VICISSITUDES OF SICILIAN GOVERNMENT.—GLANCES AT PHALARIS, STESICHORUS, EMPEDOCLES, HIERO I., SIMONIDES, EPICHARMUS, DIONYSIUS I., DAMON AND PYTHIAS, DAMOCLES, DIONYSIUS II., DION, PLATO, AGATHOCLES, HANNIBAL, HIERO II., THEOCRITUS, ARCHIMEDES, MARCELLUS, VERRES; AND PARTICULARS RELATING TO GELLIAS.
VICISSITUDES OF SICILIAN GOVERNMENT.—GLANCES AT PHALARIS, STESICHORUS, EMPEDOCLES, HIERO I., SIMONIDES, EPICHARMUS, DIONYSIUS I., DAMON AND PYTHIAS, DAMOCLES, DIONYSIUS II., DION, PLATO, AGATHOCLES, HANNIBAL, HIERO II., THEOCRITUS, ARCHIMEDES, MARCELLUS, VERRES; AND PARTICULARS RELATING TO GELLIAS.
Sicilybeing one of those small, beautiful, and abundant countries which excite the cupidity of larger ones, has had as many foreign masters as the poor Princess of Babylon inBoccaccio, who, on her way to be married to the King of Colchos, fell into the hands of nine husbands. First, in all probability, came subjugators from the Italian continent; then Phœnicians, or commercial invaders; then, undoubtedly, Greeks; then Carthaginians; then Romans, Goths, Saracens, Normans, Germans, Frenchmen, Spaniards, Gallo-Spaniards, Frenchmen again, Gallo-Spaniards again; and in the possession of these last it remains. Under the Greeks, its cities grew into powerful independent states. Syracuse was once twenty-two miles in circumference. The most prominent names in the ancient history of Sicily are touched upon in the following list.
Phalaris, tyrant of Agrigentum, who roasted people in a brazen bull, in which he was ultimately made to roar himself. That is to say, if the bull be true. For the reign of this prince was at so remote a period, and the excitement of exaggeration is so tempting, that the sight of the bull in after times proves no more than was proved by the brazen wolf of Romulus and Remus. The age of Phalaris was that of the Prophet Daniel.
Stesichorus, a majestic lyrical poet, in one of whose fragments is to be found the beautiful fiction of the Golden Boat of the Sun. The Sun-God sails in it, invisibly, round the Northern Sea in the night-time,so as to be ready to re-appear in the East in the morning.
Empedocles, the Pythagorean philosopher. He is accused of leaping into Ætna, in the hope of being supernaturally missed, and so taken for a god—a project betrayed by the ejection of one of his brazen sandals. But a philosopher may perish by a volcano, as Pliny did, without giving envy a right to make him a laughing-stock.
Hiero the First, of Syracuse; a bad prince, but a possessor of good horses and charioteers; for whose victories in the Olympic games his name has become celebrated by means of Pindar. Hiero is the great name in the Racing Calendar of antiquity.
Simonides, the elegiac poet. He was a native of Ceos, but lived much, and died in Sicily, where he was a great favourite. His repeated delays and final answer to Hiero, when desired to give a definition of the Deity, have been deservedly celebrated, and are a lesson to presumption for all time. He first requested a day to consider; then two more days; then doubled and redoubled the number; till the king, demanding the reason of this conduct, was told by the poet that “the longer he considered the question, the more impossible he found it to answer.”
Epicharmus, the supposed founder of comedy. Hewas a great philosopher as well as poet, and furnished no little matter to Plato. He died at ninety, some say at ninety-seven, a longevity attributable to the moderation of his way of life, and the serenity of his temper. He says in one of his fragments:—
A darling and a grace is Peace of Mind;She lives next door to Temperance.
Dionysius, tyrant of Syracuse (the Elder). He wrote bad verses; slept in a bed with a trench round it and a drawbridge; and, for fear of a barber, burnt away his beard with hot walnut-shells. What a razor! Dionysius had abilities enough to become the more hateful for his capricious and detestable qualities. Probably he had a spice of madness in him, which power exasperated. Ariosto has turned him to fine account in his personification of Suspicion.
Damon and Pythias, the famous friends. One of them became surety to Dionysius for the other’s appearance at the scaffold, and was not disappointed. Dionysius begged to be admitted a third in the partnership!—the most ridiculous thing, perhaps, that even the tyrant ever did.
Damocles, the courtly gentleman, who pronounced Dionysius the happiest man on earth. He was treated by his master to a “proof of the pudding” which tyrants eat. He sat crowned at the head of aluxurious banquet, in the midst of odours, music, and homage; and saw, suspended by a hair over his head, a naked sword. This, it must be confessed, was a happy thought of the royal poet—a practical epigram of the very finest point.
Dionysius, tyrant of Syracuse (the Younger), who, on his ejection from the throne, is said to have become a schoolmaster at Corinth; “in order,” says Cicero, “that he might still be a scourger somehow.”
Dion, his relation, and Timoleon of Corinth, the great but unhappy fratricide; both of whom advanced the liberties of Syracuse.
Plato; who visited both the Dionysiuses, to induce them to become philosophers! He might as well have asked tigers in a sheepfold to prefer a dish of green pease.
Agathocles the Potter, tyrant of the whole island; who piqued himself on outdoing the cruelties of Phalaris. His objection to the brazen bull was, that you could not see the face of the person tortured; so he invented a hollow iron man with an open visor, in order that he might contemplate the face of the occupant, while heating over a slow fire. But let us hope the story is not true; for, though things as horrible have taken place in the world, the wicked themselves have been calumniated.
Hannibal, during the Punic wars. You see him, at this period of time, looming in the distance over every other object, and standing in Sicily like a great visiting giant. He is accounted, we believe, on military authority, the greatest captain that ever lived. So different is success in art from prosperity in fortune.
Hiero the Second, of Syracuse. A prudent and popular ally of the Romans. He showed no great favour to Theocritus. He built a huge toy-ship, in which were gardens, a wrestling-ground, rooms full of pictures and statues, floors with subjects from Homer painted in mosaic, and eight fortified towers! We should like to know what Tom Bowling would have said to it. When it was completed, it was found that there was no harbour in Sicily fit to receive it; so the king sent it as a present to Ptolemy Philadelphus of Egypt.
Theocritus, the great pastoral and miscellaneous poet, for pastoral was not his only, or his highest excellence. Circumstances appear to have made a present ofhimalso, as well as the ship, to King Ptolemy; for Hiero neglected, and Philadelphus patronised him.
