'^^■"-^!
J^f / ■.)
GIFT OF
MICHAEL REESE
■v/
- .,■"-. ^'■
%.^
>r%
*_^^ #
X.
■X'^- *>,
: ^-
A HISTORY
OF
GREEK LITERATURE
BY
THOMAS SERGEANT PERRY
AUTHOR OF " ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY,
OPITZ TO LESSING," "THE EVOLUTION OF THE SNOB."
"FROM
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1890
Copyright, 1890,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY.
Robert Drummond,
Frinter,
Nkw York.
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK,
PREFACE.
This book is an attempt to recount the history of Greek litera-
ture, not so much to classical students as to those who have no
direct knowledge of the subject. Albert Wolff's " Pantheon des
Classischen Alterthums" (Berlin; Hempel, 1881), a volume of the
excellent series of the " Classiker aller Zeiten und Nationen," has
served as a model.
Among many things which doubtless demand apology is the
reference (p. 442) to Windisch's interesting hypothesis on the influ-
ence of the New Comedy upon the Sanskrit drama, which is spoken
of as if it were a fact. Prof. L. von Schroeder, in his interesting
'* Indiens Literatur und Cultur in historischer Entwicklung " (Leip-
zig, 1887), has shown that the hypothesis is untenable.
It has been thought undesirable to mention all the authorities
used; the "general reader" does not care for, and the scholar does
not need, the frequent footnote in a book of this sort.
The author tenders his warmest thanks to Mr. A. P. C. Griffin,
of the Boston Public Library, who, with the utmost kindness, saw
about four-fifths of the book through the press, during the author's
absence from the country; to Mr. Louis Dyer for many valuable
suggestions and much good counsel, as well as for permission to use
his manuscript translations of Euripides; to Mr. J. G. Croswell for
kind aid ; and to the many writers who allowed him to make use of
their published translations in this book. He, moreover, desires to
express his indebtedness to Mr. E. E. Treffry, of New York, who
read the proofs, not only with untiring patience, but also with
friendly zeal.
312, Marlborough Street, Boston,
Feb. 26, 1890.
vu
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTORY.
PAGE
The Independence of the Greek Literature.— Its Influence. — Its Artistic Quali-
ties. — The People; their EarHest History. — The Country; its Geography. — The
Possible Influence of Climate, etc. — The Language ----- i
BOOK I.— THE EPICS.
CHAPTER I.
THE HOMERIC QUESTION.
I. — The Beginnings of Literature. — The Influence of Religious Feeling. — The
Traces of Early Song. II. — The Hexameter, and its Possible Growth. III. —
The Homeric Poems. — The References to an Earlier Period. — The Ionic Origin of
the Poems. — The Existence of Homer. IV. — The Long Discussion of this Sub-
ject : Bentley, Wolf, etc. Possible Date of the Compositions of these Poems. —
Archaeological Illustrations -- - - - - - - - -12
CHAPTER n.
THE ILIAD.
I. — The Subject of the Poem. — The Admiration felt for it. — Its Fate at Dif-
ferent Periods of Ancient and Modern History. — Adaptations and Translations :
Chapman, Pope, etc. II. — An Analysis of the Poem. III. — Some of the Quali-
ties of the Heroes : their Unconventional Timidity ; their Relations to the Gods.
IV. — The Greek Epic Treatment compared with that of other Races. V. — The
Illustrative Extracts - 30
CHAPTER III.
THE ODYSSEY.
I. — The Difference between the Iliad and the Odyssey, and the Resultant
Discussion.— An Analysis of the Latter Poem. II.— Some of the Qualities of this
Poem. — Its Coherence and Simplicity. — -The Naivete of the Heroes — The Explan-
ation of the Poem as a Solar MytJi. III.— Illustrative Extracts - - - 82
VlU CONTENTS.
