writers sometimes refer to them as προπόλοι, συγχορευταί and ὑπηρέται of Dionysos, as they indeed appear on the vases. We may find it surprising, but this process was not hindered by the perception that satyrs and silens were masked revellers. Part of the problem with satyrs and satyr names depends on this crucial ambiguity: today ‘satyr’ covers different phenomena—the companions of Dionysos as represented on the vases; some genii of the woods, once thought to be the model and archetype of satyrs; and revellers and actors in fancy-dress.28 Yet there is no evidence that the Greeks distinguished between these different aspects, which indeed were inextricably linked and open to mutual influence. A great number of ancient phenomena do not fit neatly into our clear-cut categories and cannot be covered with a single explanation: ‘satyrs’ remind us that our rigid separations are not those of the ancients. All this is illustrated by the name Σιλανόδο[το]ς on late 6th c. BC Skyros, in the Sporades archipelago.29 This name was undoubtedly perceived as theophoric, but it does not follow that Silanodotos was a child born after prayers to Silen—in fact, the easiest interpretation is that he was an ‘enfant de la foire’30 conceived during a masquerade. Carnival and similar festivals are periods of intense sexual activity, as indicated not only by the state of arousal of the silens on the vases,31 but also (in modern times) by tables of the seasonal movements of conceptions.32 Silanodotos himself was probably convinced of having some supernatural connections—not out of naivety, but because he participated in a cultural pattern everybody shared. This name bears witness to the fact that, despite this process of mythologisation and stylisation, silens and satyrs were firmly anchored in a historical (and light-hearted, not to mention noisy) reality.
A critical catalogue of satyr names was published in 1991 by Anneliese KossatzDeißmann, completed with (mostly morphological) notes by Günter Neumann. There are no obscurities or distorted speech among satyr names, only lots of names without a context. The main idea of the following notes is that the linguistic (p.112) explanation of a name is only a part (though an important part) of its interpretation. Satyr names are a direct echo from the hustle and bustle of a spectacle whose richness (not least lexical) can be compared with that of modern folk festivals. Vases are referred to by J. D. Beazley’s Attic Black-figure Vase-painters (ABV) and Attic Red-figure Vase-painters (ARV2). Further bibliographical information can also be found in Kossatz-Deißmann’s catalogue and in the entries of the Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae.
Satyr with a tambourine and a torch on a lost Attic vase of the late 5th c. BC (ARV21316, 3); his fellows are called Σύβας and Εὐρυτίων (on which see Εὐκράτης).33 Bάτυλλος should not be interpreted as Βάθυλλος (Jahn, no doubt thinking of the satyrus Bathyllus at Pers. Sat. 5. 123): it is rather a name formed on the stem of βάτης and βατᾶς, ‘lecherous’ (Heydemann) or, more likely given the suffix -υλλος (as in Ἀγάθυλλος, Ξένυλλος or Δήμυλλος) on the stem of βάτον, ‘blackberry’, a possibility already mentioned by Fränkel. This may seem a strange choice, as βάτον names are endearing in their origin and used mainly by women, cf. Suda ν 430 (= Σ Ar. Plut. 1011) τὰς μικρὰς δὲ θηλείας βατύλας ἔλεγον. Yet this is probably one of those cases in which an endearing name (connoting delicacy and effeminacy) is used for a dancer. For example, Βάταλος is not only a term of endearment (famously used for Demosthenes), but also a generic term for effeminate men (Hsch. β 317) and the name of a 4th-c. Ephesian pipe player ridiculed by Antiphanes (PCG II p. 335). A similar case is Στρούθειν (= Στρούθιον) ὁ κίναιδος in Egypt, where κίναιδος is a kind of effeminate dancer and Στρούθιον an endearing name in -ιον of the kind that are normally used for women.34 A further case is Πάρις (and Παριδίων), a name of several pantomimes in the imperial period (L. Robert, OMS V, 191–2). A tabula Iliaca in Rome has preserved the name Βατ - - for a satyr,35 which suggests that Bάτυλλος too was a generic name for a kind of dancer. The name of the famous 1st-c. BC Alexandrian pantomime Bathyllus (Persius’ satyrus Bathyllus) is curiously close to Bάτυλλος, but, although this name appears in some mss. as Batyllus, this may be pure chance.
Pipe-playing satyr on an Attic red-figure neck-amphora in Warsaw (ARV227, 8: c.510 BC). Βρίκων should be distinguished from Βρίκκων, a Celtic personal name documented in Bithynia and Galatia, and also from Hsch. β 1156 βρικόν· ὄνον, Κυρηναῖοι. The stem of the satyr name is the same as in βρίκελοι, ‘tragic masks’ (τραγικὰ προσωπεῖα Hsch. β 1152 = Cratin. fr. 205 K-A), βρικίσματα, a Phrygian dance (Hsch. β 1154), and βρικοί· πονηροί (β 1155). Masks inspire both awe and laughter and can easily become folklore characters in their own (p.113) right. The term μορμολύκειον means both a mask and a bogeyman (cf. Μορμώ, a bogey-woman). Latin larva is used both for a mask and for a ghost. Medieval Latin masca means mask, masked person, and witch. A large number of modern carnival characters (the Sardinian mamuθθònes, the Spanish mecos and zigarrones, the German Mummel, etc.) were originally names of masks or disguises, later used as names of bogeymen. This is the origin of Hsch.’s βρικοί = πονηροί and of our satyr name, which adds a new word to the series: βρίκων, a scary character, a term supported also by the personal name Βρίκων (Halicarnassos, Iasos; cf. Πρίκων in Boeotia and Euboea), as names of bogeymen are often given to children: Μορμίας, Λαμία, Γελλίας, Γοργίλος, etc. Etymological dictionaries consider the etymology of βρίκελοι to be unknown or un-Greek, which is not surprising in these kinds of words. Yet a possible etymology is given by the fact that names of masks and bogeymen are often inspired by the noise made by the masked person and are based on onomatopoeic words36—ancient Greek Μορμώ and Καρκώ, French mom(m)on ‘mask, masked person’, German Mummel, Butze, Wuawau, Swiss German Löli, Butz, Böög, English bug, Italian bau, babó, barbaruno, mammoccio, modern Greek βαβουτσικάριος, μπούπαρος, μπούμπα, and so forth. This matters because it allows us to connect βρίκελοι and βρίκων with modern Greek onomatopoeic words such as βρίκι (noise made by small children), βρικασμός (= θρῆνος, κλαυθμός), or βρικά (= φλύαρος, λάλος), βρικίσματα (= κλαυθμός),37 and to think that, like modern names of masks, βρίκελοι too was onomatopoeic. This is also the origin of βρύκος and βροῦκος, as insect names are often onomatopoeic, and of modern Greek βρικόλακας, a kind of vampire.
Satyr assaulting a maenad on an Attic white-ground cup of c.470/460 BC found in Locri.38 Beazley suggested supplementing Βύβα[ξ] because the ending of Βύβας would be un-Attic and because Βύβαξ is documented as a personal name (Euboea), but the satyr name Ψωλᾶς on the Nearchos aryballos (ABV 83, 4: c.550 BC) shows that the ending -ᾶς for vulgar appellatives was known in Attica from early times and supports Βυβᾶ[ς]. The name, in any case, is related to an adjective βυβός meaning ‘full’ and ‘big’ used by Sophron39 and probably alluded to a fat satyr: name or description? This is also the origin of the personal names Βύβαξ, Βύβων, Βυβάλκης in Eretria, which show that the stem was (p.114) more widespread than the literary sources suggest; it is also found at Hsch. β 873 βούβαρα· μεγάλα, and Hdn. I 57, 23 L. (ex Eust. Il. p. 962, 15) βουβάρας ὅ ἐστι μέγας καὶ ἀναίσθετος—no doubt vulgar terms.
Διθύραμβος (or Διθύραμφος).
Satyr holding a kithara on a fragment of an Attic krater in Copenhagen (ARV21055, 78: c.450 BC). The prevailing belief is that this is a personification of the dithyramb (bibliography ap. Kossatz-Deißmann p. 151), such as is indeed documented in a choregic monument of Thasos, of c.350 BC, consisting of a marble base with allegorical representations of Τραγωιδία, Κωμωιδία, Διθύραμβος, and Νυκτερῖνος. Although the statues have not been preserved, it is often assumed that Dithyrambos was represented as a satyr, which, given its close association with Dionysos and its riotous nature, is very likely (for a similar reason, Τραγωιδία and Κωμωιδία may have been represented as maenads). This could be also the case with the satyr Dithyrambos (‘perhaps a “projection” of the choral song’, Dodds ad Eur. Bacch. 526), but there is a more prosaic possibility: if, as we have seen, ἴαμβοι can be used in Greek both for the performers of ἴαμβοι and for τὰ ποιήματα αὐτῶν (so Semos of Delos), and if ἴθυμβος means both the γελοιαστής and his performance (Hsch. ι 406), then we can assume that the performers of the dithyrambos too could be called διθύραμβοι—which is a fitting name for a reveller in the parade. The same interpretation is valid for Διθύραμβος when used as epithet of Dionysos (Eur. Bacch. 526), to be compared with other epithets such as Βάκχος, Κωμαστής, Μαινόμενος, Μύστης or Σκιρτητής, that refer both to the god and to his followers.
Tyrrhenic (= Attic black-figure) amphora from Cerveteri of c.560.40 This is the first in a parade of six ithyphallic silens (the others are Ἄγριος, Αἴθων, Λάμπων, Λάσιος and [Σ]φολέας: see Ψολέας below). The name alludes to the role of the leader of the procession—στρατὸν ἐλαύνειν is a common expression and, on the other hand, στρατός and στρατεύεσθαι are used in reference to the Dionysiac parade or to the band of satyrs, as reflected, for example, in the satyr name Στράτιος (Sophocles). The underlying image is the advance of the mob and the physical and verbal aggression characteristic of the performers. Interestingly, modern Greek στρατολάτης (formed with the same stems as Ἐλασίστρατος) is used for the ram or billy goat that leads the flock,41 ancient Greek κτίλος and (according to Servius, in Verg. Ecl. p. 4 Thilo) τίτυρος. The same idea is found in English bellwether, literally the leading sheep of a flock, used in slang (since 1688) with the meaning of ‘leader of a mob’ and, because of the bell, of a ‘very noisy man’ (Green’s Dictionary s.v.). Yet Ἐλασίστρατος on our vase is hardly a (p.115)
term of shepherds’ vocabulary (as when Odysseus is compared to a ram leading the flock: κτίλος ὣς ἐπιπωλεῖται στίχας ἀνδρῶν Il. 3. 196), but rather a descriptive designation for the leader of the troupe (or troop!) of revellers. For the interpretation of the whole scene see Ψολέας below.
A satyr on a red-figure vase by Ambrosios in Würzburg (ARV2173, 10: see σατρυβς below and Figures 5.2 and 5.3). Fränkel saw an apt name for a woodland daemon, but Kuhnert pointed out (471) that, since the satyr is holding a kantharos, his name can be related to κεράννυμι and its derivatives, like κρᾱτήρ (mixing vessel), εὔκρᾱτος (wine mixed for drinking), or Ἄκρατος, a Dionysian daemon (Paus. 1. 2. 4). A similar case may be Εὐρυτίων, a satyr on the (lost) red-figure vase ARV21316, 3 (see Βάτυλλος and Σύβας here). This too is quite a common personal name (a shortened form of Εὐρύτιμος) and is also the name of a centaur. Yet given the Bacchic context it may also be a ‘speaking name’ alluding to the word ῥυτόν, ‘drinking cup’. Because of Εὐκράτης (: κρᾱτήρ) and Εὐρυτίων (: ῥυτόν) one can wonder whether the satyr name Ὕδρις on the Brygos cup in London (ARV2370, 13) is a comic deformation of Ὕβρις (a satyr name) after ὑδρία, ‘wine pot’. Burlesque etymologies are common in folk humour. Οἰνοπίων (‘wine coloured’) was interpreted as οἶνον πιών. When used by an Athenian archon Οὐρίας is a normal name form (cf. οὖρος, ‘watcher’), but used for a dog-like satyr it gets new comic meanings (see below s.v.). Οὐκαλέγων is a Trojan elder in the Iliad (3. 148), but as a satyr name it had an openly festive tone: it designated a reveller who enjoyed ‘without caring (p.116)
about anything’.42 One thinks of Aristophanes’ use of Σεβῖνος as if derived from βινῶ (Eccl. 980, Ran. 1427) and Κινησίας (Lys. 852) as if formed on κινέω = βινέω. Moreover, Οἰνόβιος, Σιμάδης, Στυσίππος and Φλέβιππος are comic formations—in this case it is the contrast between the coarse contents and the serious form that gives the names their burlesque character. All these analogies and allusions filled the names with popular-festive merriment. These were names made up by members of carnival societies, authors of farces, or by the painters themselves.