Archimedes, kinsman of Hiero. His wonderful mechanical inventions are among the daily instruments of utility all over the world. The Romans were obliged to suspend their operations against Syracuse, solely by the terror he occasioned them with his cranes that liftedtheir ships, and his glasses that burnt them. When the city was taken, orders were given to spare the great man, and bring him before the Roman general, that he might be duly honoured; but a stupid soldier unwittingly despatched him, provoked at having been requested to wait while the philosopher finished a problem. The problem part of the story is not very likely. Sir Isaac Newton carried abstraction far enough, when he forgot that he had eaten his dinner, or when he used a lady’s finger for a tobacco-stopper; but an engineer forgetting his own city while it was being taken by storm and howling about his ears, seems a little too hard a sample of it.
Marcellus, the Roman general on this occasion. His eyes are said to have filled with tears at the thought of all that was going to happen to the conquered city. He was the first successful opposer of Hannibal. When reproached for carrying off paintings and other works of art from Sicily, he said he did it to refine the minds of his countrymen. His tears render every anecdote of him precious to posterity.
Verres, one of the governors of Sicily while it was a Roman province;—infamous for the tyranny and effrontery of his extortions, even if but half of what Cicero said of him was true: for we must confess that we seldom believe more of what is told us by thatillustrious talker; especially as he warns us against himself, by contradicting in one passage what he says in another.Videhis recommendations of people in his letters, and his discommendations of them in other letters, privately sent at the same time. Also, his vituperations and panegyrics of the same individuals concerned in the civil wars, just as it suited him to condemn or to court them; to say nothing of his divorces and weddings for interest’s sake. We have said the more of him in this place because he too, at one time, held the office of governor in Sicily, where he discovered the tomb of Archimedes—a memorial, alas! forgotten by the philosopher’s countrymen in less than a century and a half after his death! They wanted to “stand out” Cicero, that there was no such thing. However, they had not forgotten Theocritus. The greatest mechanical movers of the earth affect the imagination less than they ought to do, and the heart not at all. The lever and the screw, as the steam-engine will, become homely commonplaces; whereas love and song, and the beauties of Nature, are sought with transport, like holidays after business.
The names thus enumerated (for little or no interest attends the Goth and Vandal portion of the history of this island), may be said to point to all the characters of any importance in Sicilian antiquity, one onlyexcepted. This individual we have kept to the last, though he was little more than a private person, and is not at all famous. But we have a special regard for him; far more indeed, than for most of those who have been mentioned; and we think that such of our readers as are not already acquainted with him, will have one too; for he was of that tip-top class of human beings calledGood Fellows, and a very prince of the race. What renders him a still better fellow than he might otherwise have been, and doubles his heroical qualities in discerning eyes, is, that he was but an insignificant little body to look at, and not very well shaped;—a mannikin, in short, that Sir Godfrey Kneller’s nephew, the slave-trader, who rated the painter and his friend Pope at less than “ten guineas’” worth “the pair,” would probably not have valued at more than two pounds five.
The name of this great unknown was Gellias, and you must search into by-corners, even of Sicilian history, to find anything about him; but he was just the man for our Jar;—sweet as the honey that Samson found in the jaws of the lion.
Gellias was the richest man in the rich city of Agrigentum. The Agrigentines, according to a saying of their countryman Empedocles, were famous for “building as if they were to live for ever, and feastingas if they were to die next day.” But they were as good-natured and hospitable as they were festive; and Gellias, in accordance with the superiority of his circumstances, was the most good-natured and hospitable of them all. His magnificence resembled that of a Barmecide. Slaves were stationed at the gates of his noble mansion to invite strangers to enter. His cellar had three hundred reservoirs cut in the solid rock, each containing seven hundred gallons of wine at their service. One day five hundred horsemen halted at his door, who had been overtaken by a storm. He lodged and entertained them all; and, by way of dry clothes, made each man a present of a new tunic and robe.
His wit appears to have been as ready as it was pungent. He was sent ambassador on some occasion to the people of Centauripa, a place at the foot of Mount Ætna. When he rose in the assembly to address them, his poor little figure made so ridiculous a contrast with his mission, that they burst into fits of laughter. Gellias waited his time, and then requested them not to be astonished;—“for,” said he, “it is the custom with Agrigentum to suit the ambassador to his locality; to send noble-looking persons to great cities, and insignificant ones to the insignificant.”
The combined magnanimity and address of this sarcasm are not to be surpassed. Ambassadors areprivileged people; but they have not always been spared by irritated multitudes; yet our hero did not hesitate to turn the ridicule of the Centauripans on themselves. He “showed up” the smallness of their pretensions, both as a community and as observers. He did not blink the fact of his own bodily insignificance—too sore a point with little people in general, notwithstanding the fact that many of the greatest spirits of the world have resided in frames as petty. He made it the very ground for exposing the still smaller pretensions of the souls and understandings of his deriders. Or, supposing that he said it with a good-humoured smile,—with an air of rebuke to their better sense,—still the address was as great, and the magnanimity as candid. He not only took the “bull by the horns,” but turned it with his mighty little hands into a weapon of triumph. Such a man, insignificant as his general exterior may have been, must, after all, have had something fine in some part of it—something great in some part of its expression; probably fine eyes, and a smile full of benignity.
Gellias proved that his soul was of the noblest order, not only by a princely life, but by the heroical nature of his death. Agrigentum lay on the coast opposite Carthage. It had been a flourishing place, partly by reason of its commerce with that city; but was at last insulted by it and subdued. Most of the inhabitants fled.Among those who remained was Gellias. He fancied that his great wealth, and his renown for hospitality, would procure him decent treatment. Finding, however, that the least to be expected of the enemy was captivity, he set fire to a temple into which he had conveyed his wealth, and perished with it in the flames; thus, says Stolberg, at once preventing “the profanation of the place, the enriching of the foe, and the disgrace of slavery.”
There ought to be a book devoted to the history of those whose reputations have not received their due. It would make a curious volume. It would be old in the materials, novel in the interest, and of equal delight and use. It is a startling reflection, that while men, such as this Gellias, must be dug up from the by-ways of history, its high-road is three-parts full of people who would never have been heard of, but for accidents of time and place. Take, for instance, the majority of the Roman emperors, of those of Germany, of the turbulent old French noblesse, and indeed of three-fourths, perhaps nine-tenths, of historical names all over the world. The reflection, nevertheless, suggests one of a more consolatory kind, namely, that genius and great qualities are not the only things to be considered in this world;—that commonplace also has its right to be heard; common affections and common wants;—ay,the more in the latter case, because they are common. The worst of it is, that commonplace in power is not fond of allowing this right to its brother commonplace out of it. The progress of knowledge, however, tends to a greater impartiality; and the consideration of this fact must be the honey, meantime, to many a bitter thought.
THEOCRITUS.
PASTORAL POETRY.—SPECIMENS OF THE STRENGTH AND COMIC HUMOUR OF THEOCRITUS—THE PRIZE-FIGHT BETWEEN POLLUX AND AMYCUS—THE SYRACUSAN GOSSIPS.
