Chapter 18

Although a gem be cast away,And lie obscured in heaps of clay,Its precious worth is still the same;Although vile dust be whirled to heaven,To it no dignity is given,Still base as when from earth it came.Sadi(L. S. Costello’s translation).

Although a gem be cast away,

And lie obscured in heaps of clay,

Its precious worth is still the same;

Although vile dust be whirled to heaven,

To it no dignity is given,

Still base as when from earth it came.

Sadi(L. S. Costello’s translation).

Death closes all: but something ere the end,Some work of noble note, may yet be done....Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’We are not now that strength which in old daysMoved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;One equal temper of heroic hearts,Made weak by time and fate, but strong in willTo strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.Tennyson(Ulysses).

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done....

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Tennyson(Ulysses).

Jenny kissed me when we met,Jumping from the chair she sat in;Time, you thief, who love to getSweets into your list, put that in!Say I’m weary, say I’m sad.Say that health and wealth have missed me,Say I’m growing old, but addJenny kissed me.Leigh Hunt.

Jenny kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in;

Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in!

Say I’m weary, say I’m sad.

Say that health and wealth have missed me,

Say I’m growing old, but add

Jenny kissed me.

Leigh Hunt.

“Jenny” was Mrs. Carlyle.

A gracious spirit o’er this earth presidesAnd o’er the heart of man: invisiblyIt comes, to works of unreproved delightAnd tendency benign, directing thoseWho care not, know not, think not what they do.The tales that charm away the wakeful nightIn Araby; romances; legends pennedFor solace by dim light of monkish lamps;Fictions, for ladies of their love, devisedBy youthful squires; adventures endless, spunBy the dismantled warrior in old age,Out of the bowels of those very schemesIn which his youth did first extravagate;These spread like day, and something in the shapeOf these will live till man shall be no more.Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours,Andthey musthave their food. Our childhood sits,Our simple childhood, sits upon a throneThat hath more power than all the elements.Wordsworth(The Prelude, Bk. V.)

A gracious spirit o’er this earth presides

And o’er the heart of man: invisibly

It comes, to works of unreproved delight

And tendency benign, directing those

Who care not, know not, think not what they do.

The tales that charm away the wakeful night

In Araby; romances; legends penned

For solace by dim light of monkish lamps;

Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised

By youthful squires; adventures endless, spun

By the dismantled warrior in old age,

Out of the bowels of those very schemes

In which his youth did first extravagate;

These spread like day, and something in the shape

Of these will live till man shall be no more.

Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours,

Andthey musthave their food. Our childhood sits,

Our simple childhood, sits upon a throne

That hath more power than all the elements.

Wordsworth(The Prelude, Bk. V.)

The world is so inconveniently constituted, that the vague consciousness of being a fine fellow is no guarantee of success in any line of business.

George Eliot(Brother Jacob).

Wasted, weary,—wherefore stayWrestling thus with earth and clay!From the body pass away!—Hark! the mass is singing.From thee doff thy mortal weed,Mary Mother be thy speed,Saints to help thee at thy need!Hark! the knell is ringing.Fear not snow-drift driving past,Sleet, or hail, or levin blast;Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,And the sleep be on thee castThat shall know no waking.Haste thee, haste thee to be gone,Earth flits past, and time draws on,—Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,Day is near the breaking.Sir Walter Scott.

Wasted, weary,—wherefore stayWrestling thus with earth and clay!From the body pass away!—Hark! the mass is singing.

Wasted, weary,—wherefore stay

Wrestling thus with earth and clay!

From the body pass away!—

Hark! the mass is singing.

From thee doff thy mortal weed,Mary Mother be thy speed,Saints to help thee at thy need!Hark! the knell is ringing.

From thee doff thy mortal weed,

Mary Mother be thy speed,

Saints to help thee at thy need!

Hark! the knell is ringing.

Fear not snow-drift driving past,Sleet, or hail, or levin blast;Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,And the sleep be on thee castThat shall know no waking.

Fear not snow-drift driving past,

Sleet, or hail, or levin blast;

Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,

And the sleep be on thee cast

That shall know no waking.

Haste thee, haste thee to be gone,Earth flits past, and time draws on,—Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,Day is near the breaking.

Haste thee, haste thee to be gone,

Earth flits past, and time draws on,—

Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,

Day is near the breaking.

Sir Walter Scott.

FromGuy Mannering. Scott says it is a prayer or spell, which was used in Scotland or Northern England to speed the passage of a parting spirit, like the tolling of a bell in Catholic days.

The world is full of Woodmen who expelLove’s gentle Dryads from the haunts of life,And vex the nightingales in every dell.Shelley(The Woodman and the Nightingale).

The world is full of Woodmen who expelLove’s gentle Dryads from the haunts of life,And vex the nightingales in every dell.

The world is full of Woodmen who expel

Love’s gentle Dryads from the haunts of life,

And vex the nightingales in every dell.

Shelley(The Woodman and the Nightingale).

Evil of every kind, being familiar to us as anobjectof apprehension, appears to be external to ourselves. And yet it is invested with the greater part of its severity by the mind: it acts upon us by the ideas it awakens, the affections it wounds, the aspirations it disappoints. If its outward pressure were all, and it dealt with us as beings of sense alone, it would lose most of its poignancy and would dwindle down into a few animal pangs.... It is our higher nature that creates immeasurably the greater part of the ills we endure: they are ideal, not sensible: and it is the privilege of reason to have tears instead of groans; of love to know grief instead of pain; of conscience to replace uneasiness with remorse.... Penury, disgrace, bereavement, guilt, are evils which we must be human in order to feel; and it is the penalty of our nobleness, not only to be weighed down by their occasional burthen, but to be perpetually haunted by the phantom of their approach.

James Martineau(Hours of Thought, II, 150).

Two or three of them got round me, and begged me for the twentieth time to tell them the name of my country. Then, as they could not pronounce it satisfactorily, they insisted that I was deceiving them, and that it was a name of my own invention. One funny old man, who bore a ludicrous resemblance to a friend of mine at home, was almost indignant. “Unglung!” said he, “who ever heard of such a name?—anglang, angerlang—thatcan’t be the name of your country; you are playing with us.” Then he tried to give a convincing illustration. “My country is Wanumbai—anybody can say Wanumbai. I’m an orang-Wanumbai; but N-glung! who ever heard of such a name? Do tell us the real name of your country, and when you are gone we shall know how to talk about you.” To this luminous argument and remonstrance I could oppose nothing but assertion, and the whole party remained firmly convinced that I was for some reason or other deceiving them.