Satyr name on two Attic kraters of c.450–400 BC (ARV21152, 8 and 1155, 6). Vase paintings as well as the description of the grand procession of Ptolemy Philadelpus (Ath. 5 p. 197C–203B = FGrH 627 F 2) show that satyrs serving wine were part of the Bacchic parade. The κάπηλος mentioned by Alexis (see above) was most likely one of these, as were the satyrs called Ἡδύοινος. Xenophon (Vect. 5. 3) uses the word ἡδύοινοι in the sense of winedealers, one of those colloquial terms that designate craftmen or sellers by the product they make or sell (German ‘mittelbare Berufsnamen’). Wilamowitz athetised this word, but Xenophon and the satyrs of this name support each other. A nomen agentis ἡδύοινος is certainly striking, but not difficult to explain. We have a hint of its origin in the inscription hεδὺς hοῖνος on a red-figure vase in Munich (see Τέρπων below), which reminds us of the self-complimenting cries used by street (p.117) sellers, a rich source of nicknames and colloquial vocabulary. Street cries are the origin of French (La Louvière, Belgium) plauplau, ‘marchand de poterie’ (W. von Wartburg, Franz. Et. Wörterb. 22/2, 2001, 266), English slang expressions such as all-hot (a seller of baked potatoes), crocks (crockery and glass sellers) and newsy (a seller of newspapers in the street),43 and medieval family names (originally nicknames) such as Drinkwater, Goodbeer, Freshfish or Swetmylke, with parallels in other languages.44 Ἡδύοινος can be explained as the name of a seller (or a satyr) praising the wine by shouting ἡδὺς οἶνος. This could also be the origin of the satyr names Οἶνος, the simplest cry, and Νέκταρ, a commendatory cry. To be sure, some of these words can be explained as speech-bubbles (the actual cries uttered), but the fact that Ἡδύοινος is documented as a vocabulary word and has modern parallels indicates that they may be colloquial designations of winesellers. All this has a practical implication for the text of Xenophon. Dictionaries usually translate his ἡδύοινοι as ‘sellers of sweet wine’, but since Xenophon opposes the ἡδύοινοι to the πολύοινοι, the contrast must be between sellers in bulk and ‘fine wine!’- sellers.45 Indeed, ἡδὺς οἶνος (Lat. vinum suave) is not the same thing as γλυκὺς οἶνος (Lat. vinum dulce)—‘beim Geschmake bezeichnet ἡδύς nicht eine bestimmte Art, das süße, im Gegensatze zum sauren, herben, bitteren u.s.w.; denn dies ist vielmehr γλυκύς: sondern auch hier nur allgemein das uns angenehme’.46 If we take ἡδυ- in this general positive sense, Xenophon’s ἡδύοινοι can be understood as the street sellers who had to announce and praise their wine, as opposed to the wholesalers—a direct echo of the loud advertisements of the street vendors.
Satyr on an Attic red-figure amphora in Munich, c.520–510 BC. Earshattering noise, shouting and crying was a characteristic of the parade (the αὐδὴ μεγάλη of Anth. Pal. 7. 707). We can imagine a large group of masked revellers shouting so loudly that (as happened in modern carnivals) it was hardly possible to hear anything else. In some modern parades revellers wearing specific masks are not allowed to speak, only to emit shouts and cries,47 which may have been the case of the satyrs Βάβακχος (Brygos cup), Βρίακχος (three red-figure vases), and hία(κ)χος. The last is best known as the name of the tutelary daemon (p.118) of the Eleusinian procession in Athens (who was invoked as ἴακχε) and as an epithet of Dionysos. Jahn deemed the use of such a name for a satyr to be outlandish (‘befremdlich’)48—but ἴακχος is a nomen actionis that can be metonymically used to designate a person, like Σκίρτος, and was applied to revellers uttering a high-pitched shriek—as a matter of fact ἴακχος was also used as an onomatopoeic (though humorous) designation of pigs: Ath. 3 p. 98 D = TGF 76 F 12. Beside the names, satyrs’ cries are only occasionally recorded. Hippocrates (Epid. I ch. 27 § 2 = A 2) describes the case of a man called Silenos who did not sleep at night, talked, laughed, sang continuously (λόγοι πολλοί, γέλως, ᾠδή), and ἐπεφώνησεν ἰού, which moved a commentator to observe how well suited the patient’s name was: σιληνὸς γὰρ ἦν!49 The author of this observation (an Alexandrian doctor) had no doubt heard the shrieks of our satyr’s fellows.
The form with aspiration hία(κ)χος is surprising, but it may reflect the actual form of the shouts uttered. Ancient grammarians noticed the irrational aspiration of the cry εὐοἵ (Lat. euohe) and observed that the aspiration suits those in Bacchic rage: τὸ σφοδρὸν πνεῦμα τοῖς βακχιάζουσι ἁρμόζει.50 The interjection ἰή too is documented with and without aspiration, in this case, though, under the influence not of alcohol, but of the verb ἵημι (imp. ἵει).
Red-figure neck-amphora by Euphronios (Paris, Louvre inv. G 33). The name is written downwards parallel to the left leg of a satyr. The first part (one or two letters) was damaged by the groove of a staple used in ancient times to restore the vase and only the upper part of two bars is preserved before the alpha. Denoyelle’s Ν̣ΑΝΒΟΣ is paleographically possible, but makes no sense in Greek.51 Neumann’s ῎Ιανβος is better, but there is still a bar at the beginning that requires an explanation. The simplest solution is to suppose that the left bar of an initial H was lost and to read Η̣Ι̣ΑΝΒΟΣ, with the same Bacchic aspiration as in hία(κ)χος—a hint that ἴαμβος too was somehow felt to be related to the Bacchic shouting. The use of this word as a satyr name is a beautiful confirmation of Semos’ statement (ap. Ath. 14 p. 622B) that ἴαμβοι could also be used as a nomen agentis (ἴαμβοι ὠνομάθησαν αὐτοί τε καὶ τὰ ποιήματα αὐτῶν). It is less clear whether the satyr name indicated a performer of ἴαμβοι (iambic invective, αἰσχρολογία), a kind of dancer like the Syracusan ἰαμβισταί (compared by Ath. 5 p. 181C to the Athenian performers of dithyramb), or had a less technical meaning, closer to (p.119) hία(κ)χος—it may be significant that according to the Etymologicum Magnum Ἴαμβη was a βάκχη daughter of Ἠχώ.
Dancing satyr on a 6th-c. BC ‘Chalcidian’ krater in Leiden (a similar amphora in Brussels has Ἵππος instead). The ending of this name (as in ἀναγκαῖος : ἀνάγκη) is not the one we expect in a derivative of ἵππος, but it is nevertheless well-documented for other names formed on o-stems and for shortened forms: Σιμαῖος (a satyr), Νεαῖος, Ξεναῖος, Φιλαῖος, etc. It happens that the suffix -αῖος was used for Lallnamen too (Νενναῖος, Ἀμμαῖος, Ἀνναία, Ἀτταῖος, Ἀππαία), which suggests a hypocoristic character—as is indeed found in λεχαῖος (: λέχος, cf. Aristophanes’ τέκνα λεχαῖα, ‘nestlings’), or in Attic forms such as καλαμαία (= καλάμη) and σεληναία (= σελήνη), deemed vulgar by ancient grammarians.52 Given that affectionate forms are commonly used to address gods,53 this might also be the origin of the variants Ἀθηναία ~ Ἀθήνη, Ἀφαία ~ Ἄφᾱ, Ἡραῖος ~ Ἡρακλῆς (Hsch.), and Ἀγραία ~ Ἄγρα. This is also the suffix of Ἀρναῖος, the Homeric beggar (ὁ γελοῖος πτωχὸς Ἀρναῖος Eusth.). As for the satyr Ἱππαῖος, it is worth noting that the animals impersonated in moderm masquerades are usually refered to in the diminutive (cf. Latin cervulus, hinnicula, agnicula, vitula), and that hobby-horses around Europe have names formed with diminutive suffixes, such as Portuguese cavallinho, French chevalet, Rumanian călúşar (‘little horse’) and alugiciar (stem of modern greek άλογο), or Czech koníček (‘little horse’).54
Red-figure Corinthian skyphos (late 5th c. BC) representing a female figure wearing a chiton and a bearded satyr handing her a basket (?). Only one letter of the inscription is now legible, but the first editors read the woman’s name as Ποντία and the satyr’s as ΚΑΔΩΡΟΣ, so far the only inscriptions known in Corinthian red-figure pottery.55 The editors interpreted the satyr name as a by-form of Κάδωλος—the κάδωλοι were the ministrants in the cult of the Kouretes and Megaloi Theoi, Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 2. 22, etc. It is easier to see a term καδωρός (hitherto not documented) formed on κάδος like θυωρός (‘keeper of the offerings’) or σταμνουρός (‘keeper of the jars’). Κάδος designated different kinds of wine jars, usually the large ones where wine was kept during the banquet; the καδωρός was the ‘keeper of the wine-jar’ and may have played a role similar to (p.120) Alexis’ Κάπηλος or to the satyr Ἡδύοινος. The term καδωρός can be compared with οἰνωρός, ‘keeper of the wine’, who, according to Hesychios ο 350, was an officer in the cult of Dionysos (οἰνωροί· οἱ ἱεραγωγοὶ Διονύσου), or with the οἰνοφύλαξ of Σ Ar. Pax 1178.
Dancing satyr on an Attic black-figure krater of 575–525 in Malibu (with Μολπαῖος and Οὐκαλέγων). Neumann (p. 175) considered any possible supplement uncertain, for there are no Greek names ending in -πίσιος. Yet the existence of satyr-names alluding to recipients (see here Εὐκράτης, Μόλκος, Ὕδρις, and Nonnos’ Πίθος) suggests that the name was [Καλ]πίσιος (: κάλπις, -ιδος, ῾pitcher’), even if this name is hitherto not documented. The formation is the same as in the anthroponym Φορμίσιος (: φορμίς -ίδος, ῾basket’) and (an even closer parallel) in Στάμνιος (: στάμνος, ‘wine jar’), the imagined father of Dionysos at Ar. Ran. 22: Διόνυσος υἱὸς Σταμνίου (Aristophanes was playing with the idea that Dionysos was also called Οἶνος, cf. Σ ad loc.). The satyr Καλπίσιος suggests that this passage originated in comic folklore, and hints that the name was Στάμνιος, rather than Σταμνίας, as sometimes assumed. There was undoubtedly something comic in Καλπίσιος and Στάμνιος, but there is probably more to it. Among Bacchic followers, vases and receptacles were sacred tools, like the κανοῦν or the κέρνος in certain ceremonies.56 So it is only natural that a good many satyr names concern ceremonial tools (i.e. vases). The fact that Κέραμος, the eponymous hero of the Kerameikos, was imagined to be son of Dionysos (Paus. 1. 3. 1) confirms the tendency to name Bacchic characters after names of recipients.
A satyr name on seven Attic red-figure vases of the period between 450 and 400 BC. Ivy leaves were used on coins and seals as a symbol of Dionysos, and ivy wreaths and branches were typical of his cult. Name combinations, such as that of the Athenian brothers Κίττος and Βάκχιος, or that of a Κίττος Διονυσίου in Sinope, show that personal names formed with κισσός were theophoric. The question is why the plant name is used with no change to designate a kind of satyr. One could think of a descriptive metaphor, as when words such as βλαστός ‘shoot’, θάλλος, ‘young branch’, or κλῆμα, ‘twig’, are used as personal names.57 Moreover, the ivy was sometimes described as ‘dancing’ (Anth. Pal. 7. 36 and 11. 33) and Servius (comm. in Verg. Ecl. 4. 19) speaks of flexipedes hederas. Yet the parallel of θύρσος and βάκχος, used to designate bearers of thyrsoi and branches, invites us to interpret κισσός as a shorthand designation for a reveller (p.121) or satyr holding branches of ivy (κισσοφόρος), just like the poet Sositheos, who ‘wielded the ivy-bough (ἐκισσοφόρησε) like the satyrs of Phlious’.58 Ivy branches held by maenads and satyrs are indeed a common motif on vase paintings. This use of κισσός is not only documented on vases. According to Pausanias (1. 31. 6) Κισσός (together with Μελπόμενος) was an epithet of Dionysos at Acharnae. Local guides of the Roman period explained this because it was at Acharnae that the ivy first appeared, but it is possible that here too Κισσός had the same meaning as when used for satyrs (a dancer holding branches of ivy)—a further epithet that refers both to the god and to his followers (see Διθύραμβος above). The same meaning may lie behind a passage of Nicolaus of Myra (Rhetores Graeci I p. 270 Walz: 5th c. AD) which explains that Κισσός was originally the name of a χορευτὴς Διονύσου, who after dying was turned into a dancing plant (χορεῦον ἄνθος), the ivy. And, finally, this meaning may be preserved also in the name of the cup-bearer Calocissus (Mart. 9. 93), which could allude simply to beauty and slimness, but also to a beautiful Κισσός (dancer).