PASTORAL POETRY.—SPECIMENS OF THE STRENGTH AND COMIC HUMOUR OF THEOCRITUS—THE PRIZE-FIGHT BETWEEN POLLUX AND AMYCUS—THE SYRACUSAN GOSSIPS.
Pastoralpoetry is supposed to have originated in Sicily, at one and the same time with comedy. At all events, it was perfected there. Comedy is understood to have been suggested by the licence with which it was the custom for peasants to rail at passengers, and at one another, during the jollity of the vintage; and pastoral poetry was at first nothingbut the more rustical part of comedy. Its great master, Theocritus, arose during a period of refinement; and being a man of a universal genius, with a particular regard for the country, perfected this homelier kind of pastoral, and at the same time anticipated all the others. His single scenes are the germ of the pastoral drama. He is as clownish as Gay, as domestic as Allan Ramsay, as elegant as Virgil and Tasso, and (with the allowance for the difference between ancient and modern imagination) as poetical as Fletcher; and in passion he beats them all. In no other pastoral poetry is there anything to equal hisPolyphemus.
The world has long been sensible of this superiority. But, in one respect, even the world has not yet done justice to Theocritus. The world, indeed, takes a long time, or must have a twofold blow given it as manifest and sustained as Shakspeare’s to entertain two ideas at once respecting anybody. It has been said of wit, that it indisposes people to admit a serious claim on the part of its possessor; and pastoral poetry subjects a man to the like injustice, by reason of its humble modes of life, and its gentle scenery. People suppose that he can handle nothing stronger than a crook. They should read Theocritus’s account of Hercules slaying the lion, or of the “stand-up fight,” the regular and tremendous “set-to,” between Pollux and Amycus. The bestMoulsey-Hurst business was a feather to it. Theocritus was a son of Ætna—all peace and luxuriance in ordinary, all fire and wasting fury when he chose it. He was a genius equally potent and universal; and it is a thousand pities that unknown circumstances in his life hindered him from completing the gigantic fragments, which seem to have been portions of some intended great work on the deeds of Hercules, perhaps on the Argonautic Expedition. He has given us Hercules and the Serpents, Hercules and Hylas, Hercules and the Lion, and the pugilistical contest of the demigod’s kinsman with a barbarian; and the epithalamium of their relation Helen may have been designed as a portion of the same multifarious poem—an anticipation of the romance of modern times, and of the glory of Ariosto. What a loss![2]
In the poem on thePrize-fight(for such is really the subject, the prize being the vanquished man), Pollux, the demigod, one of the sons of Leda by Jupiter, goes to shore from the ship Argo, with his brother Castor, to get some water. They arrive at a beautiful fountain in a wood, by the side of which is sitting a huge overbearing-looking fellow (ἀνὴρ ὑπέροπλος, man presuming on his strength), who returns their salutation with insolence. The following, without any great violence to the letter of the ancient dialogue, may be taken as a sample of its spirit. The ruffian is addressed by Pollux:—
THE PRIZE-FIGHT BETWEEN POLLUX AND AMYCUS.Pollux.Good day, friend. What sort of people, pray, live hereabouts?Ruffian.I see no good day when I see strangers.P. Don’t be disturbed. We are honest people who ask the question, and come of an honest stock.R. I’m not disturbed at all, and don’t require to learn it from such as you.P. You’re an ill-mannered, insolent clown.R. I’m such as you see me. I never came meddling with you in your country.P. (good-humouredly.) Come and meddle, and we’ll help you to a little hospitality to take home with you.R. Keep it to yourselves: I neither give nor take.P. (smiling.) Well, my good friend, may we have a taste of your spring?R. Ask your throats when they’re dry.P. Come, what’s your demand for it? What are we to pay?R. Hands up, and man against man.P. What, a fight; or is it to be a kicking-match?R. A fight; and I would advise you to look about you.P. I do, and can’t even see my antagonist.R. Here he sits. You’ll find me no woman, I can tell you.P. Good; and what are we to fight for? What’s the prize?R. Submission. If you win, I’m to be at your service; and if I win, you’re to be at mine.P. Why, those are the terms of cocks upon dunghills.R. Cocks or lions, those are my terms, and you’ll have the water on no other.
THE PRIZE-FIGHT BETWEEN POLLUX AND AMYCUS.
Pollux.Good day, friend. What sort of people, pray, live hereabouts?
Ruffian.I see no good day when I see strangers.
P. Don’t be disturbed. We are honest people who ask the question, and come of an honest stock.
R. I’m not disturbed at all, and don’t require to learn it from such as you.
P. You’re an ill-mannered, insolent clown.
R. I’m such as you see me. I never came meddling with you in your country.
P. (good-humouredly.) Come and meddle, and we’ll help you to a little hospitality to take home with you.
R. Keep it to yourselves: I neither give nor take.
P. (smiling.) Well, my good friend, may we have a taste of your spring?
R. Ask your throats when they’re dry.
P. Come, what’s your demand for it? What are we to pay?
R. Hands up, and man against man.
P. What, a fight; or is it to be a kicking-match?
R. A fight; and I would advise you to look about you.
P. I do, and can’t even see my antagonist.
R. Here he sits. You’ll find me no woman, I can tell you.
P. Good; and what are we to fight for? What’s the prize?
R. Submission. If you win, I’m to be at your service; and if I win, you’re to be at mine.
P. Why, those are the terms of cocks upon dunghills.
R. Cocks or lions, those are my terms, and you’ll have the water on no other.
With these words, Amycus (for it was he—a son of Neptune—and the greatest pugilist but one, then known in the world) blew a blast on a shell, and a multitude of long-haired Bebrycians (his countrymen) came pouring in about the plane-tree, under which he had been sitting. Castor went and called his brother shipmates out of the Argo, and the combatants, putting on their gauntlets, faced one another, and set to.
ROUND THE FIRST.
The contest began by trying to see which of the two should get the sun in his rear. Pollux obtained this advantage over the big man by dint of his wit (for though a demigod himself, he was less in bulk). Thegiant, finding the sun full on his face, pushed forward in a rage; and striking out further than he intended, laid himself open to a blow on the chin. This enraged him the more; and pushing still forward, he hung in a manner over his enemy, thinking with his huge body to bear him down. His people encouraged the project with a great shout; and the Argonauts, not to be behindhand, gave their champion another; for, in truth, they were not without apprehensions as to the result, seeing how enormous the body was. But the son of Jove slipped hither and thither, lacerating him all the while with double quick blows, and thus repulsing the endeavour. Amycus was compelled fairly to hold himself up as well as he could, for he was drunk with blows, and so he stood, vomiting blood. The noise of voices arose on all sides from the spectators, for his face was a mass of ulcers; and it was so swollen that you could hardly see his eyes. The son of Jove kept him still in a state of confusion, forcing him to waste his strength and spirits by striking out hither and thither to no purpose. At last, on seeing him about to lose his senses, he planted a final blow on the top of his nose, betwixt the eyebrows, and the giant fell at his length on the grass, with his face upwards.