A. R. Wallace(The Malay Archipelago).

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.Longfellow(Tales of a Wayside Inn).

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,

Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;

So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,

Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

Longfellow(Tales of a Wayside Inn).

This was written in 1863, but ten years earlier Alexander Smith, in “A Life Drama,” had written:We twain have met like the ships upon the sea,Who hold an hour’s converse, so short, so sweet;One little hour! and then away they speedOn lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam,To meet no more.Other writers have also used the same simile. See next poem.

This was written in 1863, but ten years earlier Alexander Smith, in “A Life Drama,” had written:

We twain have met like the ships upon the sea,Who hold an hour’s converse, so short, so sweet;One little hour! and then away they speedOn lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam,To meet no more.

We twain have met like the ships upon the sea,

Who hold an hour’s converse, so short, so sweet;

One little hour! and then away they speed

On lonely paths, through mist, and cloud, and foam,

To meet no more.

Other writers have also used the same simile. See next poem.

QUA CURSUM VENTUS

As ships, becalmed at eve, that layWith canvas drooping, side by side,Two towers of sail at dawn of dayAre scarce long leagues apart descried;When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,And all the darkling hours they plied,Nor dreamt but each the self-same seasBy each was cleaving, side by side:E’en so—but why the tale revealOf those, whom year by year unchanged,Brief absence joined anew to feelAstounded, soul from soul estranged?At dead of night their sails were filled,And onward each rejoicing steered—Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,Through winds and tides one compass guides—To that, and your own selves, be true.But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,Though ne’er, that earliest parting past,On your wide plain they join again,Together lead them home at last.One port, methought, alike they sought,One purpose hold where’er they fare,—O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!At last, at last, unite them there!A. H. Clough.

As ships, becalmed at eve, that layWith canvas drooping, side by side,Two towers of sail at dawn of dayAre scarce long leagues apart descried;

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay

With canvas drooping, side by side,

Two towers of sail at dawn of day

Are scarce long leagues apart descried;

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,And all the darkling hours they plied,Nor dreamt but each the self-same seasBy each was cleaving, side by side:

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,

And all the darkling hours they plied,

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas

By each was cleaving, side by side:

E’en so—but why the tale revealOf those, whom year by year unchanged,Brief absence joined anew to feelAstounded, soul from soul estranged?

E’en so—but why the tale reveal

Of those, whom year by year unchanged,

Brief absence joined anew to feel

Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

At dead of night their sails were filled,And onward each rejoicing steered—Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!

At dead of night their sails were filled,

And onward each rejoicing steered—

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed,

Or wist, what first with dawn appeared!

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,Through winds and tides one compass guides—To that, and your own selves, be true.

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,

Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,

Through winds and tides one compass guides—

To that, and your own selves, be true.

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,Though ne’er, that earliest parting past,On your wide plain they join again,Together lead them home at last.

But O blithe breeze! and O great seas,

Though ne’er, that earliest parting past,

On your wide plain they join again,

Together lead them home at last.

One port, methought, alike they sought,One purpose hold where’er they fare,—O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!At last, at last, unite them there!

One port, methought, alike they sought,

One purpose hold where’er they fare,—

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas!

At last, at last, unite them there!

A. H. Clough.

Two friends, who through absence have become “soul from soul estranged,” are compared to two ships, which unconsciously draw apart during the night and must continue a diverging course; but, being both bound for the same port, will at the end of their life-voyage be re-united.

Speak to Him thou, for He hears—and Spirit with Spirit can meet—Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.Tennyson(The Higher Pantheism).

Speak to Him thou, for He hears—and Spirit with Spirit can meet—Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

Speak to Him thou, for He hears—and Spirit with Spirit can meet—

Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

Tennyson(The Higher Pantheism).

Tennyson, here and elsewhere (see, for example, the king’s beautiful speech in “The Passing of Arthur”) urges us toprayer, and adds his belief in a personal intercourse with an ever-present and loving God. Innumerable men of the highest character during nineteen centuries have testified to the same direct communion with the Almighty.

A third in sugar with unscriptural handTraffics and builds a lasting house on sand.Alfred Austin(The Golden Age).

A third in sugar with unscriptural handTraffics and builds a lasting house on sand.

A third in sugar with unscriptural hand

Traffics and builds a lasting house on sand.

Alfred Austin(The Golden Age).

Thou canst not in life’s cityRule thy course as in a cell:There are others, all thy brothers,Who have work to do as well.Some events that mar thy purposeMay lightthemupon their way;Our sun-shining in decliningGives earth’s other side the day.R. A. Vaughan(Hours with the Mystics).

Thou canst not in life’s cityRule thy course as in a cell:There are others, all thy brothers,Who have work to do as well.

Thou canst not in life’s city

Rule thy course as in a cell:

There are others, all thy brothers,

Who have work to do as well.

Some events that mar thy purposeMay lightthemupon their way;Our sun-shining in decliningGives earth’s other side the day.

Some events that mar thy purpose

May lightthemupon their way;

Our sun-shining in declining

Gives earth’s other side the day.

R. A. Vaughan(Hours with the Mystics).

My little craft sails not alone;A thousand fleets from every zoneAre out upon a thousand seas;And what for me were favouring breezeMight dash another, with the shockOf doom, upon some hidden rock.And so I do not dare to prayFor winds to waft me on my way.Catherine Atherton Mason.

My little craft sails not alone;

A thousand fleets from every zone

Are out upon a thousand seas;

And what for me were favouring breeze

Might dash another, with the shock

Of doom, upon some hidden rock.

And so I do not dare to pray

For winds to waft me on my way.

Catherine Atherton Mason.

A man’s body and his mind, with the utmost reverence to both I speak it, are exactly like a jerkin and a jerkin’s lining: rumple the one, you rumple the other.

Sterne(Tristram Shandy).

Il (Boucher) trouvait la nature trop verte et mal éclairée. Et son ami, Lancret, le peintre des salons à la mode, lui répondait: “Je suis de votre sentiment, la nature manque d’harmonie et de séduction.”

(He, Boucher, found nature too green and badly lit. And his friend, Lancret, the fashionable painter of the day, replied to him, “I am of your opinion, nature is wanting in harmony and seductiveness.”)

Charles Blanc.

See following quotation.