CHAPTER IV„
THE EPICS IN GENERAL, AND THE HOMERIC HYMNS. page
I. — Extravagance of some of the Praise given to Homer by Over-enthusi-
astic Admirers. — Some of the Points of Resemblance and Difference between the
Iliad and Odyssey, as in the Relation of Gods to Men, etc. ; the Different Kinds
of Similes in the two Poems ; of Epithets. — The Moral Law as it is Implied and
Stated. II. — The Other Compositions ascribed to Homer; Hymns, Parodies and
Minor Poems. — The Light that the Hymns throw on Early Religious Thought. —
The Myths not invented as Stories, but Attempted Explanations of the Universe. —
The Mock-Homeric Poems. III. — Illustrative Extracts. IV. — The Later Epics :
their Subjects ; their Relation to the Homeric Poems ; and their Merit - - - ii8
CHAPTER V.
HESIOD.
I. — All our Positive Information about this Poet most Vague. — His Boeotian
Origin ; All that This Implies in Comparison with the Ionic Civilization. — The
Doric Severity and Conservatism. — The Devotion to Practical Ends. II. — The
Story of Hesiod's Life.— His " Works and Days " Described. — Its Thrifty Advice
Combining Folk-lore and Farming. — The " Theogony," a Manual of Old Mythol-
ogy.^His Other Work ; its General Aridity. — Illustrative Extracts - - - 136
BOOK II.— THE LYRIC POETRY.
INTRODUCTORY.
The Hexameter as an Expression Adapted to a Feudal Period, when Com-
parative Uniformity Prevailed.— Changing Circumstances, with Added Complexity
of Life, Saw New Forms of Utterance Introduced into Literature. — These, how-
ever, had already Enjoyed a Long, if Unrecognized, Life among the People:
Such were Liturgical, as well as Popular, in their Nature, and Run Back to
Primeval Savageness - - - - - - - - - --150
CHAPTER I.
THE EARLIER LYRIC POETS.
I. — The Influence of Religion on the Early Growth of the LjtIc Poetry. —
The Traditional Origins : Orpheus and Musasus.— The Importance of Music— Its
Condition in Early Times.— Its Use as an Aid to Poetry.— The Traditional Olym-
pus, the Father of Music. II.— Callinus and the Elegy.— Its Use by Archilochus,
and the Growth of Individuality.— The Value of the New Forms as Expressions
of the Political Changes then Appearing. III.— Simonides and His denuncia-
tion of Women. — His Melancholy. — The Meagreness of the Lyrical Fragments
Impedes our Knowledge. — The Extent of our Loss Conjectured - - - 154
CONTENTS. IX
CHAPTER II.
THE LYRIC POETS— Continued. PAGE
I. — Tyrtceus, and his Patriotic Songs in Behalf of Sparta. — In Contrast, the
Amorous Wail of Mimnermus. — Solon in Athens, as a Lawgiver, and as a Writer
of Elegies mainly of Political Import. II. — The Melic Poetry, and its Connection
with Music and Dance. — The Growth of Music ; the Different Divisions. — Alcman,
Alcseus, Sappho, Erinna, Stesichorus, Ibycus.— Anacreon, and his Vast Popular-
ity. III. — The Elegiac Poetry. — Phocylides and his Inculcation of Reasonable-
ness. — Xenophanes and his Philosophical Exposition. — Theognis and his Politi-
cal Teachmgs.— Simonides, his Longer Poems and his Epigrams. — Bacchylides,
Lasus, Myrtis, and the Predecessors of Pindar. — Translations of some Lyrical
Poems - - 165
CHAPTER III.
PINDAR.
The General Condition of the Lyric Poetry. I.— Its Flowering in Pindar. —
His Life. — His Relations with the Sicilian Tyrants. — A Comparison between him
and Milton. — The Abundance of his Work, and its Various Divisions. II. — The
Epinicion, or Song in Praise of a Victor at the Public Games. — The Games, and
their Significance to the Greeks. — The Adulation which Pindar Gave to the Vic-
tors ; the Serious Nature of his Work ; its Relation to Religious Thought ; its
Ethical Importance, all being Qualities that were Outgrowing the Bonds of Mere
Lyric Verse. III. — Illustrative Extracts - - 196
BOOK III.— THE GREEK TRAGEDY.