ROUND THE SECOND.
Amycus rose on recovering his senses, and the fight was renewed with double fury. The dull-witted giant thought to knock the life out of his antagonist speedily, by striking heavily at his chest; but, by this proceeding, he again laid his face open, and the invincible Pollux disfigured and made it a heap of filth with unseemly blows. The flesh, which had before been so puffed up, now seemed to subside and melt away; the whole huge creature seemed to become little, while the less one assumed a greater aspect, and looked fresher for his toil.
“Say, Muse, for thou knowest,” how it was that the son of Jove finally overcame “thegluttonous”[3]giant.
“Thinking to do something great, the big Bebrycian,” leaning out of the right line, caught in his left hand the left hand of his adversary, and bringing forth from his side his own huge right one, aimed a blow, which, had it struck where it intended, would have done mischief; but the son of Jove stooped fromunder it, and emerging, gave his enemy such a blow on the left temple as made it spout with blood. He assisted the blow, directly, with another on the mouth, given by the hand which the giant had let drop; and crashing his teeth with the weight of it, followed it with a general clatter on the face, which mashed it a second time, and rendered resistance hopeless. Heavily fell Amycus to the ground, having no more heart, and raising his hands as he fell, in sign of throwing up the contest.
But nothing unbefitting thy worthiness, didst thou inflict, OpugilistPolydeuctes, on the conquered. Only he made him take a great oath—calling on his father Neptune out of the sea to witness it—that never more would he do anything grievous to those who sought his hospitality.
But nothing unbefitting thy worthiness, didst thou inflict, OpugilistPolydeuctes, on the conquered. Only he made him take a great oath—calling on his father Neptune out of the sea to witness it—that never more would he do anything grievous to those who sought his hospitality.
It appears to us, reader, and we think it will appear to thee, that even thisprosificationof a fine bit of poetry will afford no disgraceful evidence of the strength and muscle of the gentle shepherd Theocritus. The manner of the concluding passage is quite in the taste of the chivalrous poets of Italy; and forces us to repeat our regret, that the Sicilian left no larger work, to be put at the head of their romances. TheOdyssey, indeed, is their leader in some respects; but to the grandeur, the wild fictions, and the domestic tenderness of theOdyssey, Theocritus would haveadded the gaiety and good-natured satire of Pulci and Ariosto.
Here follows a specimen (such as it is, and as far as we can pretend to represent the original) of the comic and domestic painting of Theocritus. It is a poem on theRites of Adonis; or rather, on a couple of gossips, making holiday to enjoy the festival that formed a part of the rites. Adonis, the favourite of Venus, slain by the boar, and permitted by Jupiter to return to life every half-year and enjoy her company, was annually commemorated by the heathen world for the space of two days, the first of which was passed in mourning for his death, and the second, in feasting and merriment for his coming to life. Arsinoe, the consort of the poet’s patron, Ptolemy Philadelphus, celebrated these rites in the Egyptian capital, Alexandria; and Theocritus, in order to praise his royal friends, and at the same time give a picture of his countrywomen, introduces two women who were born in Syracuse and settled in Alexandria, making holiday on the occasion, and going to see the show. The show was that of the second day, and principally consisted of an image of Adonis laid in a bower of leaves and tapestry, and served with all the luxuries of the season, particularly flowers in pots. He was attended by flying Cupids, and eulogized by singers in hymns, much in the manner ofsaints and angels in a modern Catholic festival; and on the following morning, the image, with its flowers, was taken in procession to the sea-side, and committed to the waters on its way to the other world. The whole proceeding is intimated in the poem, by means of verses put into the mouth of the public singer, the Grisi or Malibran of the day; but the chief portion of it is assigned to the humours of the two gossips, who are precisely such as would be drawn at this moment on a similar occasion in any crowded city. This truth to nature, which is the constant charm of Theocritus (making it, as he does, artistical also with wit and poetry), the reader will recognise at once in the talk about the husband, the endeavours to mystify the little boy, the chatter and bustle in the crowd, and the gaping expressions of delight and amazement at the spectacle. The opening of the poem lets us into a household scene, described with all the nicety and archness of Chaucer.
THE SYRACUSAN GOSSIPS;
OR, THE FEAST OF ADONIS.
GorgoandPraxinoe,The Gossips.Eunoe,servant of Praxinoe.Phrygia,her housemaid.Little Boy, her Son.Old Woman.Two Men.Scene—Alexandria in Egypt.Gorgo.(at her friend’s door.) Praxinoe within?Eunoe.Why, Gorgo, dear,How late you are! Yes, she’s within.Prax.(appearing.)What, no!And so you’re come at last! A seat here, Eunoe;And set a cushion.Eunoe.There is one.Prax.Sit down.Gorgo.Oh, what a thing’s a spirit! Do you know,I’ve scarcely got alive to you, Praxinoe?There’s such a crowd—such heaps of carriages,And horses, and fine soldiers, all full dress’d;And then you live such an immense way off!Prax.Why, ’twashisshabby doing. He would takeThis hole that he calls house, at the world’s end.’Twas all to spite me, and to part us two.Gorgo.(speaking lower.) Don’t talk so of your husband, there’s a dear,Before the little one. See how he looks at you.Prax.(to the little boy.) There, don’t look grave, child; cheer up, Zopy, sweet;It isn’t your papa we’re talking of.Gorgo.(aside.) He thinks it is, though.Prax.Oh no—nice papa!(ToGorgo.) Well, this strange body once (let us sayonce,And then he won’t know who we’re telling of),Going to buy some washes and saltpetre,Comes bringing salt! the great big simpleton!Gorgo.And there’s my precious ninny, Dioclede:He gave for five old ragged fleeces, yesterday,Ten drachmas!—for mere dirt! trash upon trash!But come; put on your things; button away,Or we shall miss the show. It’s the king’s own;And I am told the queen has made of itA wonderful fine thing.Prax.Ay, luck has luck.Well, tell us all about it; for we hearNothing in this vile place.Gorgo.We haven’t time.Workers can’t throw away their holidays.Prax.Some water, Eunoe; and then, my fine one,To take your rest again. Puss loves good lying.Come; move, girl, move; some water—water first.Look how she brings it! Now, then;—hold, hold, careless;Not quite so fast; you’re wetting all my gown.There; that’ll do. Now, please the gods, I’m washed.The key of the great chest—where’s that? Go fetch it.