The Iliad, a poem by the Greek poet Homer, describes a siege by Greek forces of the city of Troy. The poem is thought to have been composed about 700 or 800 BC; it’s set in a period about 400 years earlier than that. The story interweaves many mythological elements, such as the MacGuffin of a beauty contest between the goddesses Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite. Paris, a Trojan, was asked to be the judge. He chose Aphrodite, who in exchange promised Paris the most beautiful woman in the world. This was Helen, who was inconveniently married to the Greek king Menelaus. Nonetheless, she went with Paris to Troy. Result: Trojan War.
As with other stories involving Greek gods, the story of the Trojan War—in fact, the idea of Troy itself—was long considered mythological. But in the late 1800s, the German archeologist Heinrich Schliemann dug in modern-day Turkey and unearthed what was eventually determined to be nine layers of an ancient city that might have been Troy.
Schliemann, unlike many others, was sure that Troy and the Trojan War were historical events, not just myths, which is why he went digging. Which brings me to this week’s new-to-me word: Euhemerism (you-HE-merism). This is the idea that myths have a historical basis, even if only dimly seen through the fanciful elements in the story.
The term Euhemerism is about only 150 years old. But it references the Greek historian Euhemerus, who lived about 400 BC, who was a proponent even then that myths were based in history and that mythological deities were based on real people.
Troy is certainly a good example of Euhemerism. Some other myths probably don’t hold up, like the supposed founding of Rome on April 21, 753 BC by Romulus and Remus. I think part of my interest in the word is that it addresses what might be some touchy subjects—after all, one person’s myth is another person’s religion (and vice versa). For example, is Noah’s Ark a fanciful story, or does it have some sort of historical basis? Obviously, there are people who take the story as historical. And other stories like these come to mind as well.
Anyway, now I have a word for framing this discussion.
Origins! A lot of reading has been happening in our house recently about mushrooms. Eventually it occurred to me to ask where that word came from. I think what finally triggered my curiosity was reading about Mutt-rooms, a “fungal dog treat”: how did room get into mushroom, anyway?
The word mushroom came into English as a slightly different word, rendered as musseroun, musheron, or variants of these. The ultimate root isn’t known; the word was in Norman French and related languages/dialects. There’s a late Latin word mussirion, but it’s possible that late Latin actually got the word from Old French. It might be related to the word moss.
The interesting part is that by the 1500s, the word had become mushroom, with -room where there previously had been -oun or -on. There are a couple of theories here. One is that English speakers nudged the word into a form that seemed more English-sounding. We’ve seen this process (called folk etymology) before, such as how pentyz became penthouse and marzipan became marchpane. Another is that some words that ended in -n in French just shifted to an -m; this happened with venin > venom and velin > vellum.
I’m a fan of folk etymology and the idea that speakers reanalyze foreign-sounding words into something more familiar. Alas, my personal preferences don’t have any particular weight in this matter. All this aside, though, if my wife’s cultivation efforts work out, we’ll have lots of mush-rooms around the house soon.
Like this? Read all the Friday words.