The consistent use of Κισσός instead of the Attic Κιττός is striking (cf. also the names of maenads Κισσώ and Κισσίνη on Attic vases). Thumb saw a reflection of colloquial Attic in a period in which many foreigners were flooding into the city, whereas Kretschmer thought that the form originated in the language of lyric and dramatic poetry.59 Both views have some truth in them: κισσός was probably a technical term (‘branch of ivy used by Bacchic dancers’) introduced in Athens together with the ‘satyrs’ of the Peloponnese (those mentioned in Anth. Pal. 7. 707: see below s.v. Σιληνός and Σάτυρος). The fact that κισσός was not replaced with the local form κιττός alerts us to the fact that the meanings of the two terms were indeed different.
ogether with Σῖμος, this is one of the most common satyr names (sixteen examples, all from Attic red-figure vases, from c.460–400 BC).60 The interpretation of this name has been hampered by the fact that a personified κῶμος, or ‘merrymaking’, seems to be represented on a c.440 BC krater in Compiègne (ARV21055, 76: Κῶμος as a child near Dionysos, Tragedy and Ariadne) and on a cup in Würzburg (ARV21270, 17 = Arch. Anz. 1985, 249: Κῶμος as a young servant near Peitho, Pothos, Dionysos and Ariadne). Yet it does not follow that the satyrs of this name are personifications of the κῶμος, as often assumed,61 for, as Hans Larmer pointed out, nothing in their iconography indicates any difference from (p.122) their drinking and dancing fellows.62 Moreover, we have already noted that the personal name Κῶμος (as well as Κωμύλος, Κωμίων and others) points to a concrete use of the word κῶμος. The satyr name Κῶμος reveals a word κῶμος used to designate a kind of reveller, as strange as this may sound and even if the word is not documented in our texts. This is the pattern of satyr names. Within the Dionysian parade the κῶμος was a mobile choral group, with dancing, singing and pipe-playing performed by the κωμασταί,63 or (as perhaps we should call them) by the κῶμοι: this is the sense of the satyr name. How should we explain this way of speaking? One possibility is that the use of κῶμος to designate the members of the group was abstracted from σύγκωμος, ‘member of a κῶμος’, interpreted like συνῳδός or συμμολπός. It is also possible, though, that Κῶμος here is shorthand for κωμαστής, just as ἴαμβος is shorthand for ἰαμβιστής, σίκιννις for σικιννιστής, etc.
The history of satyr names ends with Nonnos of Panopolis (4th–5th c. AD), who in his epic poem about Dionysos’ life and deeds mentions eighteen satyrs by name. The impression these names produce is mixed. Images become kitsch, the grotesque and sexual features disappear. Purely Bacchic names, missing in the classical period, are used (Ληναῖος).64 The rural and mountaindwelling side is emphasised (Φηρεύς, Ναπαῖος, Πετραῖος, Ποιμένιος, Ὀρέστης, Λύκων), as the iconography of the satyrs had merged long before with that of Pan. Names become academic: Ληνόβιος and Θίασος are variations of the classic Οἰνόβιος and Κῶμος. Some, such as Σκίρτος and Μάρων, are old satyr names. Others are not previously documented, but may be old: Πίθος (cf. Μόλγος), Γέμων (cf. Βυβᾶς). An interesting case is Λάμις (14, 110). The suffix is found with the oldest known satyrs (Δόρκις, ϝάρις), on the Brygos cup (Δρόμις, Λῆψις) and it was used by Sophocles too (Γράπις, Δράκις). The stem is that of Λαμία, the monster famous for its ugliness (Paroemiogr. Gr. II 497, Σ Ar. Pax 758e, etc.), used to scare children and as a way to address them (Lucian, Philops. 2, etc.), which is the origin of personal names of this stem. Nonnos’ Λάμις may or may not be old, but the name is well formed and the meaning suits perfectly an ugly masked satyr—a case similar to Βρίκων, which is also used as a personal name.
A satyr holding a kantharos and wineskin standing with Dionysos, a small satyr Οἰνόβιος, and a maenad Χρυσείς, on an Attic red-figure krater (ARV2632, 3: c.450 BC). Neumann (160) deems the name to be ‘mehrdeutig’, but an explanation is possible. Hsch. μ 169 μάλεοι ὅριοι (ὄρειοι Alberti) looks close, but this is a corruption of μ 103 Mάλειον ὄρος. This last gloss, though, leads us to a possible (p.123) solution. Pollux (Onom. 4. 104) speaks of Λακωνικὰ ὀρχήματα διὰ Μαλέας with silens and satyrs ὑπότρομα ὀρχούμενοι. These dances were locally explained as being invented by a Silen from Mt. Malea (Σιληνὸν ἐκ Μαλέας ἐλθόντα), whom Pindar (fr. inc. 156 Snell/Maehler ap. Paus. 3. 25. 2) called χοροιτύπος (= ὁ ἐν τῷ χορεύειν τύπτων τὴν γῆν, Suda). The satyr name Μάλεος (a by-form of Mάλειος) alluded to this style of dance (a *χορὸς Μάλειος) or to the silen of Mt. Malea himself (as we have seen, it is not always possible to distinguish between names of dances and dancers: see Σιληνός and Σάτυρος) and seems to indicate that the Laconian dance was practised in Attica too. An alternative possibility is to see the mythological name Μάλεως or Μάλεος, a Pelasgian or Tyrrhenian king who moved to Athens and was somehow connected with the Athenian Αἰώρα, a Bacchic festival;65 in that case the vase painting may have been inspired by a theatre representation with Μάλεος playing a rôle.
Attic red-figure bell-krater in San Francisco with a sitting satyr who is playing the pipe between Artemis and Apollo (ARV21185, 13: c.430–400 BC). The last two are identified as Νοσσ(ίς) and Ἄλκις, no doubt the names of the actors, but this is probably not the case with Μολκός. A relation with the stem of μέλπομαι and μολπή (as suggested by Paul Kretschmer) is phonetically difficult, and so also is Neumann’s idea that this is a form of μαλακός. The best solution is Raoul-Rochette’s (Journal des Savants 1826, 92), who suggested correcting Μολκός to Μολγός—that is, βόειος ἀσκός, ‘ox-hide wineskin’. In fact, we only have to assume a by-form with κ for γ, as in forms such as Κλύκα and κλυκύτατος (γλ-) in Athens, or Πυρκοτέλης (= Πυργοτέλης) in Dodona. A first idea is that Μολκός ~ Μολγός is a metaphoric name, similar to Antiphanes’ use of ἀσκός for a fat drunkard (fr. 20 K-A: ἀσκός δι᾿ οἰνοφλυγίαν καὶ πάχος τοῦ σώματος), Venetian ludro (< Lat. uter), which means both ‘wineskin’ and ‘drunkard’, or English slang wine bag (same meaning). Spanish borracho, ‘drunkard’, is formed on borracha, ‘wineskin’.66 This is probably the interpretation of the satyr name Πίθος in Nonnos, which recalls Pollux, Onom. 6. 43 οἱ νῦν τὸν πολυπότην πίθον καλοῦσιν. Yet Μολκός might also be shorthand for the satyr’s occupation, as carrying wineskins and wine-pitchers is a common task of satyrs on vase paintings67 and similar metonymic names are well documented on vases. Μολκός may have taken part in a play with the actors Nossis and Alkis, but his name has the ring of a traditional satyr name. (p.124) Οἰνοπίων. A satyr pouring wine from an amphora into a large krater (ARV21045, 6: c.440 BC) and a satyr holding an amphora (ARV21184, 1: c.450–400 BC). This is the same character mentioned in Alexis’ list of drunkards (fr. 113 K-A), perhaps a drunken reveller serving wine to the bystanders. It was also a ‘nom plaisant’ for cupbearers, like the boy holding an oinochoe on an amphora by Exekias (ABV 144, 7: c.575–525 BC) and the one mentioned in Lucian’s Pseudologista, 21. Although Οἰνοπίων is formed on the adjective οἴνοψ (= οἰνωπός), ‘wine-coloured’, and this meaning really suits a satyr,68 its success in the Bacchic milieu is due to a burlesque etymology that saw it as a speaking name for a drunkard, viz. οἶνον πιών (διὰ τὸν οἶνον ὀπιπεύειν Eustath., vinolentus Latin grammarians)—the same kind of folk humour as when Tiberius was changed to Biberius, Claudius to Caldius, or Nero to Mero (Suet. Tib. 42), or when the modern Greek name Πιπίνης was associated with πίνω and used as nickname of a μέθυσος.69 Οἰνοπίων was the name of a mythical king of Chios. The fact that he played a role in Sophocles’ Kedalion, a satyric drama (frr. 328–331 R.), and in a comedy by Philetairos (PCG VIII p. 329), suggests that in comic folklore the mythical king and the mighty drinker had merged into one figure. One can even wonder if the tradition that the king was the son of Dionysos (and brother of Staphylos) has a folkloric origin too.70 We may have a similar case in Μάρων, the Thracian priest who gave Odysseus the wine used to get the Cyclops drunk (Hom. Od. 9. 195–215).71 He was later made son of Dionysos (Eur. Cycl. 141), perhaps as a result of his participation in the parade of satyrs. If so, these may be two cases where comic folklore has influenced mythical genealogies.
A satyr with a torch on a 450–400 Attic bell krater in Providence, Rhode Island (ARV21188, 1). Raoul-Rochette suggested (Journal des Savants 1826, 94) that this was a ‘génie bachique’. This is probably the case with the oinochoos Οἶνος standing near Ὀπώρα (‘Autumn’) and Ἄγγος (‘Wine Jar’) in a 3rd c. AD mosaic from Syria (AJA 40, 1936, 348), but unlikely in the case of the 5th c. satyr. If Οἶνος here is not a speech-bubble (the satyr was selling or offering wine), it may be a by-form of οἰνόχοος or ἡδύοινος (cf. δῆμος = δημότης, δρόμος = δρομεύς, πάροδος = παροδίτης, etc.). A different usage is found at Aristophanes fr. 310 K-A (τρέχ᾿ εἰς τὸν οἶνον ἀμφορέα κενὸν λαβών), where τὸν οἶνον seems to designate a wine market—markets were called in Athens by the product sold: ἰχθύες, λάχανα, μύρον, σήσαμα—and not a wineseller, as the satyr name Οἶνος might seem to indicate.
Late 5th-c. BC Lucanian skyphos in Palermo.72 The short text (previously read as ΟΝΑΑΣΕΥΟΣ and ΟΝΝΑΣΕΥΟΣ) is painted on a pillar beside a sitting satyr (with long ears and a thyrsos) and a maenad playing the pipe. Fränkel (p. 109) excluded that this could be the name of the satyr nearby, but it is difficult to imagine what else it can be. Heydemann (p. 21) saw a compound of ὄνος, ‘ass’ and σεύω, ‘to set in swift motion’, whereas Neumann (p. 164) thinks of a dialect form of ἀνασεύομαι, ‘to spring forth’, but both ideas are linguistically problematic. Scholars have usually understood this inscription as a single name, but it is easier to see two, one for the satyr and one for the maenad. The satyr’s was Ὄννας (or Ὀννᾶς). The same name is documented in Mysia (genitive Ὀννᾶδος) and the same stem (Ὀννίδας) in Assos. It is not clear whether this was a common personal name (stem of Ὀνάσανδρος, etc.) or, given the satyr’s long ears, a speaking name (stem of ὄνος, ‘ass’). The maenad’s name was the generic term Eὐάς, cf. Philostratos, Imag. 1. 19. 4, where the leaping of a panther is compared with that of a εὐάς: πηδᾷ κοῦφα καὶ ἴσα εὐάδι. All this makes the satyr Ὀννᾶς a σύντροφος εὐασταῖς, like the one in the epigram Anth. Pal. 16. 15.