[ExitEunoe.Gorgo.Praxinoe, that gown with the full skirtsBecomes you mightily. What did it cost you?Prax.Oh, don’t remind me of it. More than oneOr two good minas, besides time and trouble.Gorgo.All which you had forgotten.Prax.Ah, ha! True;That’s good. You’re quite right.Re-enterEunoe.Come; my cloak, my cloak;And parasol. There—help it on now, properly.(To the little boy.) Child, child, you cannot go. The horse will bite it;The Horrid Woman’s coming. Well, well, simpleton,Cry, if you will; but you must not get lamed.Come, Gorgo.—Phrygia, take the child, and play with him;And call the dog indoors, and lock the gate.[They go out.Powers, what a crowd! how shall we get along?Why, they’re like ants! countless! innumerable!Well, Ptolemy, you’ve done fine things, that’s certain,Since the gods took your father. No one now-a-daysDoes harm to trav’llers as they used to do,After the Egyptian fashion, lying in wait,—Masters of nothing but detestable tricks;And all alike,—a set of cheats and brawlers.Gorgo, sweet friend, what will become of us?Here are the king’s horse-guards! Pray, my good man,Don’t tread upon us so. See the bay horse!Look how it rears! It’s like a great mad dog.How you stand, Eunoe! It will throw him certainly!How lucky that I left the child at home!Gorgo.Courage, Praxinoe; they have pass’d us now;They’ve gone into the court-yard.Prax.Good! I breathe again.I never could abide in all my lifeA horse and a cold snake.Gorgo(addressing an old woman). From court, mother?Old Woman.Yes, child.Gorgo.Pray, is it easy to get in?Old Woman.The Greeks got into Troy. Everything’s doneBy trying.[ExitOld Woman.Gorgo.Bless us! How she bustles off!Why, the old woman’s quite oracular.But women must know everything; ev’n what JunoWore on her wedding-day. See now, Praxinoe,How the gate’s crowded.Prax.Frightfully indeed.Give me your hand, dear Gorgo; and do youHold fast of Eutychis’s, Eunoe.Don’t let her go; don’t stir an inch; and soWe’ll all squeeze in together. Stick close now.Oh me! oh me! my veil’s torn right in two!Do take care, my good man, and mind my cloak.Man.’Twas not my fault; but I’ll take care.Prax.What heaps!They drive like pigs!Man.Courage, old girl! all’s safe.Prax.Blessings upon you, sir, now and for ever,For taking care of us—A good, kind soul.How Eunoe squeezes us! Do, child, make wayFor your own self. There; now, we’ve all got in,As the man said, when he was put in prison.Gorgo.Praxinoe, do look there! What lovely tapestry!How fine and showy! One would think the gods did it.Prax.Holy Minerva! how those artists work!How they do paint their pictures to the life!The figures stand so like, and move so like!They’re quite alive, not work’d. Well, certainly,Man’s a wise creature. See now—only look—See—lying on the silver couch, all budding,With the young down about his face! Adonis!Charming Adonis—charming ev’n in Acheron!Second Man.Do hold your tongues there; chatter, chatter, chatter.The turtles stun one with their yawning gabble.Gorgo.Hey-day! Whence comes the man? What is’t to you,If we do chatter? Speak where you’ve a right.You’re not the master here. And as for that,Our people are from Corinth, like Bellerophon.Our tongue’s Peloponnesiac; and we hopeIt’s lawful for the Dorians to speak Doric!Prax.We’ve but one master, by the Honey-sweet![4]And don’t fear you, nor all your empty blows.Gorgo.Hush, hush, Praxinoe!—there’s the Grecian girl,A most amazing creature, going to singAbout Adonis; she that sings so wellThe song of Sperchis: she’ll sing something fine,I warrant.—See how sweetly she prepares!THE SONG.O Lady, who dost take delightIn Golgos and the Erycian height,And in the Idalian dell,Venus, ever amiable;Lo, the long-expected Hours,Slowest of the blessed powers,Yet who bring us something ever,Ceasing their soft dancing never,Bring thee back thy beauteous oneFrom perennial Acheron.Thou, they say, from earth hast givenBerenice place in heaven,Dropping to her woman’s heartAmbrosia; and for this kind part,Berenice’s daughter—sheThat’s Helen-like—Arsinoe,O thou many-named and shrin’d,Is to thy Adonis kind.He has all the fruits that nowHang upon the timely bough:He has green young garden-plots,Basketed in silver pots;Syrian scents in alabaster,And whate’er a curious tasterCould desire, that women makeWith oil or honey, of meal cake;And all shapes of beast or bird,In the woods by huntsman stirr’d;And a bower to shade his stateHeap’d with dill, an amber weight;And about him Cupids flying,Like young nightingales, that—tryingTheir new wings—go half afraid,Here and there, within the shade.See the gold! The ebony see!And the eagles in ivory,Bearing the young Trojan upTo be filler of Jove’s cup;And the tapestry’s purple heap,Softer than the feel of sleep;Artists, contradict who can,Samian or Milesian.But another couch there isFor Adonis, close to his;Venus has it, and with joyClasps again her blooming boyWith a kiss that feels no fret,For his lips are downy yet.Happy with her love be she;But to-morrow morn will we,With our locks and garments flowingAnd our bosoms gently showing,Come and take him, in a throng,To the sea-shore, with this song:—Go, belov’d Adonis, goYear by year thus to and fro;Only privileged demigod;There was no such open roadFor Atrides; nor the greatAjax, chief infuriate;Nor for Hector, noblest onceOf his mother’s twenty sons;Nor Patroclus, nor the boyThat returned from taken Troy;Nor those older buried bones,Lapiths and Deucalions;Nor Pelopians, and their boldest;Nor Pelasgians, Greece’s oldest.Bless us then, Adonis dear,And bring us joy another year;Dearly hast thou come again,And dearly shalt be welcomed then.Gorgo.Well; if that’s not a clever creature, trust me!Lord! what a quantity of things she knows!And what a charming voice!—’Tis time to go, though,For there’s my husband hasn’t had his dinner,And you’d best come across him when he wants it!Good-by, Adonis, darling. Come again.
THEOCRITUS.—Concluded.
SPECIMENS OF THE PATHOS AND PASTORAL OF THEOCRITUS.—THE CYCLOPS IN LOVE.—POETICAL FEELING AMONG UNEDUCATED CLASSES IN THE SOUTH.—PASSAGES FROM THEOCRITUS’S FIRST IDYLL.—HIS VERSIFICATION AND MUSIC.—PASTORAL OF BION AND MOSCHUS.
SPECIMENS OF THE PATHOS AND PASTORAL OF THEOCRITUS.—THE CYCLOPS IN LOVE.—POETICAL FEELING AMONG UNEDUCATED CLASSES IN THE SOUTH.—PASSAGES FROM THEOCRITUS’S FIRST IDYLL.—HIS VERSIFICATION AND MUSIC.—PASTORAL OF BION AND MOSCHUS.
Havingseen the force and comic humour of Theocritus, let us now, if we can, give something of a taste of his pathos, and conclude with him as the Prince of Pastoral. We shall find the one leading to the other, or rather identified with it, for Polyphemus was himself a shepherd, and all his imagery and associations are drawn from pastoral life. Our English, it is to be borne in mind, is not theGreek. The poet must have all the benefit of that admission. But at any rate we have done our best not to spoil the original with such artificial modes of speech as destroy all pathos; and feeling has a common language everywhere, which he who is thoroughly moved by it, can never wholly misrepresent.