\
CHAPTER I.
ITS GRO WTH AND HI STOP Y.
I. — The Prominence of Athens after the Wars with Persia. — The Qualities of
the Athenians ; their Intellectual Vivacity ; the Aristocratic Conditions of their
Society. — The Little Influence of Women and Books. — Their Political Training.—
Their Literary Enthusiasm. II. — The Drama a Growth, not a Special Creation. —
The Early Condition of Dramatic Performances. — The Celebration of Festivals ;
the Dithyramb ; the Rudimentary Dialogues ; the Worship of Dionysus. — The
Drama before ^schylus, and the Resemblance between its Growth and that of
Modern Times. III.— The Mechanical Conditions. — The Theatres ; the Actors
and their Equipment. — The Stage. — The Masks. — The Absence of Minute Detail,
and Unlikeness to Modern Drama. — The Chorus; its Composition and its Share
in the Performance at Different Times. IV. — The Author's Relation to his
Play.— The Tetralogy and its Obscurities. — Further Obscurities Besetting the Sub-
ject, such as the Symmetry of the Plays. — The Plays that Survive. — The General
Development of the Drama, and its Dependence on the Life of the Time - - - 217
X CONTENTS.
CHAPTER II.
jESCHYLUS. pagk
I. — The Life of ^schylus ; his Part in the Persian Wars ; his Career as an
Author ; his Death. II. — The Difficulties in the Way of our Comprehending the
Greek Drama. — Its Spectacular Effect with the Choral Dances. — The Simplicity
of the Plot compared with Shakspere's Art. — The Unities in the Greek Plays. —
The Absence of Love as a Dramatic Inspiration. — The Flowering of the Drama
in Athens, Paris, and London at a Moment of Victory. III. — The Earliest Play,
The Persians. — Its Presentation of Historical Events. — An Analysis of the Play. —
The First Appearance of the Drama in Western Literature. — The Prominence of
the Chorus, and Diminutive Value of the Actors, and the Archaic Quality of the
Infant Drama; Tableaux rather than Actions. — Solemnity of yEschylus. IV. —
The Seven Against Thebes Analyzed. — The Mythical Plot. — The Slow Growth of
Dramatic Action. V. — The Suppliants. — The Predominance of the Lyrical Ele-
ment, the Crudity of the Dialogue. VI. — The Prometheus Bound. — The Possible
Significance of the Myth. — The Dramatic Treatment. — Its Apparent Irreverence —
Our Meagre Comprehension of it. VII. — The Oresteian Trilogy, the Agamem-
non, the Libation Poems, and the Furies, Analyzed. — The Significance of the
Dramatic Treatment of Alleged Legendary History. — The Ethical Principle. — The
Simplicity of ^Eschylus. — The Changes wrought by Time in the Drama - - 239
CHAPTER III.
SOPHOCLES.
I. — The Life of Sophocles; his Relation to the Persian Wars. — The Position
he Held. — His Relation to the Time of Pericles ; the Main Qualities of that Bril-
liant Period. — His Work Compared with that of ^schylus. II. — The Electra.
Compared with the Treatment of the Oresteian Myth by .^schylus. — The Play
Described. — Importance of Oratory among the Greeks Illustrated by the Plays. —
Fullness of the Art of Sophocles. III. — The Antigone; its Adaptability to
Modern Tastes. — The Modification in the Treatment of the Chorus. IV. — The
King CEdipus. — Its Vividness and Impressiveness. V. — The CEdipus at CoIodus. —
Its Praise of Athens. VI. — The Ajax. — Its Treatment of a Bit of Homeric
Story. — The Interference of a Deity. — The Growth of Individuality. VII. — The
Philoctetes ; Again Homeric Characters. — The Individual Traits Strongly Brought
out. VIII. — The Maidens of Trachis. — General View of the Art of Sophocles,
with its Rounded Perfection - - - - - - - - - -301
CHAPTER IV.