A satyr in Sophocles, Ichneutai, 184. This is a deliberatedly ambiguous name—it could be based on a poetic form of ὄρος, ‘mountain’; on οὖρος, ‘watcher, guardian’ (cf. ἐπίουρος = ἐπίσκοπος); on οὔριος, ‘prosperous’; on οὐρά, ‘tail’ (also αἰδοῖον), or, finally, on οὖρον, ‘urine’. Most of these meanings are appropriate for a satyr who behaves like a dog, but the last two would bring a welcome comic effect—enhanced by the fact that Οὐρίας is formed like serious names such as Ἀρχίας, Ἀλκίας, or Νικίας: as a matter of fact Οὐρίας (: οὖρος, ‘guardian’?) is the name of the Athenian eponymous archon of 281/0 BC. Only the satyr’s behaviour on the stage could show what this name actually meant, but it should be noted that besmirching with urine is an ancient comic gesture, perhaps to be understood as a symbol of health and wealth. It is documented in carnivals, feasts of fools and masquerades. The modern Greek Kallikantzaroi (malevolent goblins modelled after masked revellers) are said to enter houses and befoul with urine all that they cannot use, just as the ‘noircis’ of the carnival in some parts of the Atlas mountains do with the women they pretend to rape.73 This is also an element documented in satyric dramas by Aeschylus (fr. *180 Radt) and Sophocles (fr. 565 Radt), where there is talk about throwing at each other the chamber-pot (τὴν κάκοσμον οὐράνην). An Atellana by L. Pomponius contained a similar scene.74 In the setting of a satyrical drama we should not be surprised to find a urinating dog on stage. A relationship of the satyr Οὐρίας with οὖρον was (p.126) suggested in 1916 by the Finnish scholar Tudeer, based on those vase paintings ‘in quibus satyri mingentes aliaque inepta facientes depicti sunt’.75
A satyr on a ‘Chalcidian’ krater in Brussels (see above § 1 and Ἱππαῖος). This is clearly the word πόρις (a by-form of πόρτις, ‘calf’), even if the use of a feminine term (in poetry = ‘young girl’) for a male dancer is striking. It is very unlikely indeed that this is the homonymous Thracian name Poris, on which see Dana, Onomasticon Thracicum (Athens, 2014), 274–5. I have suggested above that this name originated in a calf-disguise or mask, as documented in various winter and spring festivals since at least the 4th c. AD. In fact, Πόρις is reminiscent of men dressed up as calves and designated with a feminine noun (Lat. vitula and iuvenca, Spanish vaquilla, Roumanian vaca, the Slowenian rusa), a common presence in winter and spring festivals throughout Europe.76
Phallic display, one of the most striking features of satyrs, belongs to the most ancient stratum of the feast. A loincloth with horse tail and a phallos attached (σκύτινον καθειμένον), such as we know was used in theatrical performances, was enough to create the effect. Under the influence of vase paintings, scholars have thought that sex runs through far too many satyr names, often assuming subtle allusions,77 but coarse satyr names are direct and obvious. Most are descriptive names ending in -ων and closely linked to common vocabulary—Σάθων (: σάθη), Πέων (: πέος), Πόσθων (: πόσθη), Φλέβων (: φλέψ), are formed with the same suffix as γάστρων, κεφάλων or κήλων. The same category includes Latin gerro (*Γέρρων), formed on the Sicilian word γέρρα (= ἀνδρεῖα καὶ γυναικεῖα αἰδοῖα Hsch.), and sannio (*Σαννίων), formed on σάννιον (= αἰδοῖον). These were characters in the Sicilian folk-comedy adopted by the Atellana (A. Sonny, Archiv für Lateinische Lexikographie 10, 1898, 377–8); Latin glossaries explain these terms as nugator (‘buffoon’), an indication of their farcical nature.
Πόσθων, a satyr on a neck amphora in Karlsruhe (ARV2618, 3), is a particular case. Hesychios π 3097 gives three different meanings of πόσθων, each of them depending on a different tone: a term of endearment (παρὰ τοὺς παῖδας), a synonym of ψώλων (: ψωλή, erected penis), and a synonym of μωρός, ‘stupid’. The first meaning is the origin of the personal names Ποσθαλίων, Ποσθίων, Ποσθύλος, Πόσθων, which indeed suggest a term of endearment meaning ‘boy’ (cf. Ar. Pax 1300 and Thesm. 291). The use of πόσθων = μωρός is derived from (p.127) this meaning, as nursery-talk terms are commonly used by adults with derogatory meanings (a childlike connotation). Sometimes, though, it is not only tone, but variation in tone that matters. To judge from satyr names such as Πέων and Σάθων, the satyr name Πόσθων has the second meaning (= ψώλων). But here the painter gives us a little surprise: Πόσθων is indeed a … child (the first satyr in the procession, Soteles, is black-haired; the last, Marsyas, white-haired): was the painter playing with the different uses of the word πόσθων or did he just call the young satyr ‘boy’? This case is a reminder of the paradox at work in all satyr names: most can be interpreted as common nouns or proper names and only the context clarifies the meaning.
Mid-5th-c. Attic red-figure vase in Würzburg (ARV2173, 10: Figures 5.2 and 5.3). A name *Σάτρυβς (*Σάτρυψ) is very unlikely, if only for the spelling βσ = ψ (one expects πσ or φσ). Ludwig von Urlichs (followed by archaeologists) saw here a misspelling of Σάτυρος, but this supposes too many mistakes for such a common and short word.78 Reviewing Kretschmer’s Vaseninschriften, Schulze (endorsed by linguists) proposed reading the letters from right to left (the rest of the names are written from left to right) as Σ<ι>βύρτας, a personal name found in a poem of Theocritus (Id. 5.5: set in Thourioi) and in Epeiros (a variant Σιβύρτιος was used in other regions).79 Schulze was on to something—the painter (the same who related Εὐκράτης to κρατήρ: see above s.v.) liked to be playful with names. The problem is that Σιβύρτας is a name of unknown etymology (not the kind we expect for a satyr), and is unattested in Attica, where we would expect an Attic (rather than a Doric) form. An alternative, as yet unconsidered, possibility is that the letters are not written backwards, but jumbled, and that the name was Τύρβας, a known satyr name (on which see below). True, the name has an extra Σ, but letters unnecessarily repeated are not rare in jumbled spelling, cf. ΣΑΚΙΧΣΟ = Ἴακχος (one extra Σ), ΑΣΕΚΡΣΑΣΑ = Ἀρκέσασα (one extra Σ), ΝΙΣΟΚΗΛΣΝΗ = Ὀνησικλῆς (one extra N), ΝΝΕΙΠΣΟΘΟΥΑ = Πείθουσαν (one extra N), or ΛΣΟΝΙΑΩΕΠΣΑΚ = Ἀσωπόκλειαν (one extra Σ) in Attic and Boeotian curse tablets.80 To be sure, we could also read Στύρβας, a form supported by στύρβη (Etym. Gen. AB) and στυρβάσαι· ταράξαι, ἀφ᾿ οὗ καὶ τύρβη ἡ ταραχή (Anecd. Bekk. 1. 303, 10). In any case, σαΤρυβς is a kind of spelling symbol reflecting the satyr’s behaviour, as Τύρβας is formed on a word meaning, precisely, ‘disorder’. The effect is that of a farcical topsy-turvy—the established order upside down, τύρβ᾿ ἄνω κάτω (Aesch. fr. 304). This little joke must have delighted its author.
A generic use of σιληνός is found on the François Vase of c.570/560 BC (plural σιληνοί) and in the inscription σιλανὸς Τέρπων on a vase in Munich of c.525–475 (see Τέρπων below). In the 5th c. things changed and Σιληνός was treated like any other satyr name: a red-figure lekythos of c.450–400 BC (ARV21247, 1) has a couple of satyrs called Σιληνός and Κῶμος, and on a vase of the same period (ARV21184, 1) we find the satyrs Σιληνός, Σιμός and Οἰνοπίων.81 Kuhnert (p. 473, followed by A. Hartmann, RE III A , 48–9) rightly inferred that when these two vases were painted σιληνός was no longer a generic name, and had already been replaced by σάτυρος with this meaning. Much has been written about the differences between silens and satyrs, whether they referred to different beings (one horse- and the other goat-like) or whether these were only different local names (Ionic and Doric) for the same mythological creature. An alternative approach is to understand the relationship between σιληνός and σάτυρος in terms of dances. Pollux (Onom. 4. 104) classifies the σειληνοί and σάτυροι as ὀρχήματα, just as Lucian (Salt. 22) deems the dances κόρδαξ, σίκιννις and ἐμμέλεια to be named after satyrs. Hesychios σ 258 defines σάτυρος as χορευτής and inscriptions use σάτυροι both for ‘satyr dance’ and for ‘satyrs’. When a Greek of the classical period said σάτυρος or σιληνός he was thinking of someone dressed up and dancing or acting accordingly. As in mimetic dances (γέρανος, γλαύξ, λέων, κερνοφόρος etc.) the dancer and the role assumed were seen as one and the same thing. The ‘satyrs’ that Pratinas of Phlious introduced in Athens were a new dance (or dancers) called … σάτυροι. After the introduction of the ‘satyros’, probably a faster and more acrobatic dance, the older style (the ‘silenos’) was considered old fashioned and (in a kind of metalinguistic reflection) performed by old silens: compare Eur. Cycl. 100–1, and so on. Due to the popularity of the satyric drama, σατύροι became a generic term for masked revellers (not only those performing in the theatre) and σιληνός was reserved for a particular type of dance.
A common satyr name, closely related to the dancing in satyric drama. The stem is that of σκιρτάω, ‘to spring’, which is said of animals (young horses, goats), but also of satyrs and maenads. Evidence about this name has been carefully collected and commented on by Emanuele Dettori.82 Only the morphology needs a small addition. Σκίρτος is a postverbal formation (Germ. Rückbildung) similar to βλάστος (: βλαστάω), μῶμος (: μωμᾶσθαι), τῖμος (: τιμάω) or φοῖτος (: φοιτάω). Like these terms, it is a nomen actionis: it originally indicated the leaps of the σκιρτηταί and later, metonymically, the σκιρτηταί themselves, as when the name of the dance σίκιννις is used as name of a satyr (= σικιννιστής). This way of speaking was favoured by expressions such as κρότος σικινίδων (Eur. Cycl. 37–40), which may refer both to the figures of the dance and to the dancers. Quite remarkably, this meaning of σκίρτος (‘leap’) is only explicitly documented (p.129) in the 9th c. AD in a letter of Leo Choirosphaktes (σκίρτον σατυρικόν: see Dettori p. 45), but the satyr name shows that it was already known in the classical period. I note, in passing, that Σκίρτος (which was used as a personal name too) can shed light on a little crux onomastica. The philosopher Thales is said to have adopted his sister’s son, called Κύβισθος (Diog. Laert. 1. 26; Plut. Sol. 7. 2–3). Scholars have traditionally seen a Carian name here,83 but there is little support for this. If we accept a spelling σθ = στ, Κύβιστος can be interpreted as formed on κυβιστάω, ‘to tumble head first’ (esp. of acrobats), just as Σκίρτος is formed on σκιρτάω: κύβιστος (= κυβίστησις, cf. σκίρτος = σκίρτησις) would have referred first to a characteristic movement, and later to its performer (= κυβιστητής, like σκιρτητής)—the origin of the personal designation. One can also compare the use of στρόβιλος, ‘pirouette’, as a personal name. Were the κύβιστοι a kind of Milesian acrobatic dancers, like the Attic σκίρτοι?
A satyr with a torch in his left hand on the same Attic red-figure pelike as Βάτυλλος. Jahn related this name to the stem of σοβεῖσθαι, ‘to be agitated’, and of σόβοι = σάτυροι (Σ Dem. 21. 158 = II p. 232 Dilts),84 but (unfortunately) the ο ~ υ fluctuation, common in Central and Northern Greece, is not Attic. In fact, Σύβας is the same word as Hsch. σ 2125 σύβας· λάγνος (‘lecherous’), itself a variant of Hsch. σ 2126 σύβαξ (= συώδης, ‘swinish’), formed with the same ending as κόρδαξ and φλύαξ. Although Σύβας may have had the sense of λάγνος or συώδης, among satyrs we expect something more concrete. For example, σύβας and σύβαξ may have alluded to some particular dance or movements, like those of the obscene κόρδαξ or the burlesque φλύαξ, and the sense of λάγνος may be derived from that dance—we have seen that the name of his dancing companion, Βάτυλλος, may allude to an obscene dance. By a stroke of luck the word behind σύβας and σύβαξ has been preserved. An ancient etymology (wrongly) explained the name of the συρβηνέων χορός as formed on a call for pigs σύβας (or rather σύβᾰ, like τύρβᾰ). Editors adopt the variant σῦρβας because this word was supposed to explain συρβηνεύς.85 However, this was a dance performed with empty αὐλοθῆκαι καὶ φαρέτραι (Phot.), so that the original form was probably συβηνεύς (: συβήνη, ‘pipe-case’) and was later associated with the adverb σύρβα, ‘in confusion’. For our purposes the important thing is the call σύβα: given that words meaning ‘pig’ are often derived from calls by breeders (which often try to imitate the animal’s noise), behind σύβας and σύβαξ may be a term based on this call (cf. modern Cypriot σουᾶς, Swiss German Suggel, and similar terms).86
A satyr playing the lyre on a red-figure Attic vase from Tarquinia in New York (ARV260, 66: c.525–475 BC). This name has not attracted the attention it deserves. Long ago Crusius saw that the name of the citharoedus Τέρπης at Anth. Pal. 9. 488 is a shortened form of Τέρπανδρος, the famous 7th c. BC Lesbian poet and musician active in Sparta, as the same anecdote about the death of Terpes alluded to in Anth. Pal. 9. 488 (‘by a fig on the lips’) is found at Suda γ 315 (= Paroemiogr. I 391 n. 77) in relation to Terpander.87 As Schulze (p. 701) saw, the lyre-playing Τέρπης on the vase from Tarquinia is the poet Terpander, who was almost a mythical figure (cf. Paroemiogr. I 118 = Zen. 5. 9: τὰς ψυχὰς καὶ τὴν στάσιν ἔπαυσεν, etc.). Famous musicians are represented on vases: Mousaios, Olympos, Pronomos, Anacreon and Phrynis, the citharist from Mytilene, active in 5th-c. Athens. The peculiarity here is only that Terpander/Terpes appears as a satyr, but we find the same phenomenon when mythical figures such as Maron and Oinopion appear on vase paintings as satyrs. Many centuries later Nonnos called a satyr Πρόνομος (Dion. 14. 113: Πρόνοος Koechly), probably after the famous Theban pipe-player.