The story is that of Polyphemus under the circumstances alluded to in our second chapter. It is addressed to the poet’s friend Nicias, and is the earliest evidence of that particular personal regard for the medical profession, which is so observable in the history of men of letters; for Nicias was a physician.
THE CYCLOPS IN LOVE.There is no other medicine against love,My Nicias, (so at least it seems to me,)Either to cure it or to calm, but song.That, that indeed is balmy to men’s minds,And sweet; but ’tis a balm rare to be found;Though not by you, my friend, who are at oncePhysician, and belov’d by all the Nine.It was by this the Cyclops liv’d among us,I mean that ancient shepherd, Polypheme,Who lov’d the sea-nymph, when he budded firstAbout the lips and curling temples;—lov’d,Not in the little present-making style,With baskets of new fruit and pots of roses,But with consuming passion. Many a timeWould his flocks go home by themselves at eve,Leaving him wasting by the dark sea-shore;And sunrise would behold him wasting still.Yet ev’n a love like his found balm in verse,For he would sit, and look along the sea,And from his rock pipe to some strain like this:—“O my white love, my Galatea, whyAvoid me thus? O whiter than the curd,Gentler than any lamb, fuller of playThan kids, yet bitterer than the bright young grape,You come sometimes, when sweet sleep holds me fast;You break away, when sweet sleep lets me loose;Gone, like a lamb at sight of the grey wolf.“Sweet, I began to love you, when you firstCame with my mother to the mountain sideTo gather hyacinths. I show’d the way;And then, and afterwards, and to this hour,I could not cease to love you; you, who careNothing about my love—Great Jove! no, nothing.“Fair one, I know why you avoid me thus:It is because one rugged eyebrow spreadsAcross my forehead, solitary and huge,Shading this eye forlorn. My nose, too, pressesFlat tow’rds my lip. And yet, such as I am,I feed a thousand sheep; and from them drinkExcellent milk; and never want for cheeseIn summer, nor in autumn, nor dead winter,Dairies I have, so full. I can play, too,Upon the pipe, so as no Cyclops can,Singing, sweet apple mine, of you and me,Often till midnight. And I keep for youFour bears’ whelps, and eleven fawns with collars:Come to me then, for you shall have them all.Let the sea rake on the dull shore. Your nightsWould be far sweeter here, well hous’d with me.The place is beautiful with laurel-trees,With cypresses, with ivy, and the vine,The dulcet vine: and here, too, is a stream,Heavenly to drink, the water is so cold.The woody Ætna sends it down to meOut of her pure white snows. Who could have this,And choose to live in the wild salt-sea waves?Perhaps, when I am talking of my trees,You think me ruder than the trunks? more rough;More rugged-bodied? Ah, they keep me warm;They blaze upon my hearth; yet, I could loseWarmth, life, and all, and burn in the same fire,Rather than dwell beside it without you.Nay, I could burn the eye from out my head,Though nothing else be dearer.“Oh, poor me!Alas! that I was born a finless body,And cannot dive to you, and kiss your hand;Or, if you grudg’d me that, bring you white lilies,And the fresh poppy with its thin red leaves.And yet not so; for poppies grow in summer,Lilies in spring; and so I could not, both.But should some coaster, sweetest, in his shipCome here to see me, I would learn to swim;And then I might find out what joy there isIn living, as you do, in the dark deeps.“O Galatea, that you would but come;And having come, forget, as I do now,Here where I sat me, to go home again!You should keep sheep with me, and milk the dams,And press the cheese from the sharp-tasted curd.It is my mother that’s to blame. She neverTold you one kind, endearing thing of me,Though she has seen me wasting day by day.My very head and feet, for wretchedness,Throb—and so let ’em; for I too am wretched.O Cyclops, Cyclops, where are thy poor senses?Go to thy basket-making; get their supperFor the young lambs. ’Twere wiser in thee, far.Prize what thou hast, and let the lost sheep go.Perhaps thou’lt find another Galatea,Another, and a lovelier; for at nightMany girls call to me to come and play,And when they find me list’ning, they all giggleSo that e’en I seem counted somebody.”Thus Polyphemus medicined his loveWith pipe and song; and found it ease him moreThan all the balms he might have bought with gold.
What say you, reader? Is not the monster touching? Do we not accord with his self-pity? feel for his throbbing pulse and his hopeless humility, and wish it were possible for a beauty to love a shepherd with one eye?—For the poet, observe, with great address, has said nothing about the giant. He has sunk the man-mountain. We may rate him at what equivocal measure we please, and consider him a respectable primæval sort of pastoral Orson. It appears to us, that there is no truer pathos of its kind in the whole circle of poetry than the passages about the sheep and wolf, the throbbing pulses just mentioned, and the lover’s humble attempt to get a little consolation ofvanity out of the equivocal interest taken in him by the “giggling” damsels at the foot of his hill. The word “giggle,” which is the literal translation of the Greek word, and singularly like it in the main sound, would have been thought very bold by a conventional poet. Not so thought the poet whose truth to nature has made him immortal.
We are to fancy the Sicilian girls on a summer night (all the world is out of door there on summer nights) calling to Polyphemus up the mountain. They live at the foot of it—of Ætna. They have heard him stirring in the trees. The stir ceases. They know he is listening; and in the silence of the glen below, he hears them laughing at his attention. Such scenes take place all over the world, where there is any summer, Britain included. We doubt whether Virgil or Tasso would have ventured upon the word. But Ariosto would. Homer and Shakspeare would. So would Dante. So would Catullus, a very Greek man. And it would surely not have been avoided by the author of theGentle Shepherd, whose perception of homely truth puts him on a par in this respect with the greatest truth poetical.
This love-story of Polyphemus is pastoral poetry in its highest passionate condition. Of pastoral, in the sense in which it is generally understood, a briefer orbetter specimen cannot be given than in the opening passages of our poet’s volume. You are in the circle of pastoral at once, and in one of its loveliest spots. You are in the open air under pine-trees by fountain-heads, in company with two born poets, goatherd and shepherd though they be; poets such as Burns and Allan Ramsay might have been, had they been born in Sicily.
A word, before we proceed, in respect to that interfusion of eloquent and therefore sometimes elegant expression which has been charged on one of the most natural of poets as an affectation, but which, ashetreats it, is only in unison with the popular genius of the south. In Virgil it became a rhetorical mistake; an artificial flower stuck in the ground. In Theocritus it was the growth of the soil; myrtle and almond springing by the wayside.