If you examine the literature of the 17th and 18th centuries, you will find that nearly all its expressions, having reference to the country, show ... either a foolish sentimentality, or a morbid fear, both of course coupled with the most curious ignorance. Nothing is more remarkable than the general conception of the country merely as a series of green fields, and the combined ignorance and dread of more sublime scenery. The love of fresh air and green grass forced itself upon the animal natures of men; but that of the sublimer features of scenery had no place in minds whose chief powers had been repressed by the formalisms of the age. And although in the second-rate writers continually, and in the first-rate ones occasionally, you find an affectation of interest in mountains, clouds, and forests, yet whenever they write from their heart, you will find an utter absence of feeling respecting anything beyond gardens and grass. Examine, for instance, the novels of Smollett, Fielding, and Sterne, the comedies of Molière, and the writings of Johnson and Addison, and I do not think you will find a single expression of true delight in sublime nature in any one of them. Perhaps Sterne’sSentimental Journey, in its total absence of sentiment on any subject but humanity, and its entire want of notice of anything at Geneva which might not as well have been seen atCoxwold, is the most striking instance I could give you; and if you compare with this negation of feeling on one side, the interludes of Molière, in which shepherds and shepherdesses are introduced in court dress, you will have a very accurate conception of the general spirit of the age.

John Ruskin(Architecture and Painting).

“My other piece of advice, Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, “you know. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery. The blossom is blighted, the leaf is withered, the God of day goes down upon the dreary scene, and—and in short, you are for ever floored. As I am!”

Charles Dickens(David Copperfield).

And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul, when man doth sleep,So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.Henry Vaughan(Friends Departed).

And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul, when man doth sleep,So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.

And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams

Call to the soul, when man doth sleep,

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,

And into glory peep.

Henry Vaughan(Friends Departed).

This is Vision.

... The trial-testAppointed to all flesh at some one stageOf soul’s achievement—when the strong man doubtsHis strength, the good man whether goodness be,The artist in the dark seeks, fails to findVocation, and the saint forswears his shrine.R. Browning(The Inn Album).

... The trial-test

Appointed to all flesh at some one stage

Of soul’s achievement—when the strong man doubts

His strength, the good man whether goodness be,

The artist in the dark seeks, fails to find

Vocation, and the saint forswears his shrine.

R. Browning(The Inn Album).

I sits with my toes in a brook;If anyone asks me for why,I hits him a rap with my crook—’Tis sentiment kills me, says I.Horace Walpole.

I sits with my toes in a brook;If anyone asks me for why,I hits him a rap with my crook—’Tis sentiment kills me, says I.

I sits with my toes in a brook;

If anyone asks me for why,

I hits him a rap with my crook—

’Tis sentiment kills me, says I.

Horace Walpole.

This was written in a game ofbouts rimés(rhymed ends). Four lines had to be composed ending with “brook,” “why,” “crook,” “I.”

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.And I said in underbreath,—all our life is mixed with death,And who knoweth which is best?Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,And I smiled to think God’s greatness flowed around our incompleteness—Round our restlessness, His rest.E. B. Browning(Rhyme of the Duchess May).

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.And I said in underbreath,—all our life is mixed with death,And who knoweth which is best?

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.

And I said in underbreath,—all our life is mixed with death,

And who knoweth which is best?

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,And I smiled to think God’s greatness flowed around our incompleteness—Round our restlessness, His rest.

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,

And I smiled to think God’s greatness flowed around our incompleteness—

Round our restlessness, His rest.

E. B. Browning(Rhyme of the Duchess May).

I go to prove my soul!I see my way as birds their trackless way.I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first,I ask not: but unless God send his hailOr blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow,In some time, his good time, I shall arrive:He guides me and the bird. In his good time!R. Browning(Paracelsus).

I go to prove my soul!

I see my way as birds their trackless way.

I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first,

I ask not: but unless God send his hail

Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow,

In some time, his good time, I shall arrive:

He guides me and the bird. In his good time!

R. Browning(Paracelsus).

Referring to Bryant’s poem, “To a Waterfowl”:—He who from zone to zoneGuides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.

Referring to Bryant’s poem, “To a Waterfowl”:—

He who from zone to zoneGuides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.

He who from zone to zone

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,

In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

Souvent femme varie,Bien fol est qui s’y fie!(Woman is very fickle,Great fool he who trusts in her!)Victor Hugo(Le Roi s’amuse).

Souvent femme varie,Bien fol est qui s’y fie!

Souvent femme varie,

Bien fol est qui s’y fie!

(Woman is very fickle,Great fool he who trusts in her!)

(Woman is very fickle,

Great fool he who trusts in her!)

Victor Hugo(Le Roi s’amuse).

In the play Francis I (1494-1547) enters singing these lines. (Francis wrote on the walls of the royal apartments at ChambordToute femme varie, “Every woman is fickle.”) One finds this never-ending theme of poets and cynics in Virgil’sVarium et mutabile semper Femina, “Woman is a fickle and changeable thing” (Aeneidiv, 569),La donna è mobile(Rigoletto), and countless other passages.

Crowned with flowers I saw fair AmaryllisBy Thyrsis sit, hard by a fount of Chrystal,And with her hand more white than snow or lilies,On sand she wrote “My faith shall be immortal”:And suddenly a storm of wind and weatherBlew all her faith and sand away together.Anon.

Crowned with flowers I saw fair Amaryllis

By Thyrsis sit, hard by a fount of Chrystal,

And with her hand more white than snow or lilies,

On sand she wrote “My faith shall be immortal”:

And suddenly a storm of wind and weather

Blew all her faith and sand away together.

Anon.

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,Our fancies are more giddy and infirm,More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,Than women’s are.Twelfth Night, II, 4.

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,Our fancies are more giddy and infirm,More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,Than women’s are.

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,

Our fancies are more giddy and infirm,

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,

Than women’s are.

Twelfth Night, II, 4.

If Thou be’st born to strange sights,Things invisible to see,Ride ten thousand days and nightsTill Age snow white hairs on thee;Thou, when thou return’st, will tell meAll strange wonders that befell thee,And swearNo whereLives a woman true, and fair.If thou find’st one, let me know:Such a pilgrimage were sweet.Yet do not; I would not go,Though at next door we might meet.Though she were true when you met her,And last till you write your letter,Yet sheWill beFalse, ere I come, to two or three.John Donne(Song).

If Thou be’st born to strange sights,

Things invisible to see,

Ride ten thousand days and nights

Till Age snow white hairs on thee;

Thou, when thou return’st, will tell me

All strange wonders that befell thee,

And swear

No where

Lives a woman true, and fair.