Documented on four red-figure vases from c.525–450 BC. Schulze (p. 716) saw here a coarse name (a shortened form of τερπότραμις), and connected it with the epigram CEG 400, a dedication to Aphrodite where Τέρπων seems to be ‘ein zum Dämon erhobener Phallus’. Yet among satyrs the sense was probably more general and related to festive singing and dancing (cf. Plut. Mor. 60 B Σειληνοῖς ὁ Διόνυσος ἐτέρπετο). This idea finds some backing in the pipe-playing satyr Τέρπων on the same vase as Τέρπης, and in the scholia ad Od. 22. 330, which explain Τερπιάδης (in Φήμιος Τερπιάδης, the Homeric bard) as ὁ τέρπων. Morphologically, Τέρπων is either a nominal formation or a participle of τέρπω. This ambiguity is best illustrated by the Munich amphora ARV2146, 2 (c.525–475) with the inscription σιλανὸς τέρπων ~ hηδὺς hοἶνος. Here Reisch saw a satyr name (not a generic term) Σιλανός followed by a participle τέρπων, corresponding to ἥδυς in the second part of the short text. Yet it was soon objected that Τέρπων is too well-documented as a satyr name not to be recognised here.88 In order to solve this little puzzle we should only remember that the line between satyr names and appellatives is not a sharp one: the author of the Munich vase is comparing the sweetness of wine with the pleasantness of the satyr’s performance, and by doing so he is using τέρπων, otherwise a satyr name, as an appellative parallel to ἡδύς.89 We may detect here something of the tone and style of a streetseller telling his listeners the qualities of his goods, often with jokes and (p.131) rhymes that are constantly reworked and adapted.90 As we have seen, the noun ἡδύοινος (= wine seller) and the satyr name Ἡδύοινος suggest that ἡδὺς οἷνος was indeed a common cry of winesellers.
Red-figure amphora in Naples (ARV21316, 1: 450–400 BC). Τύρβας is formed on τύρβᾰ, ‘in confusion’ (cf. τύρβη, ‘disorder’, ‘tumult’).91 There was a proverbial expression σύρβα τύρβα meaning ‘in a disorderly fashion and with noise’ (Paroemiogr. II 212: ἀτάκτως καὶ μετὰ θορύβου). Although ancient authors document τυρβασία as the name of a dance, what immediately springs to mind here (and this is the best approach when dealing with satyrs) is the name of the hunting dog Τύρβας (Xen. Cyn. 7. 5. 7), which is closer to the original meaning of the stem. Our dictionaries give no etymology for τύρβᾰ/τύρβη and point out that the stem does not look Indo-European, but τύρβᾰ (same ending as σύβα, a call for pigs), may be based on a call for animals as documented in many languages, not only Indo-European. We find it in pig-calls such as tthur and thurry (Ireland), turr and turra (Scotland), tūrr (Denmark), turr and türr (Germany), trr-trr and troutrou (France), sturr and stoordie (East Scotland); in the Tunisian call for donkeys ṭurrā, ṭurrā; or in the Egyptian call for camels and goats trr.92 Interestingly, Latin turbare (: turba) has preserved this meaning in the Romance languages, namely ‘to goad’, ‘to make animals move forwards’, usually with shouts and sticks.93 In fact, terms meaning ‘to rush animals’ are often used to express ‘confusion’, cf. German Hetzerei, ‘mad rush’ (from hetzen, orig. = ‘to hound an animal’), Spanish jaleo (from jalear, ‘to shout hal’ = ‘to goad’, a shepherds’ term), French (Norm.) trihori/trigori, ‘désordre’ (: gorr, a call for pigs), or Engl. tally ho, derived from an exclamation originally used to excite hounds when hunting. Xenophon’s dogname Τύρβας has been interpreted as ‘the one who sends the wild animals into turmoil’.94 We may wonder whether the satyr name Τύρβας was only generic and inspired by the topsy-turvy world of the parade (as the spelling σατρυβς = Τύρβας may indicate: see above), or whether it had a technical meaning, close to that of the (p.132) dog-name and indicated, at least originally, a satyr that goaded the rest of the troupe into madness. We note that the stem is used in personal onomastics (Τυρβαῖος, Τυρβαλίων, Τύρβων), but not Τύρβας, perhaps because it was a technical term.95
Τύβρων, a satyr on two vases from Paestum (c.350 BC), belongs to the same stem. Neumann suggested that this was a form of the aromatic plant-name θύμβρα (Latin satureia, Engl. savory), which makes little sense for a satyr. In fact, this is a form of Τύρβων (: τύρβα). A similar metathesis is found in Τρύβων, a personal name in Euboea, IG XII 9. 56 (198). Turbo, a gladiator at Hor. Sat. 2. 3. 310, is the Latin word turbo, -inis, ‘whirlwind, hurricane’.
Brygos’ cup in London (ARV2370, 13: c.500–450 BC). Several scholars have seen a derivation from ὕδωρ (a ‘plaisanterie’), whereas Fränkel (28–30; cf. Neumann, 156) suggests an incorrect spelling of Ὕβρις. In fact the spelling of Ὕδρις may be correct, but the name is not necessarily derived from ὕδωρ: as Ernst Kuhnert pointed out (p. 470) it is rather related to ὑδρία, a pitcher or a wine pot, and to ὑδρίς (a smaller ὑδρία), a term documented only in the ‘interpretamentum’ (an indication that this was a common word) of Hesychios υ 108 ὑστίς (ὑετίς cod.) ὑδρίς Ταραντῖνοι. As in the case of Μολγός, this name is not metaphorical, but metonymical and alludes to the activity of the satyr (see Καλπίσιος above). Notwithstanding all this, Ὕδρις could at the same time be a comic variation on Ὕβρις (see above Εὐκράτης).
Φαλλός was a technical or sacred term, used mainly for the huge wooden phallos carried during the processions, not the kind of word we find in names of satyrs. Yet Suda φ 50 has preserved a term φαλλίων which seems to have designated a kind of Bacchic reveller: Φαλλίονες δὲ εἰς τιμὴν τοῦ Διονύσου ἐπὶ γέλωτι στρατευόμενοι, οὕτω καλούμενοι ἀπὸ τῶν φαλλῶν τοῦ Διονύσου. August Fick saw here a shorter form of φαλλοφόροι,96 but the plural ἀπὸ τῶν φαλλῶν and the parallel of names such as Σάθων, Πέων and Πόσθων, formed with the -ων (not -ίων) suffix, point to a noun formed on *φαλλίον in the same way as Σαννίων is formed on σάννιον (= αἰδοῖον). The diminutive φαλλίον is indeed documented as βαλλίον (with Asiatic β = φ) at Herondas 6. 69.97 What were these ‘little phalloi’? One possibility is that they were phalloi crowning sticks and spears as represented on Greek vases, and the Φαλλίονες those satyrs who carry them.98 Semos (FGrH 396 F 24) reports that the phallophori rushed forward at the crowd mocking them (προστρέχοντες ἐτώθαζον οὓς [ἂν] προέλοιντο), no doubt with phalloi. Indeed, fools carrying phalloi (sometimes in the more acceptable form of big sausages (p.133) or bottle gourds) and rushing at the people are a common feature of modern carnivals (see Ψολέας below). Interestingly, Suda informs us that the term φαλλίων was euphemistically changed: πολλίωνας δὲ ὕστερον αὐτοὺς παραφθείροντες τὸ ὄνομα ὀνομάζουσιν. The transmitted form (from πολιός, ‘grey’?) gives a vague sense and hardly suggests the original. My guess is that πολλίωνας is a corruption of *παλλίονας (: πάλλω = sway, brandish), which is not only closer to the original φαλλίονας, but makes better sense, as the new word would allude to the revellers’ brandishing of phalloi (cf. the θύρσον εὐπαλῆ at Soph. Ichn. 226).99
A dancing satyr on a black-figure amphora in Frankfurt, c.525–475 (with Εὔπνους, Σιμός, Σφο-). Some scholars have seen here the name of a daemonic being that appears (φαίνω) to humans in the forests (Kuhnert, 461). In fact this is either the Attic adjective φᾱνός (Lissarrague, 46: ‘le Clair ou le Brillant’) or a metonymic use of φᾱνός, a nominalised form meaning ‘torch’ and the sacred branch of the mystae (Anecd. Bekk. 1. 224–5). Satyrs are often represented holding a torch, and just as those carrying ivy-branches were called κισσοί, and just as the thyrsos-bearers were called θύρσοι, participants in the parade carrying torches may have been called φανοί. One can imagine the path of the procession flooded with the light of the torches, as at the Achaian festival of the Λαμπτήρια, during which torches and mixing-bowls of wine were brought at night to Dionysos’ temple (Paus. 7. 27. 3). A plural like ἡ πομπὴ τῶν φανῶν may have facilitated a use of φᾱνός = ‘torch-bearer’.
Φλέβιππος, Φλεβόδοκος, Φλέβων.
Sexual and grotesque obscenity, an important (and ancient) ingredient in the carnival spirit, is always alive in ‘low’ and marginal areas, such as cheap objets d’art, unofficial speech and nicknames. The basis of Φλέβιππος, Φλεβόδοκος and Φλέβων is φλέψ = ‘penis’ (properly ‘vein’), a vulgar usage less common than νεῦρον.101 Schulze (Kl. Schr. 716) considered the ending of Φλέβιππος (ARV265, 108) to be ‘bedeutungslos’, but it probably had augmentative value, cf. Σ vet. Ar. Νub. 1070f, Κρόνιππος: ὁ μέγας λῆρος, κατ᾿ ἐπίτασιν (‘emphasis’) λαμβανομένου τοῦ ‘ἵππου’, Ath. 13 p. 565C ἱππόπορνος, or Galen XII p. 68 Kühn μάραθρον ἄγριον ὃ καλοῦσιν διὰ τὸ μέγεθος ἱππομάραθρον. Words of this meaning are common everywhere in vulgar language and slang,102 but, unlike these terms, Φλέβιππος looks like a perfectly serious personal name, which is what makes the obscenity funny. Φλεβόδοκος (ARV223, 3) too looks serious, but it is a verbal compound formed on the stem of δέχομαι (here = ‘to admit sexually’), which reminds us of the images of satyrs playing and dancing (p.134) with dildos in their rump.103 By contrast, the formation of [Φ]λέβων (red-figure lid in Malibu) is the same as that of the satyr names Πόσθων and Σάθων. Quite suprisingly, though, Φλέβων is also documented in personal onomastics (archaic Corinthian vase IG IV 234: Φλέβον μ᾿ ἀνέθηκε). If this name is not formed on the normal meaning of φλέψ, it may be a hint that (at least in Corinth) φλέψ could also be used in familiar and affectionate settings. We have a similar case in the name Πέων, the name of a dancing satyr on a red-figure krater by Euphronios (see Ἵανβος above), which may be documented as a personal name in Chios104—an indication that the nuances of these terms change geographically.