Poetical expression in humble life is to be found all over the south. In the instances of Burns, Ramsay, and others, the north also has seen it. Indeed, it is not a little remarkable, that Scotland, which is more northern than England, and possesses not even a nightingale, has had more of it than its southern neighbour. What that is owing to, is a question; perhaps to the very restrictions of John Knox and his fellows, and Nature’s happy tendency to counteract them. Or it mayhave originated in the wild and uncertain habits of highlanders and borderers. Certainly, the Scotch have shown a more genial and impulsive spirit in their songs and dances than the English. We have nothing among us like the Highland Fling, or the reel of Tullochgorum, or the songs ofGaberlunzie Men,Jolly Beggars, andThe gude man he cam’ hame at e’en. But extremes meet; and the Scotch, in their hardihood, their very poverty, and occasional triumphs over it in fits of excess, appear to have been driven by a jovial desperation into the vivacities inspired by the sunshine of the south. Yet the Irish are a still greater puzzle in this respect; for they are poorer; their land is in the English latitude; and nevertheless the poetical feeling is far more common and more eloquent among them, than with either of their neighbours. Their fertility of fancy and readiness of expression render them, in fact, very like a southern people; and, if a doubt, alas! did not arise that misfortune itself was their inspirer by sharpening their sensibility, would give an almost laughable corroboration to their claims of a Milesian descent. Now, the Italian peasantry to this day, particularly the Tuscan, exhibit, as they always did, a like poetical fancy, but with more elegance; and so, we doubt not, did those of Greece and Sicily. The latter, in modern times, have been checked in their faculties byunfavourable government; but in the time of Theocritus, the subjects of the overflowingly rich cities of Syracuse and Agrigentum must have been as willing and able to pour out all they felt, as so many well-fed thrushes and blackbirds; and anybody at all acquainted with the less rich, but not ill-governed, Tuscan peasantry, knows well with how much eloquence, and even refinement, it is possible for people in humble life to express themselves, when the language is favourable, and circumstances not otherwise. Mr. Stewart Rose has given some amusing instances in hisLetters from the North of Italy. Asking a Florentine servant if he understood some directions given him, the man said, “Yes, for he always spoke in relief” (“Che parlava sempre scolpito”). Nothing could be better expressed than this. Another time, his good-natured master, inquiring if he was comfortable on the coach-box, the servant answered that he was very well off; for “here,” said he, “one springs it” (“che quì si molleggia”). The verb was coined for the occasion from the nounmolla, a spring. Another man being asked the way to a particular house, told him to go straight forwards to the end of the street, and it would “tumble on his head.” This is very Irish. An Italian acquaintance of Mr. Rose was passing through a street in Florence at serenade time, when he beheld a dog looking up at a female of his species in a balcony,and at the same time scratching his ribs. One of the Florentine populace, who happened to be passing, stopped, and cried out, “He is in love, and playing the guitar, serenading the fair one” (“È innamorato; suona la chitarra; fà la cucchiata alla bella”). A Roman laquais de place (but he is a more sophisticate authority) once asked the same writer, on seeing him look at a wild-flower in the fields, whether it was the signor’s “pleasure that he should cull it?” (“Commanda che lo carpa?”) For our poetical word “cull,” though its meaning is different, may represent the unvernacular elegance ofcarpa, pluck. The laquais de place, it seems, “talked like a cardinal.” We have ourselves, however, heard a coachman’s wife, who was a Roman, pour forth a stream of elegant language that astonished us.
A neighbour of ours, near Fiesole, a fine old Tuscan peasant, who was clipping a hedge, said to us one day, as we exchanged salutation with him, “I am trimming the bush’s beard” (“Fò la barba al bosco”). But a Florentine female servant, who had the child of an acquaintance in her arms, and who, like the generality of her countrywomen, was perfectly unaffected, carried the aristocratic refinement of her style higher, perhaps, than any of the persons mentioned. Some remarks being made respecting the countenances of her master’s children, she asked us whether the one in her arms did not form an exception;whether, in fact, we did not think that it had “a kind of plebeian look” (“un certo aspetto plebeo”).
So much for the ability of the humbler orders to speak with force and delicacy, when sensibility gives them the power of expression, and animal spirits the courage to use it.
PASSAGES FROM THE FIRST IDYLL OF THEOCRITUS.
In Theocritus’s opening poem, the time of day is a hot noon, and a shepherd and goatherd appear to have been piping under their respective trees, we suppose at a reasonable distance. The shepherd goes towards the goatherd, who seems to stop playing; and on approaching him commences the dialogue by observing, that there is something extremely pleasant in the whisper of the pine under which he is sitting, but not less so was the something he was playing just now on his pipe. He declares that he is the next best player after Pan himself; and that if Pan were to have a ram for his prize, the ewe would of necessity fall to the goatherd.
Sweet sings the rustling of your pine to-dayOver the fountain-heads; and no less sweetUpon the pipe play you.
The Greek word for rustling, or rather whispering—psithurisma—is much admired. “Whispering” ishardly strong enough, and not so long drawn out. There is the continuous whisper inpsithurisma. The goatherd returns the compliment by telling the shepherd that his singing during such hot weather (for we must always keep in mind the accessories implied by good poets) is sweeter than the flowing abundance of the waterfall out of the rock. The two verses in which this is expressed are a favourite quotation, on account of the imitative beauty of the second sentence. We know not whether they would equally please every critical ear, for “doctors,” even of music, “differ.” Much of the divine writing of Beethoven seems to have been as appalling at first to the orchestral world, as olives are to most palates; and there is a passage in Mozart which to this day is a choke-pear to the scientific, albeit they acknowledge that he intended it to be written as it stands. For our parts, we have great faith in the ultra-delights perceptible in the enormities of Beethoven, Mozart, and olives; and suspect there is more music in the very hissing and clatter in the sentence in Theocritus, to say nothing of its obvious rush and leaping, than has been quite perceived by every scholar who has praised it. It is a pity that all musical people do not read Greek; for they deserve to do so; which is what cannot be said of all scholars. Perhaps some of them would be glad to see the passage, even in English characters.We remember, before we knew any others, the delight we used to take in the Greek quotations, thus printed in the novels of Smollett and Fielding, and shall make no further apology for a like bit of typography. We shall first give the measure of the original verse in corresponding English hexameters. The English language does not take kindly to the measure. The hexameter is too salient and cantering for it. But once and away the anomaly may be tolerated, especially for illustration’s sake. The passage in English words may run thus:—
Sweèter, O shèpherd, thy sìnging is, thàn the sonòrousGùsh from abòve of the wàterfall oùt of the ròck-stone.
There is no imitative attempt of another sort in this version. It is given simply to show a general likeness to the measure. The sound of the original, as everybody will discern, is much more to the purpose, though judges will differ perhaps as to whether it is more effective in softness or in strength, in leap or in volume. We are obliged to adapt the spelling, in one or two instances, to the necessities of the pronunciation. The literal Greek order of the words would, in English, be:—
Sweeter, O shepherd, the thy song, than the sonorousThat (or yonder) from the rock-stone much flows from above water.Hàdion o poiman to teòn melos è to katàchesTeen appo tas pètras katalèibetai hèupsothen hèudor.