If thou find’st one, let me know:Such a pilgrimage were sweet.Yet do not; I would not go,Though at next door we might meet.Though she were true when you met her,And last till you write your letter,Yet sheWill beFalse, ere I come, to two or three.

If thou find’st one, let me know:

Such a pilgrimage were sweet.

Yet do not; I would not go,

Though at next door we might meet.

Though she were true when you met her,

And last till you write your letter,

Yet she

Will be

False, ere I come, to two or three.

John Donne(Song).

In his broken fashion Queequeg gave me to understand that, in his land, owing to the absence of settees and sofas of all sorts, the king, chiefs and great people generally were in the customof fattening some of the lower orders for ottomans; and to furnish a house comfortably in that respect, you had only to buy up eight or ten lazy fellows, and lay them round in the piers and alcoves. Besides it was very convenient on an excursion—much better than those garden-chairs which are convertible into walking-sticks. Upon occasion a chief would call his attendant, and desire him to make a settee of himself under a spreading tree—perhaps in some damp marshy place.

Herman Melville(Moby Dick).

Here lie I, Martin Elginbrodde:Hae mercy o’ my soul, Lord God;As I wad do, were I Lord God,And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.G. MacDonald(David Elginbrod).

Here lie I, Martin Elginbrodde:Hae mercy o’ my soul, Lord God;As I wad do, were I Lord God,And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.

Here lie I, Martin Elginbrodde:

Hae mercy o’ my soul, Lord God;

As I wad do, were I Lord God,

And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.

G. MacDonald(David Elginbrod).

Dieu me pardonnera; c’est son métier.

(God will pardon me; that is His business.)

Heine.

O Lord, it broke my heart to see his pain!I thought—I dared to think—ifIwere God,Poor Caird should never gang so dark a road;I thought—ay, dared to think, the Lord forgie!—The Lord was crueller than I could be;Forgetting God is just and knoweth bestWhat folk should burn in fire, what folk be blest.R. Buchanan(A Scottish Eclogue).

O Lord, it broke my heart to see his pain!

I thought—I dared to think—ifIwere God,

Poor Caird should never gang so dark a road;

I thought—ay, dared to think, the Lord forgie!—

The Lord was crueller than I could be;

Forgetting God is just and knoweth best

What folk should burn in fire, what folk be blest.

R. Buchanan(A Scottish Eclogue).

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SEA.

Thoughts and tears as I turn away,Tears for a long ago:She looks out on a summer day,I on a night of snow.But I see some ferns and a rushing rillAnd my love that promised me,And a day we spent on God’s great hillOn the other side of the sea,My heart,On the other side of the sea.Ay! the hill was green and the sky was blue,And the path was dappled fair,But a light from loving eyes shone throughBeyond the sunlight there.And I gave my life—and who’s to blame?—As over the hill went we:But the sky and the hill and the way we cameAre the other side of the sea,Sad heart,Are the other side of the sea....’Mid trees and grass and a tangled wallWe wandered merrily down,Through the homeless boughs and the forest fallOf the dead leaves thick and brown.But faith is broken and life is painAnd oh! it can never beThat I gather those golden hours againOn the other side of the sea,Poor heart,On the other side of the sea.Though the sea is wild and the sea is dark,It will sink and slip awayAt the bounding scorn of my speeding barkTo the land of that dear day;But never the Love of my soul be seen,The light of that day to me,For I know there is lying our hearts betweenA wilder and darker sea,O God!The depth of a bitterer sea.Richard Hodgson.

Thoughts and tears as I turn away,

Tears for a long ago:

She looks out on a summer day,

I on a night of snow.

But I see some ferns and a rushing rill

And my love that promised me,

And a day we spent on God’s great hill

On the other side of the sea,

My heart,

On the other side of the sea.

Ay! the hill was green and the sky was blue,And the path was dappled fair,But a light from loving eyes shone throughBeyond the sunlight there.And I gave my life—and who’s to blame?—As over the hill went we:But the sky and the hill and the way we cameAre the other side of the sea,Sad heart,Are the other side of the sea....

Ay! the hill was green and the sky was blue,

And the path was dappled fair,

But a light from loving eyes shone through

Beyond the sunlight there.

And I gave my life—and who’s to blame?—

As over the hill went we:

But the sky and the hill and the way we came

Are the other side of the sea,

Sad heart,

Are the other side of the sea....

’Mid trees and grass and a tangled wallWe wandered merrily down,Through the homeless boughs and the forest fallOf the dead leaves thick and brown.But faith is broken and life is painAnd oh! it can never beThat I gather those golden hours againOn the other side of the sea,Poor heart,On the other side of the sea.

’Mid trees and grass and a tangled wall

We wandered merrily down,

Through the homeless boughs and the forest fall

Of the dead leaves thick and brown.

But faith is broken and life is pain

And oh! it can never be

That I gather those golden hours again

On the other side of the sea,

Poor heart,

On the other side of the sea.

Though the sea is wild and the sea is dark,It will sink and slip awayAt the bounding scorn of my speeding barkTo the land of that dear day;But never the Love of my soul be seen,The light of that day to me,For I know there is lying our hearts betweenA wilder and darker sea,O God!The depth of a bitterer sea.

Though the sea is wild and the sea is dark,

It will sink and slip away

At the bounding scorn of my speeding bark

To the land of that dear day;

But never the Love of my soul be seen,

The light of that day to me,

For I know there is lying our hearts between

A wilder and darker sea,

O God!

The depth of a bitterer sea.

Richard Hodgson.

This was written in March, 1879, after Hodgson had left Australia for England. The love-episode is imaginary.

They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod,And go to church on Sunday;And many are afraid of God—And more of Mrs. Grundy.F. Locker-Lampson(The Jester’s Plea).

They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod,And go to church on Sunday;And many are afraid of God—And more of Mrs. Grundy.

They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod,

And go to church on Sunday;

And many are afraid of God—

And more of Mrs. Grundy.

F. Locker-Lampson(The Jester’s Plea).

Greece and her foundations areBuilt below the tide of war,Based on the crystalline seaOf thought and its eternity.Shelley(Hellas).

Greece and her foundations areBuilt below the tide of war,Based on the crystalline seaOf thought and its eternity.

Greece and her foundations are

Built below the tide of war,

Based on the crystalline sea

Of thought and its eternity.

Shelley(Hellas).