A satyr on a red-figure cup in Würzburg by the Kodros painter.105 Neumann (166) suggests a name from the stem of φῦμα, ‘tumor, growth’, perhaps with a sexual connotation, but the derivation is awkward and the sense far too euphemistic for a satyr. It is easier to read Φυ(ρ)μός, with the same omission of rho as is found in Ἀχανεύς, Θεσίλοχος, Φίμου, or Λυκοῦγος in Attic inscriptions.106 The name Φυρμός is indeed documented for a reveller on a vase in Naples (ARV2466, 104). The term φυρμός (: φύρω, ‘to mix’, ‘to confound’) means ‘mixture’ and ‘disorder’ (φυρμὸς καὶ σύγχυσις Diod. Sic. 36.11) and suits a reveller in the Bacchic parade. As a satyr name, Φυρμός is shorthand, as when Τάραχος, ‘disorder’, is used instead of ταραχώδης as name of a child, no doubt a rowdy one.107 A similar case is the satyr name Ὕβρις,108 which is no personification, nor even elevated style, but speedy communication—Ὕβρις is in fact a dog name (Xen. Cyn. 7. 5), just like Ἀλκή, Ὀργή and Τάξις.
A dancing satyr on four red-figure vases between 440 and 390 bc, no doubt a stock character. Literally translated, Χόριλλος means ‘little dance’, which is odd as designation of a dancer. There is more than one possible explanation. Neumann, 150, saw a shortened form (cf. Μνάσιλλος and Κράτιλλος), but these hypocoristic forms are unusual among satyrs. There is a more interesting possibility if we remember that names of dances can be used in Greek (and among satyrs) also for their dancers: σίκιννις, κόρδαξ, γρύλλος, δάκτυλος, ἰθύφαλλος, μόθων, φλύαξ: Χόριλλος could be the name of a particular kind of dance and the diminutive ending refer not to the dancer but to some characteristic of the dance (a short one? one performed at the beginning?). A similar formation is τολμίλλος, (p.135)
‘dare devil’ (Theognostos, Can., prooem: ὁ τολμίλλος ἐγὼ καὶ αὐθαδίας), where the ending refers to the τόλμη and not to the τολμητής.
The catalogue of Kossatz-Deißmann, certainly the most useful tool for the study of satyr names, confuses different names and stems when dealing with the names in Ψολ- / Ψωλ-. Whereas Φσoλᾶς in the New York aryballos of Nearchos (ABV 83, 4) is obviously formed on the stem of ψωλή, the potter (not satyr) -ολέας (ABV 62) is unlikely to be formed on the same coarse word and should be integrated [Π]ολέας.109 On the other hand, the name of the satyr [Σ]φολέας on an Attic black-figure amphora of Cerveteri (see Ἐλασίστρατος above) and probably also Σφο- on a black-figure amphora in Frankfurt,110 are formed on the stem of ψόλος, ‘soot’, and ψολόεις, ‘smoky’. Indeed, besides Ἐλασίστρατος, a speaking name for the satyr leading the group, all the satyrs on the Cerveteri amphora have descriptive, not obscene, names: Ἄγριος, Αἴθων (cf. αἰθαλώδης = ‘sooty’, ‘black’), Λάμπων, Λάσιος. In addition, the -έας suffix is not documented for obscene names, while it is quite common in those alluding to colour or size, as we see in Μικκέας, Μεγαλέας, Λευκέας, Ξανθέας (Ionic Ξανθῆς), Πελλέας, Πυρρέας, Φαιδρέας or Φαλέας (: φαλός, ‘white’), an indication that Ψολέας is formed on ψόλος and not on ψωλή.111 This is also the origin of the καλός name Ψόλων on a red-figure krater in Toronto in Ionic alphabet (ARV21607),112 which may originally have been a satyr name. Both Ψολέας and (p.136) Αἴθων are related to the practice of blackening the face with soot, as documented in masquerades thoughout the ages. Semos of Delos (FGrH 396 F 24 ap. Ath. 14 p. 622D) mentions a φαλλοφόρος ἰθὺ βαδίζων καταπασθεὶς αἰθάλῳ; Lucian (Sat. 2) describes a participant in the Saturnalia ἀσβόλῳ κεχρισμένον τὸ πρόσωπον; John Chrysostomos speaks of revellers ἠσβολωμένοι καὶ πάντας κακηγοροῦντες (PG 57, 409). In 15th-c. Basel revellers with blackened faces used to run into churches and ‘court’ the women gathered there. In 17th-c. Vienne (Isère) there was a festival called the Cérémonie des Noircis, with naked revellers running riot through the streets.113 In a study of carnival-type festivities among the Berbers in Southern Morocco, Émile Laoust mentions the stock character of the Guenaona or Isemgam (‘Les Noirs ou Noircis’), revellers with their bodies completely blackened with soot. In some parts of the country there is only one per festival, but more often there are groups of them (of up to fifty). Laoust describes very graphically how these revellers used to run amok:
Les Aït Mzal donnent le nom isnaben au groupe important de personnages masqués passant pour représenter des nègres. Ils ont le corps entièrement noir et dissimulent à peine leur nudité sous un vieux burnous largement troué dans le bas du dos. Ils sont armés d’une longue baguette et pourvus d’un phallus monstrueux taillé dans une cote de palme. Ils circulent dans le village en chantant des refrains obscènes parmi lesquels revient sans cesse la phrase suivante: “Les Noircis veulent forniquer!”. Ils stationnent devant les maisons, dont les terrasses sont garnies de femmes curieuses et de jeunes filles vêtues de leurs habits de fête. Ils sont parfois accueillis par une décharge géné-rale de coups de fusil tirée par les hommes non masqués. De temps en temps le chef de la bande les arrête et dit: “Prions!”. Tournant le dos à la foule, ils parodient la prière et, à la première prosternation, montrent leur derrière nu. Ils entrent dans les maisons et brisent tous les utensiles qui tombent sous leur baguette. Aussi prend-on d’en cacher la plus grand partie. Ceux qui parviennent à se glisser près des femmes font mime de voulour les violer: ils les piquent de leur phallus; certains s’oublient jusqu’à souiller de leur urine. Ils reçoivent, selon l’usage, toutes sortes d’offrandes, qu’ils utilisent à la préparation d’un festin servi le septième et dernier jour de la fête.114
We saw at the beginning certain parallels between the images on two ‘Chalcidian’ amphorae and modern winter festivals. The Cerveteri amphora may reflect yet another popular festival, also unknown in our texts but similar to the one celebrated in Morocco. The silens here do not brandish sticks with phalloi, like the isnaben, but their erect phalloi reflect the same sexual and aggressive impulses—the spirit of the scene is the same. The noircis in the Atlas Mountains are the satyrs Ψολέας, Αἴθων and their fellows, whereas the chef de la bande of blackened revellers, a stock figure in many modern carnivals, is the satyr Ἐλασίστρατος.
(p.137) Soot was designated in Greek with at least three words: ψόλος, αἴθαλος and ἄσβολος. Judging from the proper names Po-so-re-ja (Ψόλεια), Po-so-ri-jo (Ψολίων), Po-so-ro (Ψόλος), and Po-so-ra-ko (Ψόλαρχος), the first was common in the Mycenaean period, but later it was displaced by other terms, perhaps because of its similary with ψωλή (cf. Anth. Pal. 11. 328). The sense of the Myc. name Ψόλαρχος, though, is not apparent. Pascal Attigen (ZivaAnt 27, 1977, 69) connects it with metalwork (‘celui qui regne sur la suie’) and suggests a ‘parodie des noms guerriers’. Another possibility is that Myc. ψόλαρχος was indeed a noun for the chief of a military unit, ‘The Blacks’, here used as personal name.115 But it is not impossible that Myc. ψόλαρχος designated the leader of a festive group, like Ἐλασίστρατος on the Cerveteri vase.
(*) I am deeply grateful to Ralf Krumeich, to Katie Morton, to Robert Parker and to an anonymous reader for their corrections and suggestions.
(1) Special abbreviations: Bakhtin, Rabelais = M. Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World (Engl. tr. Bloomington, IN, 1984); Fränkel = Ch. Fränkel, Satyr und Bakchennamen auf Vasenbildern (Halle, 1912); Green’s Dictionary = Green’s Dictionary of Slang I–III (Oxford, 2010); Heydemann = H. Heydemann, Satyr- und Bakchennamen (Halle, 1880); Kossatz-Deißmann = A. Kossatz-Deißmann, ‘Satyr- und Mänadennamen auf Vasenbildern des Getty-Museums und der Sammlung Cahn (Basel) mit Addenda zu Charlotte Fränkel, etc.’, Greek Vases in the J. Paul Getty Museum 5 (1991), 131–99; Kretschmer = P. Kretschmer, Die griech. Vaseninschriften (Gütersloh, 1894); Kuhnert = E. Kuhnert, ‘Satyroi’ in Roscher’s ML IV (1909/1915), 444–531; Lissarrague = F. Lissarrague, La cité des satyres (Paris, 2013); Neumann = G. Neumann, contributions to Kossatz-Deißmann’ catalogue, 146–99; Schulze = W. Schulze, review of Kretschmer, GGA 1896, 228–56, here cited from his Kleine Schriften (Göttingen 1933), 692–717; van Gennep = A. van Gennep, Manuel de folklore français III 1 (Paris, 1947); Wachter = R. Wachter, Non-Attic Greek Vase Inscriptions (Oxford, 1995).
(2) The view that satyrs are not purely mythical beings is found, among others, in U. von Wilamowitz, Der Glaube der Hellenen II (Berlin, 1931), 69–70, and W. Burkert, Greek Religion (Eng. tr. 1985), 166. G. Hedreen, Silens in Attic Black Figure Vase-Painting (Ann Arbor, MI, 1992), 155–61, has developed the idea that the silens’ appearance is based on that of masked revellers.
Proceedings of the British Academy, 222, 100–137, © The British Academy 2019.
(3) Leiden, Rijksmus. PC 28 (Wachter, 173–5); Brussels, Mus. Royaux A 135 (Wachter, 184–5); Dresden, Albertinum ZV 1604 (Wachter, 102–3). The so-called ‘Chalcidian’ amphorae were produced in Southern Italy.
(4) On these festivals see M. P. Nilsson, ArchRW 19 (1916–1919), 70–91; L. Radermacher, Beiträge zur Volkskunde (Vienna, 1918), 86–113; O. Giordano, La religiosità popolare nell’alto medievo (Bari, 1979), ch. I 5. Because classical writers do not mention these masquerades, Nilsson thought of a Celtic origin. Cf. Ἱππαῖος and Πόρις below.
(5) On the last see E. Csapo, ‘The Dionysian Parade and the Poetics of Plenitude’, UCL Housman Lecture 2013. The general mood of this parade has been compared with certain kinds of modern carnival: E. Csapo in Fragmente einer Geschichte der griech. Komödie (Heidelberg, 2015), 69–70 (with earlier bibliography).
(6) On this phenomenon see Fränkel, 78–9 or C. Isler-Kerenyi in The Origins of Theater in Ancient Greece and Beyond (Cambridge, 2007), 83.
(7) Not everybody thinks this way. Lissarrague (p. 41) considers satyr names as invented by the painters and sees in them a way into the ‘univers fantaisiste’ of the paintings; I see a reflection of the richer universe of the parade.
(8) Ath. 14 p. 622D = FGrH 396 F 24. Cf. also the use of the diminutive ἰαμβύλος = libeller (Hsch.). Personal names corroborate this use, cf. Διονύσιος ὁ καλούμενος Ἴαμβος (Ἰαμβοποιός Casaubon) at Athen. 7 p. 284B. One can also compare the use of κίναιδος = ‘obscene poem’ (D.L. 9. 110).
(9) Metonymies are understandably common in slangs, cf. English key (= prison warder), brass (= senior officer), gun (= gunman), uniform (= police officer), blue apron (= tradesman), leg (= footman), etc.: see Green’s Dictionary s. vv. Modern family names, such as Hood, Horsnail, Plumb or Rope, originated from similar metonymies: P. H. Reaney, The Origin of English Surnames (London, 1969), 245–9; P. Petersen, Mittelbare Berufsnamen unter den deutschen Familiennamen (Gießen, 1944). For metonymy in spoken language see now J. Littlemore, Metonymy: Hidden Shortcuts in Language, Thought and Communication (Cambridge, 2015).
(10) Instead, abstract nouns are commonly used for ‘maenads’: Εὐνομίη, Εὐθυμίη, Ἥβη, Κωμωιδία, Μολπή, Ὀπώρα, Φαλλῳδία, Τραγῳδία, Τριετηρίς.
(11) PCG II 82 fr. 113 = W. G. Arnott, Alexis. The Fragments (Cambridge, 1996), 304–6.
(12) Lucian (Salt. 70) describes a Βακχικὴ ὄρχησις with revellers dressed up as Satyrs, Titans, Korybants and shepherds (βούκολοι). Mummers playing different social types and trades, on the other hand, are common in modern carnivals. In the Roman carnival of 1788 Goethe saw people masked as beggars, peasants, monks, lawyers, fishermen, thugs and sailors. Doctors, apothecaries, and cooks were stock figures of modern parades.