Katalèibetai(much, or strongly, or abundantly, flows), with the accent on the diphthongei, is certainly a fine strenuous word, at once strong and liquid, and appreciable by any ear. Andhèupsothen hèudor(from above water), with its two successiveu’s, will be equally admitted, we think, to express the constantyearningrush of the water from inside the well.
The goatherd promises the shepherd, if he will sing to him, the gift of a huge wine-cup, adorned with figures. The following exquisite picture is among them. We give it in the version of Mr. M. J. Chapman, a living writer, not unworthy his venerable namesake, and by far the best translator of Theocritus that has appeared:—
Ἔντοσθεν δὲ γυνὰ, &c.With flowing robe, and Lydian head-dress on,Within, a woman to the life is done—An exquisite design! On either sideTwo men with flowing locks each other chide,By turns contending for the woman’s love;But not a whit her mind their pleadings move:One while she gives to this a glance and smile,And turns and smiles on that another while.
To the apparently formidable objection made by some critics, that no artist could make a woman look on two people one after the other, Mr. Chapman happily answers:—“Theocritus described an image that was before his mind’s eye, and for so doing he needs nodefence; but the matter-of-fact critic may be able, perhaps, to obtain an approximation to the idea, by considering attentively the print of ‘Garrick divided between Tragedy and Comedy.’”[5]
This picture is followed by one of an old able-bodied fisherman at his labours, with the muscles of his neck swelling like those of a strong young man; and to this succeeds a third, as good as that of the Coquette—some will think better. It is a boy so intent upon making a trap, that he is not aware of the presence of two foxes, one of whom is meditating to abduct his breakfast.
A little boy sits by the thorn-edge trim,To watch the grapes—two foxes watchinghim;
(The version of this line is original in the turn of it, and very happy.)
One through the ranges of the vine proceeds,And on the hanging vintage slily feeds;The other plots and vows his scrip to search,And for his breakfast leave him in the lurch.Meanwhile he twines, and to a rush fits wellA locust-trap, with stalks of asphodel;And twines away with such absorbing glee,Of scrip or vines he never thinks, not he!Chapman, p. 8.
In the pastorals of Bion we know nothing of prominent interest, though he is eloquent and worth reading. But in those of Moschus there is a passage which has found an echo in all bosoms, like the sigh that answers a wind over a churchyard. It is in the Elegy on Bion’s death:—
Αἴ, αἶ, ταὶ μαλάχαι μέν ἐπὰν κατὰ κᾶπον ὀλώνται,Ἤ τὰ χλωρὰ σέλινα, τὸ τ’ εὔθαλες οὖλον ἄνηθον,Ύστερον αὖ ζώοντι, καὶ εἰσ ἔτος ἄλλο φύοντι·Ἄμμες δ’ ὁι μεγάλοι, καὶ καρτέροι, ἠ σόφοι ἄνδρες,Ὁππότε πρᾶτα θάνωμες, ἀνακόοι ἔν χθονὶ κοῖλα,Εὔδομες εὐ μάλα μακρὸν, ἀτέρμονα, νήγρετον ὕπνον.Idylliii. v. 104.Alas! when mallows in the garden die,Green parsley, or the crisp luxuriant dill,They live again, and flower another year;But we, how great soe’er, or strong, or wise,When oncewedie, sleep, in the senseless earth,A long, an endless, unawakeable sleep.
The beautiful original of these verses, every word so natural and sincere, so well placed, and the whole so affecting, may stand by the side of any poetry, even that of the passage in the Book of Job too well known to most of us. But we confess that after such Greek verses as these, and the fresh flowers of Theocritus, we never have the heart to quote the artificial ones of Virgil, critically accomplished as they are. They are the pattern of too many others which brought the wordPastoral into disrepute; and it is not pleasant to be forced to object to a great name.
Virgil, however, appears to have been very fond of the country; and after he was settled in Rome, longed for it, like Horace, with a feeling which produced some of his most admired passages; things which other metropolitan poets and tired court gentlemen have delighted to translate. Such are theDelights of a Country Life, versified out of theGeorgicsby Cowley, Sir William Temple, Dryden, and others, lines of which remain for ever in the memory.
Oh happy (if his happiness he knows)The country swain, &c.
He has no great riches, or visitors, or cares, &c., but his life
Does with substantial blessedness abound,And the soft wings of peace cover him round.
That is Cowley, who betters his original.
In life’s cool vale let my low scene be laid;Cover me, gods! with Tempe’s thickest shade.
So again of the shepherd:—
—In th’ evening of a fair sunny day,With joy he sees his flocks and kids to play,And loaded kine about his cottage stand,Inviting with known sound the milker’s hand;And when from wholesome labour he doth come,With wishes to be there, and wish’d for home,He meets at door the softest human blisses,His chaste wife’s welcome, and dear children’s kisses.
Of a similar kind is Cowley’s translation of Claudian’sOld Man of Verona:—
Happy the man who his whole time doth boundWithin th’ enclosure of his little ground.—Him no false distant lights, by fortune set,Could ever into foolish wanderings get;—No change of consuls marks to him the year:The change of seasons is his calendar:The cold and heat winter and summer shows;Autumn by fruits, and spring by flow’rs, he knows:—A neighb’ring wood born with himself he sees,And loves his old contemporary trees.
The most original bit of Pastoral in Virgil (if it be his) is to be found in a poem of doubtful authority called theGnat(Culex), which has been beautifully translated by Spenser. It is a true picture, combining the elegance of Claude with the minuteness of the Flemish painters:—
The fiery sun was mounted now on heightUp to the heavenly towers, and shot each whereOut of his golden charet glistering light;And fayre Aurora, with her rosie haire,The hatefull darkness now had put to flight;When as the shepherd, seeing day appeare,His little goats gan drive out of their stalls,To feede abroad, where pasture best befalls.To an high mountain’s top he with them went,Where thickest grasse did cloath the open hills:They, now amongst the woods and thicketts ment,Now in the vallies wandring at their wills,Spread themselves farre abroad through each descent;Some on the soft green grasse feeding their fills;Some, clambering through the hollow cliffes on hy,Nibble the bushie shrubs which growe thereby.Others the utmost boughs of trees doe crop,And brouze the woodbine twigges that freshly bud;This with full bit doth catch the utmost topOf some soft willow or new-growen stud;That with sharpe teeth the bramble leaves doth lop,And chaw the tender prickles in her cud;The whiles another high doth overlookeHer own like image in a cristall brook.
This is picturesque and charming. Yet Virgil, though a country-loving, and also an agricultural poet, would have been nothing as a pastoral poet without Theocritus, and, as it was, he spoiled him. We shall see in what manner, when we come to speak of Pope.