It is very true that the amazing intellectual power of the Greeks in a primitive age ensures them an immortality of fame; and this is finely expressedin the last two lines. But those two splendid lines are utterly spoilt by the two that precede them. One asks, Why “Greeceandher foundations”? One does not say “a houseandits foundations” are built somewhere or other. This by itself would be trivial, but next comes the question, What is the meaning of the second line? We know what Shelley intended—that the memory and influence of Greece will withstand its destruction by war—but why in that case should she not be builtabove, instead of submergedbelowthe tide of war? Later on, in lines 836-7, the Emperor Palæologus, at the siege of Constantinople, is said to have cast himself “beneaththe stream of war”; that is to say, he was overwhelmed and killed. The words, in fact, do not express the poet’s meaning. The third and fatal defect of the lines is the juxtaposition of “tide” and “sea” —the city isbuilt below a tide, and alsobased on a sea. Not only is this combination absurd in itself, but it also destroys the beauty of the last two magnificent lines. The moving unstable water is scarcely a foundation to build upon, yet this meaning is forcibly impressed upon the word “sea” by the previous mention of a “tide.” What Shelley meant was an immense broad, deep, expanse ofsolid crystal—the “sea of glass like unto crystal” of Revelations (iv, 6) and theMer de Glace(“sea of ice”), the great Alpine glacier.[34]Therefore, anyone who had exactness of thought or perception of poetry would omit the first two lines and give only the last two as a quotation.Mrs. Shelley in her note on “Hellas” specially refers to this verse as a beautiful example of Shelley’s style, and she quotesall fourlines. We may assume, therefore, that Shelley himself thought highly of the verse, and we thus have an illustration of the curious fact that a great poet isoften a poor judge of his own poetry. (Almost certainly Shakespeare himself did not realize how god-like he stood above all other poets.) However, it is not only for this reason that I have included the above quotation, but because with it I propose to make a flank attack upon Mr. R. W. Livingstone, the author ofThe Greek Genius and its Meaning to us. I do this, of course, with a special object in view.Mr. Livingstone’s book is important, valuable, and highly interesting—and is especially admirable because the author does not envelope his subject in the usual glamour, born of enthusiasm. He is, indeed, most exceptional in this respect, that he endeavours to look at the Greeks from an ordinary commonsense point of view. But he makes the mistake, not unusual with classical men, of supposing that he is a qualified critic of poetry; and he, therefore, gives us a special dissertation upon the comparative values of English and Greek poetry.Apart from this dissertation, he quotes three or four passages from English poets in the course of the book. Of these the most prominent is the above verse of Shelley’s, and he quotesall fourlines without comment. Thus we see an able man, in whom classical study should have induced exactness of thought, failing to analyse and understand what he is quoting. But, more than this, the question is one of poetic perception. The imagery in the lasttwolines is sublime—in thefourlines it is ludicrous. Therefore, we begin with the fact that our literary critic was unable to see palpable and grave defects in one of the few verses he himself quotes. (I might give other illustrations, as where he admires poor verse of Dryden’s, but I must be brief.)Mr. Livingstone’s point is that the “direct” and “truthful” character of Greek poetry is superior to the “imaginative” quality of English verse. He goes so far as to say that “Sappho and Simonideswith four wordsmake him see a nightingale and give him a greater and far saner pleasure” than Shelley’s poem “To a Skylark.” I take his quotation from Simonides, as it involves less discussion than that from Sappho.[35]It is (Fr, 73) ἀὴδονες πολυκώτιλοι χλωραύχενες εἰαριναί, “The warbling nightingales with olive necks, the birds of spring.”As Mr. Livingstone is not discussing beauty of expression we can leave this out of consideration.[36]He is discussing thesubstanceof poetry, comparing the “directness” and “truthfulness” of Simonides (in this case) with the imaginative element in Shelley’s poem. He would apparently discard the latter element altogether, and prefers a simple description of the nightingale—that it sings, has an olive neck, and appears in spring. The first suggestion that occurs to one is that if, say, an auctioneer’s catalogue of farm stock—without any addition whatever to its contents—could be worded prettily and made metrical, it would afford huge enjoyment to our literary critic.The whole question is as to the value of the imaginative element which to our minds makes Shelley’s poem one of the most beautiful lyrics—possibly the most beautiful—in all literature. In sweeping away this element, Mr. Livingstone tells us how much of English poetry must be cast aside. But he does not realize that much else has also to be flung on the scrap-heap. Imagination, in its true sense, includes all those aesthetic, moral, and spiritual faculties which are higher than the intellect—all, in fact, that raises man above his material existence. (See pp.39,40,358.) With the immense deal of English poetry which Mr. Livingstone proposes to “scrap” must go all our most beautiful music, all that is great in painting (which is never “direct” and “truthful” in this sense, or it would not be great),all Greek statuary, and all that expresses high moral and spiritual truths in our literature. I do not think that Mr. Livingstone will find many adherents to his new creed.This critic also discussesstyle, and we find that he speaks of Pope as a “great poet,” and apparently revels in his monotonous verse! When pointing out that English verse, unlike what we have left of Greek poetry, includes much unequal and ill-finished work, he says, “Of all our great poets, perhaps only Milton and Pope can boast unfailing excellence of style.”As regards this inequality in the work of English poets the answer is very simple. Mr. Livingstone forgets the fact—a very important fact in any speculation upon the scheme of the universe—that only the good things ultimately survive. How very little we have left of many Greek poets! Of Sophocles only seven plays remain out of one hundred and twenty-seven,and the Fragments collected are said to be very poor(many, of course, are only grammatical illustrations)—and more than half of Homer must have been dropped. We probably still have everything that isbestin Greek literature. Again, it is not in factdesirableto restrict publication to work of the highest importance, and the facilities afforded by printing have made itunnecessarythus to restrict it—so that evenMy Commonplace Bookis now, at least temporarily, part of English literature!Greatly as I admire Mr. Livingstone’s book, I feel bound to call attention to a view of poetry that must do great harm to University students and others. I am also bound to mention him as an illustration of the fact that classical men usually imagine that their study of the Greek and Latin languages and literature qualifies them to become literary critics.