(13) O. Jahn, Archäologische Aufsätze (Greiswald, 1845), 143. One might wonder if the young satyr Εὔπολις on a bell-crater of c.475–425 BC (ARV21072, 1) is the known poet, who is said to have first competed in 429 BC at the age of seventeen (Suda ε 3657: ἑπτακαίδεκα ἔτη γεγονὼς ἤρξατο ἐπιδείκνυσθαι).
(14) See for example K. Meuli in Handwörterbuch des deutschen Aberglaubens V (Berlin and Leipzig, 1933), 1797–8 (Hansele, Heine, dummer Peter, Fritsch, etc.).
(15) For obscene nicknames cf. A. Eskeröd, Årets Äring (Stockholm, 1947), 364: ‘At the end of different kinds of work, the labourers used to give the last one nicknames, often very rude in character, and containing the word for the sexual organ. These customs are also known outside Sweden. I find that they have nothing to do with fertility, and are only to be regarded as crude jokes amongst the workers.’
(17) R. Krumeich, in Krumeich et al. (eds), Das griechische Satyrspiel (Darmstadt, 1999), 41–71, and Hyperboreus 20 (2014), 139–56.
(18) On satyr names in Sophokles’s Ichneutai there is now an excellent paper by A. P. Antonopoulos, Philologus 158 (2014), 53–64.
(19) Because Σκίρτος is used both as personal name and as name of a centaur, Emanuele Dettori, ‘Appunti sul nome Σκίρτος’, Seminari Romani di Cultura Greca n.s. 3 (2014), 39–52, denies that Σκίρτος can also be used as an appellative. If we accept that the categories of appellative and personal name are not absolute entities, things look different. Indeed, when we focus on the details we often find words that cannot be neatly classified under one of the main headings.
(20) See H. Bausinger, ‘Tiersucht und Namengebung’, in Festschrift für Paul Zinsli (Berlin, 1971), esp. 170–1 (Bausinger refers to these names as Umgangsnamen); U. Bentzien, Dt. Jb. für Volkskunde 14 (1968), 39–55 esp. 46 (on ‘Tiereigennamen, die an der Grenze zum Appellativum stehen’).
(21) J. T. Killen, Minos 2–8 (1993), 105–6: ‘Names or Descriptions?’.
(22) Cf. U. von Wilamowitz, Aristoteles und Athen (Berlin, 1893), 176 (‘der Sklavenname ist auch mit nichten mit den Menschennamen vergleichbarer als mit denen von Tieren’), and Schulze, 705.
(23) Cf. J. A. Pitt-Rivers, The People of the Sierra (Chicago and London, 2nd edn., 1971), 162–3: ‘There is a feeling, not only among the officials but in the pueblo, that nicknames are degrading and their use is a sign of barbarity, etc.’
(24) Cf. M. Closson, L’imaginerie démoniaque en France (1550–1650) (Geneva, 2000), 195–210 (‘Le diable comique’), cf. 195–6: ‘on doit aux mystères d’avoir, par leur ampleur, considérablement développé la figure du diable comique—ou plutôt des diables—et poussé très loin l’humanisation du personage, rendu semblable aux fous et aux enfants’.
(25) G. Paris, Mélanges linguistiques (Paris, 1906), 228: ‘une foule de locutions, de métaphores, de sobriquets, aujourd’hui employés couramment, proviennent de pièces de théâtre souvent tout à fait oubliées’.
(26) The phenomenon was beautifully illustrated by Michail Bakhtin, Rabelais. For the ‘carnevalesque’ elements in ancient literature and the value of Bakhtin’s views see W. Rösler, QU 23 (1986), 25–41, esp. 39, and W. Mezger in Karnevaleske Phänomene in antiken und nachantiken Kulturen und Literaturen (Trier, 1993), esp. 255.
(27) See Οἰνοπίων below. I am not suggesting that the mythical Μαρσύας and Σιληνός were direct descendants of folk characters in the parade, though they could be.
(28) As pointed out by C. Bérard, Metis 5 (1990), 81–2.
(29) IG XII Suppl. p. 172 no. 518; M. L. Lazzarini, Le formule delle dediche votive nella Grecia arcaica (Rome, 1976), 199 n. 149, integrates Σιλανόδο[ρο]ς.
(30) A French euphemism for ‘bastard’: C. Nyrop, Linguistique et histoire des moeurs (Paris, 1934), 121.
(31) After c.450 BC, though, ithyphallic satyrs were more rarely depicted: A. Heinemann, Der Gott des Gelages. Dionysos, Satyrn und Menaden auf attischem Trinkgeschirr des 5. Jhds. v. Chr. (Berlin, 2016), 137, 183–5.
(32) Van Gennep, 1080–1; P. Burke, Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe (London, 1978), 186. On the same island where Silanodotos lived (and probably was born), masquerades with hirsute revellers running riot and boys disguised as girls were celebrated in modern times: J. C. Lawson, ‘A Beast-Dance in Skyros’, BSA 6 (1899/90), 126–7, and R. M. Dawkins, ‘A Visit to Skyros’, BSA 11 (1904/5), 72–4.
(33) Drawings in O. Jahn, Vasenbilder (Hamburg, 1839), 14 (Taf. II: ΑΤΥΛΛΟΣ) and R. Rοchette’s Lettres archéologiques (Paris, 1840), Pl. II. ΒΑΤΥΛΛΟΣ; cf. O. Jahn, Archäologische Aufsätze (Greifswald 1845), 142–3.
(34) I.Philae 155 with the comments by P. Chantraine, Kratylos 7 (1962), 171–2, and L. Robert, Les stèles funéraires de Byzance gréco-romaine (Paris, 1964), 184–5.
(35) IG XIV 1293 = A. Sadurska, Les tables Iliaques (Warsaw, 1964), 83–94.
(36) Cf. W. von Wartburg, Franz. Etym. Wört. 6, 3 (1939), 62–3, s.v. mom(m)on: ‘zugrunde liegt wohl eine Nachahmung der verstellt gebildeten und dumpf hinter der Maske hervordringenden Laute der maskierten Tänzer und Würfspieler’. Van Gennep, 895 and 896 records the noises brou brou! and cacou cacou! uttered by masked revellers in carnival. We should not forget that masks have both an optic and an acustic function: see O. Eberle, ‘Die akustische Maske’, in Actes IVe Congr. Int. Sciences Anthrop. et Ethn., II (Vienna, 1955), 74–8.
(37) See the Ἱστορικὸν λεξικὸν τῆς Ἀκαδημίας ᾿Αθηνῶν s.vv.
(38) J. D. Beazley, AJA 45 (1941), 601–2, with photo fig. 6.
(39) Σώφρων βυβὰ (βύβα Β) ἀντὶ τοῦ μεστὰ καὶ πλήρη καὶ μεγάλα Etym. Gen. β 290 and Phot. β 307 (= PCG I 235 fr. 111). Hsch. β 1287 βύβα ταῦτα· ἐπὶ τοῦ μεγάλου τάσσεται is corrupt. Alberti pointed out that the plural ταῦτα hints at a word missing in the lemma (he suggested βῦ καὶ βύβα· ταῦτα etc.); Kaibel (on Sophron fr. 115) sees a citation (‘Sophronis verba βύβα ταῦτα’).
(41) A. G. Brontes, Laographia 12 (1938/40), 228 (Rhodes). In other regions it is called κεσέμι, μπρολάτης, μπροστάρης, μπροσταρότραγος, ὁδηγός, σύρτης, or λαγιαρνί: Th. Kostakis, Laographia 30 (1975), 55, and D. Loukoupoulos, Ποιμενικὰ τῆς Ῥούμελης (Athens, 1930), 59–60.
(42) Cf. the Enfants-sans-souci, a medieval guild of carnival-fools: E. K. Chambers, The Medieval Stage I (Oxford, 1903), 374.
(43) See Green’s Dictionary s.vv. Cf. Australian Engl. fisho, milko and rabbito, street-sellers of fish, milk and rabbits.
(44) P. H. Reaney, The Origin of English Surnames (London, 1967), 275–6 (‘Street-Cries’); for German see K. Hoffrichter, Echonamen (Heidelberg, 1992), 266–77. Dithyrambic poets were called ἀμφιάνακτες because their songs usually started with the words ἀμφί μοι ἄναξ: Suda α 1700.
(45) P. Gauthier too, Un commentaire historique des Poroi de Xénophon (Paris, 1976), 200, refers οἱ πολύοινοι to the quantity (‘ceux qui ont beaucoup de vins’) and οἱ ἡδύοινοι to the quality (‘ceux qui ont des vins de qualité’).
(46) J. H. H. Schmidt, Synonymik der griechischen Sprache II (Leipzig, 1878), 557.
(47) V. Risco, Revista de dialectología y tradiciones populares 1 (1948), esp. 188 (Galician carnival): ‘al choqueiro [: choca = ‘bell’] le está prohibido el uso de la palabra; puede dar gritos salvajes, saltar por encima de la concurrencia’. For the similar Greek κουδουνᾶτοι and κουδουνᾶδες see W. Puchner, Studien zur Volkskunde Südeuropas und des mediterranen Raums (Vienna, Cologne and Weimar, 2009), 126.
(48) O. Jahn, Beschreibung der Vasensammlung König Ludwigs in der Pinakothek München (Munich, 1854), 120.
(49) Galen, In Hippoc. Epidem. III 3 § 500 = CMG V 10. 2. 1 (1936), 12; cf. K. Deichgräber, Die Patienten von Hippokrates (Mainz, 1982), 8. For a similar cry see van Gennep, 1161 (young men carrying torches ‘à travers les rues ou les champs en criant io! io! io!’).
(50) Σ 951 Dion. Thrac. = p. 86 Uhlig; cf. Herodian I p. 503 L: πασχούσης γὰρ ψυχῆς ἢ διακόρου ὑπὸ οἴνου οὔσης ἄλογοι δηλονότι καὶ αἱ ἐ κφωνήσεις αὐτῆς· διὸ ἐπ᾿ αὐτῶν ἔσθ᾿ ὅτε τὸ δασὺ πνεῦμα ἀλόγως ἐν τῇ ληγούσῃ συλλαβῇ ὁρᾶται ὡς ἔχει τὸ εὐοἵ εὐἅν, εὐαἵ. See K. Lehrs, De Aristarchi studiis homericis (Leipzig, 2nd edn., 1865), 322–5.
(51) Euphronios, Pittore ad Atene nel VI secolo a.C. (Milan, 1991), 111–18.
(52) Cf. Eust. Il. p. 1181, 52 = IV p. 320 Van der Valk: καλεῖ δὲ τὴν καλάμην ὁ πολὺς ἄνθρωπος καλαμαίαν, ὡ ς καὶ ἡ σελήνη σεληναία λέγεται. Cf. the Euboean peasants’ σελήνιον ap. Dio Chrys. Or. 7.70.
(53) Cf. Μᾶ and Ἀμμά for Kybele or Πάπας for Zeus. For modern times cf. Sardinian Babbu (= ‘il padre eterno’), German (Pfalz) Babbe (‘unser Babbe im Himmel’), modern Greek Θεούλι μου, and the examples in W. Ohel, Das Lallwort in der Sprachschöpfung (Freiburg, 1933), 30–2.
(54) van Gennep, 902–7; M. Beza, Paganism in Rumanian Folklore (London, 1928), 50; G. Dumézil, Le problème des Centaures (Paris, 1929), 14.
(55) D. M. Robinson, C. G. Harcum and J. H. Iliffe, A Catalogue of Greek Vases in the Royal Ontario Museum of Archaeology (Toronto, 1930), 224 no. 454 pl. 83; I. McPhee and A. D. Trendall, in Corinthiaca. Studies in Honour of D. A. Amyx (Columbia, MO, 1986), 160–7, esp. 164–5.
(56) Or like the water-pipe of the hashish smokers, cf. I. Petropoulos, Ρεμπέτικα Τραγούδια (Athens, 1991), 15: ὁ ἀργιλές θεωρεῖται ἀπό τούς χασικλήδες ἱερό σκεῦος ὅσο καί τά ἅγια δισκοπότηρα. Πολύτιμο ὄργανο τοῦ ὁποίου ἡ ἀπώλεια εἶναι σωστό δυστύχημα, etc. (i.e. ‘Hashish-smokers consider the water-pipe a sacred tool, as much as the holy chalice. This is a much revered instrument and its destruction is a real misfortune’, etc.).
(57) On these names see F. Solmsen and E. Fraenkel, Indogermanische Eigennamen als Spiegel der Kulturgeschichte (Heidelberg, 1922), 162.
(58) Anth. Pal. 7. 707 (Phlious, in the Peloponnese, was the hometown of the poet Pratinas).