EURIPIDES.
I. — The Changes in Greek Literature and in the Body Politic. — An Illustra-
tive Quotation from Mr. J. A. Symonds. II.— The Life of Euripides, and an
Attempt to Explain his Relation to his Predecessors. — His Movement toward
Individuality not a Personal Trait, but Part of a General Change. The Religious
Decadence ; Political Enfeeblement. III. — The Work of Euripides ; its Abun-
dance. — The Hecuba. — The Prologue as Employed by this Writer. IV. — The
Orestes and its Treatment. — The New Treatment of the Heroes as Human
Beings. — The Phenician Virgins. — The Medea; its Intensity. — Extracts. V. —
The Crowned Hippolytus. — Realism in the Treatment of the Characters. — The
Further Change in the Importance of the Chorus ------ 352
CONTENTS. XI
CHAPTER V.
EURIPIDES II. PAGE
I. — The Alcestis of Euripides. — His Humanity Offensive to His Contempo-
raries. — The Andromache ; the Conversational Duels. H. — The Suppliants ; the
Heracleidae ; their Political Allusions. — The Helen, with its Romantic Interest in
Place of the Earlier Solemnity, and Its Enforcement of Unheroic Misfortune. —
Its Lack of the Modern Dramatic Spirit. III. — The Troades, a Curious Treat-
ment of the Old Myths. — The Mad Heracles ; its Representation of the Gods in
Accordance with the New Spirit. — The Electra ; its Importance as a Bit of
Literary Controversy. — Its Inferiority to the Plays of ^schylus and Sophocles on
the Same Subject. — The Ion ; a Drama, not a Tragedy, and a Marked Specimen
of the Change in Thought. — A Comparison between its Complexity and the
Earlier Simplicity. — Condemnation of the Old Mythology. IV. — The Two Iphi-
geneias. — The deus ex machina. V. — The Bacchae, and its Importance in the
Study of Greek Religious Thought. ^The Feeling of Euripides for Natural
Scenery; His Modern Spirit. — The Satyric Play, the Cyclops. — The Rhesus. VI. —
The Successors of Euripides. — The Extended Influence of the Greek Drama, and
especially of Euripides as the Most Modern of the Ancients - . . . 398
CHAPTER VI.
THE COMEDY.
I. — Obscurity of its Early History ; its Alleged Origins, in the Dionysiac
Festivals, and in Various Places, as in Sicily, among the Megarians, etc. — The
Earlier Writers of Comedy. II. — Aristophanes. — Comedy as he Found it ; its
Technical Laws ; the Chorus, etc. — The Acharnians. — The Seriousness of all
the Comedies; their Conservatism. — The Horse-play. III. — The Knights; its
Attack on Cleon, and General Political Fervor. IV. — The Clouds, with its
Derision of Socrates and of Modern Tendencies. V. — The Wasps, and its
Denunciation of Civic Decay, V^t — The Peace, and its Political Implications. —
The Poetical Side of Aristophanes. VII.^The Birds. VIII, — The Lysistrata,
and the Thesmophoriazusae. — The Attack on Euripides directly, and indirectly
on Current Affairs. — Hopelessness of the Position held by Aristophanes. IX. —
The Frogs ; Euripides again Assaulted, and ^Eschylus Exalted. X. — The Eccle-
siazusae, and the Plutus. — The Altered Conditions, — The Unliterary Quality of
Attic Comedy in its Early Days. — Importance of Aristophanes as a Mouth-piece
of the Athenian People. XI. — The Later Development of Comedy. — Philemon
and Menander; the Contrast between their Work and that of Aristophanes. —
Its Relation to the Later Times __----._- 444
BOOK IV,— THE HISTORIANS.