[37]This fact has impressed itself upon me from youth upwards. One of my teachers, a man of some weight in the classical world, was in the habit of saying that only through study of Latin and Greek could a man learn to write good English![38]His own English was simply execrable.I will now give another instance where the classical enthusiast, as in Mr. Livingstone’s case, tends to exaggerate the value of his favourite literature—truly wonderful as it is. Gissing’sPrivate Papers of Henry Ryecroftis an interesting book of wide circulation, in which the author displays great admiration for and familiarity with the classics. Speaking of Xenophon’sAnabasis, he says “Were it the sole book existing in Greek, it would be abundantly worth while to learn the language in order to read it.” That is to say, it would be worth while expending, out of our short lives, some years of study for the sole purpose of reading in the original an extremelysimple,prosehistorical narrative, which has been excellently translated! (If Gissing had saidHomerinstead of Xenophon, no one would have quarrelled with him.) Again, he says, “Many a single line presents a picture which deeply stirs the emotions”; and he gives us what he calls “a good instance of such a line.” A guide, who has led the Greeks through hostile country, has to return through the same perilous district, and the wonderful line is Ἐπεὶ ἑσπέρα ἐγένετο, ᾤχετο τῆς νυκτὸς ἀπιών. This line Gissing translates, “When evening came he took leave of us and went away by night”—a sentence which only by inadvertence could have appeared in, say, aTimesleader, seeing that the words “by night” are redundant. As a matter of fact, the translation is incorrect; there is nothing about “taking leave of us,” and the meaning is, “As soon as evening came, he had slipped away into the darkness.”(Professor Naylor points out to me that the word ᾤχετο in this line is interesting. It conveys the idea of a swift or abrupt departure or disappearance. It is used in connection with that most interesting man Alcibiades (Xen,Hell., 2. I. 26) and gives a fine impression of his quick insolent temper. The Greek admirals had put themselves in a position of extreme danger and he came to warn them of their peril. Their reply was the usual expression of ineptitude, “We are the admirals, not you”; and immediately follows the one word ᾤχετο, “he turned on his heels and left”—and with this word Alcibiades disappears from contemporary history.)In referring to Mr. Livingstone’s remarks above I could not use the Sappho quotation, because there are certain initial questions that need to be first settled. (In briefly discussing these I must speak as though I were expressingdefinite opinions, since otherwise the note could not be compressed sufficiently, but I mean the following rather assuggestionswhich may possibly be found useful.)Sappho’s line is (Fr, 39) Ἦρος ἄγγελος ἱμερόφωνος ἀήδων, which Mr. Livingstone translates “The messenger of spring, the lovely-voiced nightingale.” Now ἱμερος (himeros) means animal passion, so that ἱμερόφωνος (himerophonos) is a strong word meaning singing of, or with, passion—in this case the passion of the pairing-time. Why then does Mr. Livingstone, following Liddell and Scott, give the totally different meaning “lovely-voiced”? Apparently it is because Theocritus (XXVIII, 7) applies the expression “himerophonos” to the Charites, and, according to the current conception, those deities were pure unimpassionate beings.[39]In questions of this character, seeing that the Greek gods were guilty of every form of immorality and the Greeks themselves were one of the most sensual nations that ever existed, the presumption is in favour of impurity: the onus of proof is on those who allege purity. I have not undertaken the heavy work of looking up the innumerable references to the Charites in Greek literature, but I know of nothing that supports the prevalent conception of those deities. Apart from the fact that Theocritus uses the wordhimerophonos, Meleager (Anth. Pal, V, 195) speaks ofhimerosas conferred by the Charites. There is nothing in the meaning ofcharis, or the verbcharizesthaito support the current idea (both being even used in an immodest sense); Homer identifies Charis with Aphrodite, with whom Hesiod also identifies Aglaia, since each is made the wife of Hephaestus; the Charites are constantly associated with Aphrodite and Erôs (and consequently with Himeros, the personification of passion) so that the maximNoscitur a sociisapplies; Sappho repeatedly claims them as her patrons; as regards the representation of the Charites in art, girl friendship would be a subject quite alien to the Greek mind.If the view suggested is correct our authorities with their preconceived ideaspresume to correct Theocritus and Sappho! They not only give a wrong view of the Charites, but also hide the coarseness of the compliment paid by Theocritus to his lady friend—in each casedistorting the truth.Mr. Livingstone may have another reason for altering the meaning of “himerophonos.” He appears to hold the opinion that a Greek writer would not ascribe intelligence or emotion to a bird, as Mrs. Browning does in “To a Seamew.” (I quite agree with him as to the false, feminine sentiment in this poem. It is mainly the “Sonnets from the Portuguese” that raise Mrs. Browning above the minor poets.) Mr. Livingstone, for example, translates ἡμερόφων’ ἀλέκτωρ, “O cock that criestatdawn.” This should surely mean “that announceth the dawn;” the attitude and the verycrowof the bird would suggest this to the Greeks; and the fowl did, as a matter of fact, serve in place of an alarm-clock to them (see, for instance, Aristophanes’Birds, 488). Does not Mr. Livingstone forget that the Greeks attributed not only intelligence but also miraculous powers to animals (see p. 370)? If so, this illustrates another fact noticeable among classical authorities. They often fail to considerall the premisesbefore arriving at a conclusion. Taking another illustration from Mr. Livingstone, he says that the Greeks had little of the feeling of wonder, did not “muse on the strangeness of the world,” and would not have experienced the emotion Pascal felt when viewing the starry heavens, “The eternal silence of those infinite spaces terrifies me.” The premise he appears to omit here is the fact of the intense ignorance of the Greeks. Their world was a very limited one, with its flat earth and solid lid, certain bright objects conceived as gods or otherwise moving in the intermediate space. To illustrate this, Herodotus (II, 24) believes that the sun-god is forced by the cold winds in winter to move to the warm sky above Libya; and in 434 B.C. (about the same time) the great advanced thinker, Anaxagoras, is arrested for blasphemy and exiled because he taught that the sun must be a mass of blazing metal larger than the Peloponnesus! Everything in nature had its god, whose action explained whatever happened. If the Greeks had once realized the awful infinity of the universe their whole outlook on nature would have changed, and I cannot think that so highlyintellectual a people would not have been moved by wonder. I cannot see any element in “the Greek genius” that would indicate this. (Observe Ptolemy’s epigram onp. 10.)Returning to the Sappho quotation, Mr. Livingstone translates ἦρος ἄγγελος literally as “the messenger of spring.” Does he mean the messenger “sent by spring” or “announcing spring”? Presumably he does not mean the latter, as it would impute intelligence or emotion to the bird. But, if we accept the former interpretation, it leads to the curious result that the poet, not content with a Goddess of Spring and the Hours who represent the seasons, intends still further to personify spring. Is not the true meaning of Sappho’s words “the nightingale with its passionate song sent (by Proserpine) to let men know that spring is approaching”? This is not mere captious criticism. To Sappho the goddess Proserpine was a concrete being with some sort of corporeal form, who brings athingcalled spring, and who actuallydoessend the nightingale ahead to sing of the passion of the pairing-time, and thus let men know that spring is coming. There is no poetic imagery, no imaginative picture in the poet’s mind, but the statement of anactual fact. See also the reference to the halcyon,p. 370. It seems to me that, in this as in other cases, our classical authoritiesfail to place themselves in the position of the Greeks. Here they interpret as imagination what was meant as reality. (However, as I have said before, the above are merely suggestions which I myself hope to consider further; but, until we knew exactly what Sappho’s verse meant, it could not be brought into the discussion of Mr. Livingstone’s views.)