(59) A. Thumb, Die griechische Sprache im Zeitalter des Hellenismus (Strasbourg, 1901), 55; Kretschmer, 79.
(60) Cf. A. Kossatz-Deißmann, LIMC VI 1 (1992), 98: ‘Im Gegensatz zu anderen Satyrnamen hat dieser nur eine kurze Blütezeit zwischen 430 und 400 v. Chr. Nach dem Namen Simos rangiert er an zweiter Stelle der Beliebheit der Satyrnamen bei den attischen Vasenmalern.’
(61) Cf. P. Ghiron-Bistagne, Recherches sur les acteurs dans la Grèce antique (Paris, 1976), 237: ‘le satyr Kômos est en quelque sorte l’incarnation rituelle du symposion, dans ses préparatifs, son déroulement, ses divertissements, projection mythique des réalités de la vie quotidienne’.
(62) H. Larmer, RE XI (1922),1299; H. R. Immerwahr, TAPA 77 (1946), 250.
(63) Ghiron-Bistagne l.c. 225–7; E. Csapo in Fragmente einer Gesch. der griech. Komödie (Heidelberg, 2015), 65.
(64) Also on a 5th-c. AD painted veil from Antinoe: Kossatz-Deißmann, 160.
(65) On the Aiora see G. Wenzel, RE 1 (1894), 1042–4, and H. R. Immerwahr, TAPA 77 (1946), 254–5.
(66) An anonymous reader points out that Shakespeare may have taken the name of the drunkard Borachio (Much Ado about Nothing) from a carnival character. Figures such as Rabelais’ Gargantua and Cervantes’ Sancho Panza originated in characters of comic folklore, older than the works that made them famous.
(67) Cf. Kuhnert, 464: ‘der Schlauch gehört noch zu den häufigeren Attributen des Silen in dieser Periode [i.e. die Zeit des strengen Stils], er trägt ihn in der Hand oder über den Rücken oder sitzt auf ihm’.
(68) Aesch. fr. 47 a 786-8 mentions a satyr’s bright-red bald head (τὸ μιλτόπρεπτον φαλακρόν); Athen. 5. 197 F speaks of satyrs adorned μίλτῳ καὶ χρώμασιν.
(69) M. Kriaras, ‘Συμβολὴ εἰς τὰ νεοελληνικὰ παρώνυμα’, Ἀθηνᾶ 44 (1932), 171–83, esp. 181.
(70) On Oinopion’s ancestry see now G. Olding in The World of Ion of Chios (Leiden and Boston, MA, 2007), 146–9.
(71) Μάρων is documented only on two late mosaics and in Nonnos, but its presence in Alexis’ list of drunkards, together with Οἰνοπίων, shows that he was an old participant in the parade.
(72) See plate 2 in A. D. Trendall, The Red Figure Vases of Lucania, Campania and Sicily (Oxford, 1967), 53 nr. 275.
(73) See the text of Laoust quoted s.v. Ψολέας below; van Gennep 925–8 (‘barbouillages carnavalesques’); Bakhtin, Rabelais, 147–50 and 230.
(74) P. Frassinetti, Fabularum Atellanarum Fragmenta (Turin, 1955), p. 16 fr. II (Non. 114, 12: foria, stercora liquidiora, Pomponius Macco: conforisti me, Diomedes); cf. A. Dieterich, Pulcinella (Leipzig, 1897), 112–13.
(75) L. O. Th. Tudeer, De vocabulis quibus Sophocles in Ichneutis fabula satyrica usus est (Helsinki, 1916), 54–5. A. Antonopoulos, Philologus 58 (2014), 60, prefers a derivation from ὄρος, ‘mountain’, as ‘mountains are a natural habitat for the Satyrs’.
(76) J. Caro Baroja, El Carnaval (Madrid, 2006), 286, mentions carnival masquerades in which men appear dressed up as bovids and are called by generic nouns in the feminine (‘nótese esta particularidad muy importante’).
(77) Coarse interpretations have been proposed (not always correctly) for Βάτυλλος, Ἔχων, Ἐράτων, Λῆψις, Σύβας, Τέρπων, Φύ(ρ)μος. On ithyphallic satyrs see now Heinemann, Gott des Gelages, 134–48.
(78) (L. von) Urlichs (apud Heydemann p. 26), followed by Kuhnert (471), E. Langlotz, Griechische Vasen in Würzburg (Munich, 1932), 92 n. 474, and F. Hölscher, CVA Würzburg 2 (1981), 12.
(79) Schulze, 715, endorsed by Fränkel, 35–6, A. Hartmann, RE III A (1929), 29, and Neumann, 167–8.
(80) J. Curbera, ZPE 195 (2015), 147–8.
(81) No such individual use of Σάτυρος is documented until late Roman times.
(82) E. Dettori, ‘Appunti sul nome Σκίρτος’, Seminari Romani di Cultura Greca n.s. 3 (2014), 39–52 (cf. above note 19).
(83) U. v. Wilamowitz, Kleine Schriften, V, 427; L. Zgusta, Kleinasiatische Ortsnamen (Heidelberg, 1984), 308 § 639-2.
(84) O. Jahn, Vasenbilder (Hamburg, 1839), 15 n. 9; A. Fick, Kuhns Zeitschrift 25 (1899), 229.
(85) Paroemiogr. I 161 (Zenob. vulg. 6, 1) where the vulgata (codex Parisinus 3070) has σύβας (σῦρβας B). At Photius σ 829 (from Pausanias Att.) the word is missing.
(86) G. Rohlfs, FS M. Wandruzka (Tübingen, 1981), 285–90, with plenty of examples. L. Sainéan, La création métaphorique en français (Halle, 1907), 80, mentions the call of pigs sou-sou! in Provençe.
(87) O. Crusius, Jahrb. für class. Phil. 143 (1891), 385–94 esp. 386–7.
(88) E. Reisch, Festschrift Theodor Gomperz dargebracht zum siebzigsten Geburtstage (Vienna, 1902), 462 (contra: Kuhnert, 473; A. Hartmann, RE III A, 1929, 48–9). Lissarrague,144, translates Silanos terpon as ‘le silène qui fait la fête’, but this sentence is a couplet that makes sense only together with ἡδὺς ὁ οἶνος.
(89) Cf. Artem. 2. 12 p. 121 Pack: τῷ ἡδίστῳ δαίμονι Σειληνῷ.
(90) On such cries in general see Bakhtin, Rabelais, 181–7 (cf. 182: ‘each food, wine, or other merchandise had its own words and melody and its special intonations, its distinct verbal and musical imagery’). Examples can be found in V. L. Saulnier, Bulletin de l’Association G. Budé 36 (1977), 404–17 (e.g. anis fleuri, mon bel anis), or E. Littmann, Der Islam 10 (1920), 178–227 (Cairo).
(91) Τύρβᾰς (: τύρβᾰ), like μέγᾰς (: μέγᾰ) and σύβᾰς (: σύβᾰ).
(92) D. Thomas, Animal Call-Words (Carmarthen, 1939), 3, 61–4; F. Schulthess, ‘Zurufe an Tiere im Arabischen’, Abh.Preus.Ak. 1912 (8); G. Rohlfs, FS M. Wandruzka (Tübingen, 1981), 285–90, esp. 289–90 (French trr-trr).
(93) H. Schuchard, Zeits. f. Rom. Philologie 34 (1910), 378; M. L. Wagner, Das ländliche Leben Sardiniens im Spiegel der Sprache (Heidelberg, 1921), 93 (Logudorese trubare = ‘die Rindern gewaltsam antreiben’); tuba, a call for cattle and dogs in Southern Spain, may be related. For the dogs see also L. Sainéan, La création métaphorique en français (Halle, 1907), 7–9 (‘cris d’appel et de chasse’). Cf. G. Rohlfs, Zeits. f. franz. Spr. u. Lit. 47 (1927) 114: ‘Auf dem Felde der Urschöpfung verschwinden die Grenzen zwischen den Sprachen. Wir sind an den Quellen des sprachlichen Werdens.’
(94) F. Mentz, Philologus 88 (1933), 421: ‘der Name bezieht sich auf das ganze Wesen des Hundes, durch das er seinen Gegner, also das Wild oder (wenn Kriegshund) die Feinde in Verwirrung setzt’.
(95) Because ‘turmoil’ implies gathering and movement, the meaning of τύρβη was extended by metonymy to ‘jollification’ (ἀπόλαυσις: Phot. σ 563, Suda τ 1192, etc.) and to ‘a disorderly group’ (cf. Engl. mob < mobile vulgus): Suda γ 189 and τ 1192 (the indigenous Γέργηθες were so called by the Milesians).
(96) A. Fick, Curtius Studien 9 (1876), 187.
(97) A diminutive φαλητάριον (: φάλης) is documented by Nonnos Abbas (PG 36, 1048: 6th c. AD).
(98) H. Herter, RE XIX (1938), 1675; E. Csapo in Comedy and the Discourse of Genres (Cambridge, 2013), 53–60.
(99) Similarly, the name of King Σαρδανάπαλος was changed into Σαρδανάφαλλος (Hsch. σ 201). According to R. M. Rosen, TAPA 118 (1988), 32, Hipponax’ Βούπαλος contains an allusion to φαλλός.
(100) ΦΑΝΟΣ was erroneously read instead of ΔΑΣΟΝ on a Chalcidian amphora (Wachter, 173).
(101) Anth. Pal. 16. 261 (τὴν φλέβα δεξάμενος), Austin, CGFP (1973), fr. 350. 85 (εὐτόνωι φλεβί). The same use is documented for Latin vena: see V. Boggione and G. Casalengo, Dizionario storico del lessico erotico italiano (Milan, 2010), 310–12, s.v. ‘vena’.
(102) English slang donkey-hung, donkey prick, etc. (Green’s Dictionary s.v.).
(103) E.g. JHS 78 (1958), 6 Fig. 2, and JHS 87 (1967), 120 Plate XV d (= Berlin AS inv. 3364).
(104) The reading, though, is not certain. The first editor (G. I. Zolotas) read Πύθω|νος, F. G. Maier (= LGPN I) Πέω|νος, W. G. Forrest (cf. SEG XIX 577). Π..ω|νος.
(105) ARV21270, 17. The inscriptions were read by A. Lezzi-Hafter, Arch. Anz. 1985, 249–51 = SEG XXXV 48.
(106) L. Threatte, The Grammar of Attic Inscriptions I (Berlin and New York, 1980), 481.
(107) T. Ruinart, Acta martyrum (Regensburg, 1859), 452: ‘a parentibus dicor Tarachos, et cum militarem nominatus sum Victor’.
(108) ARV21186, 30: c.450–400 BC. A satyr Ὕβρις gave its name to a satyric drama by Sophocles (Σοφοκλέους Ὕβρεως σατύρου: frr. 670–1 R.): R. Krummeich et al., Das griechische Satyrspiel (Darmstadt, 1999), 277–9.
(109) The idea comes from Sir J. Beazley, AJA 58 (1954), 187: ‘Ψωλέας to ψωλός as Φιλέας to φίλος?’ The ghost name [Ψ]ωλέας is unfortunately recorded in LGPN II.
(110) Scholars have suggested reading Σφό[δρος] (Greifenhagen) and [Χαρ]οφς (Beazley); Neumann’s Σφο[λέας] (as in Cerveteri) is better, but Σφό[λον] (= Ψόλων) is also possible.
(111) Wachter (231) considers Ψολέας an uncontracted form of Ψωλᾶς (: ψωλή) formed like Κριθέας, where he sees an obscene use of κριθή (documented in Aristophanes); but Κριθέας may be formed on the normal sense of κριθή, ‘barley’, cf. Κεγχρέας < κέγχρος (‘millet’): see J. Curbera in Personal Names in Ancient Anatolia, 113.
(112) Thus H. R. Immerwahr, Attic Script: A Survey (Oxford, 1990), 112 n. 774.
(113) E. Simon in Obscenity, Social Control and Artistic Creation in the European Middle Age (Leiden, 1998), 204; S. Reinach, Mythes, cultes et religions I (Paris, 1905), 179. 114 E. Laoust, ‘Le carnaval berbère’, Hesperis 1 (1921), 254–316, esp. 300. Laoust considers these festivals to come from the Roman period (on p. 287 he mentions a character called Boumennani or Boubennani < Lat. bonum annum). See also E. Westermarck, Ritual and Belief in Marocco, II (London, 1926), 133–58 (masquerades) and 172–3 (noircis). For similar practices in other areas see for example van Gennep, 930–2.
(115) The Spanish and Portuguese family name Pardo (‘Brown’) was originally that of the medieval milites pardi mentioned in the chronicles: J. Leite de Vasconcelos, Antroponimia Portuguesa (Lisbon, 1928), 192.