Mrs. Shelley in her note on “Hellas” specially refers to this verse as a beautiful example of Shelley’s style, and she quotesall fourlines. We may assume, therefore, that Shelley himself thought highly of the verse, and we thus have an illustration of the curious fact that a great poet isoften a poor judge of his own poetry. (Almost certainly Shakespeare himself did not realize how god-like he stood above all other poets.) However, it is not only for this reason that I have included the above quotation, but because with it I propose to make a flank attack upon Mr. R. W. Livingstone, the author ofThe Greek Genius and its Meaning to us. I do this, of course, with a special object in view.

Mr. Livingstone’s book is important, valuable, and highly interesting—and is especially admirable because the author does not envelope his subject in the usual glamour, born of enthusiasm. He is, indeed, most exceptional in this respect, that he endeavours to look at the Greeks from an ordinary commonsense point of view. But he makes the mistake, not unusual with classical men, of supposing that he is a qualified critic of poetry; and he, therefore, gives us a special dissertation upon the comparative values of English and Greek poetry.

Apart from this dissertation, he quotes three or four passages from English poets in the course of the book. Of these the most prominent is the above verse of Shelley’s, and he quotesall fourlines without comment. Thus we see an able man, in whom classical study should have induced exactness of thought, failing to analyse and understand what he is quoting. But, more than this, the question is one of poetic perception. The imagery in the lasttwolines is sublime—in thefourlines it is ludicrous. Therefore, we begin with the fact that our literary critic was unable to see palpable and grave defects in one of the few verses he himself quotes. (I might give other illustrations, as where he admires poor verse of Dryden’s, but I must be brief.)

Mr. Livingstone’s point is that the “direct” and “truthful” character of Greek poetry is superior to the “imaginative” quality of English verse. He goes so far as to say that “Sappho and Simonideswith four wordsmake him see a nightingale and give him a greater and far saner pleasure” than Shelley’s poem “To a Skylark.” I take his quotation from Simonides, as it involves less discussion than that from Sappho.[35]It is (Fr, 73) ἀὴδονες πολυκώτιλοι χλωραύχενες εἰαριναί, “The warbling nightingales with olive necks, the birds of spring.”

As Mr. Livingstone is not discussing beauty of expression we can leave this out of consideration.[36]He is discussing thesubstanceof poetry, comparing the “directness” and “truthfulness” of Simonides (in this case) with the imaginative element in Shelley’s poem. He would apparently discard the latter element altogether, and prefers a simple description of the nightingale—that it sings, has an olive neck, and appears in spring. The first suggestion that occurs to one is that if, say, an auctioneer’s catalogue of farm stock—without any addition whatever to its contents—could be worded prettily and made metrical, it would afford huge enjoyment to our literary critic.

The whole question is as to the value of the imaginative element which to our minds makes Shelley’s poem one of the most beautiful lyrics—possibly the most beautiful—in all literature. In sweeping away this element, Mr. Livingstone tells us how much of English poetry must be cast aside. But he does not realize that much else has also to be flung on the scrap-heap. Imagination, in its true sense, includes all those aesthetic, moral, and spiritual faculties which are higher than the intellect—all, in fact, that raises man above his material existence. (See pp.39,40,358.) With the immense deal of English poetry which Mr. Livingstone proposes to “scrap” must go all our most beautiful music, all that is great in painting (which is never “direct” and “truthful” in this sense, or it would not be great),all Greek statuary, and all that expresses high moral and spiritual truths in our literature. I do not think that Mr. Livingstone will find many adherents to his new creed.

This critic also discussesstyle, and we find that he speaks of Pope as a “great poet,” and apparently revels in his monotonous verse! When pointing out that English verse, unlike what we have left of Greek poetry, includes much unequal and ill-finished work, he says, “Of all our great poets, perhaps only Milton and Pope can boast unfailing excellence of style.”

As regards this inequality in the work of English poets the answer is very simple. Mr. Livingstone forgets the fact—a very important fact in any speculation upon the scheme of the universe—that only the good things ultimately survive. How very little we have left of many Greek poets! Of Sophocles only seven plays remain out of one hundred and twenty-seven,and the Fragments collected are said to be very poor(many, of course, are only grammatical illustrations)—and more than half of Homer must have been dropped. We probably still have everything that isbestin Greek literature. Again, it is not in factdesirableto restrict publication to work of the highest importance, and the facilities afforded by printing have made itunnecessarythus to restrict it—so that evenMy Commonplace Bookis now, at least temporarily, part of English literature!

Greatly as I admire Mr. Livingstone’s book, I feel bound to call attention to a view of poetry that must do great harm to University students and others. I am also bound to mention him as an illustration of the fact that classical men usually imagine that their study of the Greek and Latin languages and literature qualifies them to become literary critics.[37]This fact has impressed itself upon me from youth upwards. One of my teachers, a man of some weight in the classical world, was in the habit of saying that only through study of Latin and Greek could a man learn to write good English![38]His own English was simply execrable.

I will now give another instance where the classical enthusiast, as in Mr. Livingstone’s case, tends to exaggerate the value of his favourite literature—truly wonderful as it is. Gissing’sPrivate Papers of Henry Ryecroftis an interesting book of wide circulation, in which the author displays great admiration for and familiarity with the classics. Speaking of Xenophon’sAnabasis, he says “Were it the sole book existing in Greek, it would be abundantly worth while to learn the language in order to read it.” That is to say, it would be worth while expending, out of our short lives, some years of study for the sole purpose of reading in the original an extremelysimple,prosehistorical narrative, which has been excellently translated! (If Gissing had saidHomerinstead of Xenophon, no one would have quarrelled with him.) Again, he says, “Many a single line presents a picture which deeply stirs the emotions”; and he gives us what he calls “a good instance of such a line.” A guide, who has led the Greeks through hostile country, has to return through the same perilous district, and the wonderful line is Ἐπεὶ ἑσπέρα ἐγένετο, ᾤχετο τῆς νυκτὸς ἀπιών. This line Gissing translates, “When evening came he took leave of us and went away by night”—a sentence which only by inadvertence could have appeared in, say, aTimesleader, seeing that the words “by night” are redundant. As a matter of fact, the translation is incorrect; there is nothing about “taking leave of us,” and the meaning is, “As soon as evening came, he had slipped away into the darkness.”

(Professor Naylor points out to me that the word ᾤχετο in this line is interesting. It conveys the idea of a swift or abrupt departure or disappearance. It is used in connection with that most interesting man Alcibiades (Xen,Hell., 2. I. 26) and gives a fine impression of his quick insolent temper. The Greek admirals had put themselves in a position of extreme danger and he came to warn them of their peril. Their reply was the usual expression of ineptitude, “We are the admirals, not you”; and immediately follows the one word ᾤχετο, “he turned on his heels and left”—and with this word Alcibiades disappears from contemporary history.)

In referring to Mr. Livingstone’s remarks above I could not use the Sappho quotation, because there are certain initial questions that need to be first settled. (In briefly discussing these I must speak as though I were expressingdefinite opinions, since otherwise the note could not be compressed sufficiently, but I mean the following rather assuggestionswhich may possibly be found useful.)

Sappho’s line is (Fr, 39) Ἦρος ἄγγελος ἱμερόφωνος ἀήδων, which Mr. Livingstone translates “The messenger of spring, the lovely-voiced nightingale.” Now ἱμερος (himeros) means animal passion, so that ἱμερόφωνος (himerophonos) is a strong word meaning singing of, or with, passion—in this case the passion of the pairing-time. Why then does Mr. Livingstone, following Liddell and Scott, give the totally different meaning “lovely-voiced”? Apparently it is because Theocritus (XXVIII, 7) applies the expression “himerophonos” to the Charites, and, according to the current conception, those deities were pure unimpassionate beings.[39]

In questions of this character, seeing that the Greek gods were guilty of every form of immorality and the Greeks themselves were one of the most sensual nations that ever existed, the presumption is in favour of impurity: the onus of proof is on those who allege purity. I have not undertaken the heavy work of looking up the innumerable references to the Charites in Greek literature, but I know of nothing that supports the prevalent conception of those deities. Apart from the fact that Theocritus uses the wordhimerophonos, Meleager (Anth. Pal, V, 195) speaks ofhimerosas conferred by the Charites. There is nothing in the meaning ofcharis, or the verbcharizesthaito support the current idea (both being even used in an immodest sense); Homer identifies Charis with Aphrodite, with whom Hesiod also identifies Aglaia, since each is made the wife of Hephaestus; the Charites are constantly associated with Aphrodite and Erôs (and consequently with Himeros, the personification of passion) so that the maximNoscitur a sociisapplies; Sappho repeatedly claims them as her patrons; as regards the representation of the Charites in art, girl friendship would be a subject quite alien to the Greek mind.

If the view suggested is correct our authorities with their preconceived ideaspresume to correct Theocritus and Sappho! They not only give a wrong view of the Charites, but also hide the coarseness of the compliment paid by Theocritus to his lady friend—in each casedistorting the truth.

Mr. Livingstone may have another reason for altering the meaning of “himerophonos.” He appears to hold the opinion that a Greek writer would not ascribe intelligence or emotion to a bird, as Mrs. Browning does in “To a Seamew.” (I quite agree with him as to the false, feminine sentiment in this poem. It is mainly the “Sonnets from the Portuguese” that raise Mrs. Browning above the minor poets.) Mr. Livingstone, for example, translates ἡμερόφων’ ἀλέκτωρ, “O cock that criestatdawn.” This should surely mean “that announceth the dawn;” the attitude and the verycrowof the bird would suggest this to the Greeks; and the fowl did, as a matter of fact, serve in place of an alarm-clock to them (see, for instance, Aristophanes’Birds, 488). Does not Mr. Livingstone forget that the Greeks attributed not only intelligence but also miraculous powers to animals (see p. 370)? If so, this illustrates another fact noticeable among classical authorities. They often fail to considerall the premisesbefore arriving at a conclusion. Taking another illustration from Mr. Livingstone, he says that the Greeks had little of the feeling of wonder, did not “muse on the strangeness of the world,” and would not have experienced the emotion Pascal felt when viewing the starry heavens, “The eternal silence of those infinite spaces terrifies me.” The premise he appears to omit here is the fact of the intense ignorance of the Greeks. Their world was a very limited one, with its flat earth and solid lid, certain bright objects conceived as gods or otherwise moving in the intermediate space. To illustrate this, Herodotus (II, 24) believes that the sun-god is forced by the cold winds in winter to move to the warm sky above Libya; and in 434 B.C. (about the same time) the great advanced thinker, Anaxagoras, is arrested for blasphemy and exiled because he taught that the sun must be a mass of blazing metal larger than the Peloponnesus! Everything in nature had its god, whose action explained whatever happened. If the Greeks had once realized the awful infinity of the universe their whole outlook on nature would have changed, and I cannot think that so highlyintellectual a people would not have been moved by wonder. I cannot see any element in “the Greek genius” that would indicate this. (Observe Ptolemy’s epigram onp. 10.)

Returning to the Sappho quotation, Mr. Livingstone translates ἦρος ἄγγελος literally as “the messenger of spring.” Does he mean the messenger “sent by spring” or “announcing spring”? Presumably he does not mean the latter, as it would impute intelligence or emotion to the bird. But, if we accept the former interpretation, it leads to the curious result that the poet, not content with a Goddess of Spring and the Hours who represent the seasons, intends still further to personify spring. Is not the true meaning of Sappho’s words “the nightingale with its passionate song sent (by Proserpine) to let men know that spring is approaching”? This is not mere captious criticism. To Sappho the goddess Proserpine was a concrete being with some sort of corporeal form, who brings athingcalled spring, and who actuallydoessend the nightingale ahead to sing of the passion of the pairing-time, and thus let men know that spring is coming. There is no poetic imagery, no imaginative picture in the poet’s mind, but the statement of anactual fact. See also the reference to the halcyon,p. 370. It seems to me that, in this as in other cases, our classical authoritiesfail to place themselves in the position of the Greeks. Here they interpret as imagination what was meant as reality. (However, as I have said before, the above are merely suggestions which I myself hope to consider further; but, until we knew exactly what Sappho’s verse meant, it could not be brought into the discussion of Mr. Livingstone’s views.)

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