CHAPTER I.
HERODOTUS.
I. — The Origin of Prose. — The Predecessors of Herodotus. II. — Herodotus,
his Life, his Travels. — His Methods, his Object. — The Criticisms of his Work. —
His Stories. — His Authorities. III.— Extracts ------- 508
XU CONTENTS.
CHAPTER II.
THUCYDIDES. page
I. — The Vast Difference between Herodotus and Thucydides. — The Life of
Thucydides. — His Conception of the Historian's Duty. — His Modernness. — His
Language. H. — His Use of Speeches. — His Self-control. HL — The Fame of his
History. — Its Presentation of Political Principles. IV. — The Sicilian Expedition, 533
CHAPTER III.
XENOPHON.
I. — Xenophon's Relation to Thucydides. — His Life. — The Anabasis. II. —
The Hellenica. — Qualities of Xenophon's Style. — The Memorabilia. III. — The
Cyropasdia, an Historical Novel. IV. — Xenophon's Minor Writings. — The Possi-
ble Reasons for his Great Fame. — His General, but Safe, Mediocrity. V. —
Extracts --_------.__.- 571
BOOK v.— THE ORATORS.
CHAPTER I.
THE EARL V ORA TORS AND ISOCRA TES.
I. — The Difference between Ancient and Modern Notions of the Function of
Eloquence. — Our Theories mainly Derived from Roman Declamation. — The
Greek Methods Different. II. — Development of Oratory among the Greeks. —
The Influence of the Sophists ; the Varying Opinions concerning these Teachers.
— Their Instruction in Philosophy, Rhetoric, and Physics. III. — The Growth of
Dialectic in Sicily. — The Early Teachers, and their Modification of the Greek
Prose Style. Its Imitation of Poetical Models, Compared with Euphuism. IV. —
Antiphon, Andokides, Lysias ; Isocrates and his Artificial Style. His Political
Yearnings. — Isseos. — The Diversity of Athenian Politics Expressed in the Oratory
of Isocrates and in his Cunning Art. — Its Literary Qualities - - - _ 598
CHAPTER II.
DEMOSTHENES.
I. — The Life of Demosthenes. — His Early Speeches. II. — His Opposition
to Philip of Macedon. — The Divided Condition of the Greeks. III. — 'The Position
of Demosthenes. — His Various Efforts to Arouse his Fellow-Countrymen. — The
Olynthiac Struggle between Athens and Philip ; the King's Success. IV. — Last
Years of Demosthenes. V. — Qualities of his Eloquence. — Hopelessness of his
Position. — Contemporary Orators, Phocion, Hypereides, etc. — The Later History
of Oratory. VI. — Extracts _.___----- 622
CONTENTS. XIU
BOOK VI.— THE PHILOSOPHERS.
CHAPTER I.
THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. page
I. — The Originality of Greek Philosophical Thought. — The Earliest Philoso-
phers and their Views, Physical and Metaphysical. — The lonians ; Pythagoras,
and the Vague Report of His Life and Teachings. — Xenophanes, Heraclitus,
Empedocles, etc. II. — The Atomists. — Our Dependence on Aristotle for Infor-
mation, so that we Get but Glimpses of the Past, yet these Glimpses Attract Stu-
dents. — Anaxagoras in his Relation to the Athenian Public. — The Sophists in
Athens. — Their Evil Repute.— The Growth of Individualism in Philosophy Going
on All Fours with its Spread in Literature. Ill — Protagoras, his Ethical Teach-
ings. — Conservative Opposition to New Thought. — The Cosmopolitanism of Phil-
osophy Distasteful to Patriotic Greeks. — Philosophy an Aristocratic Attribute, like
Modern Letters, unlike Modern Science. IV. — The Fine Promises of the Soph-
ists ; Rhetoric as a Cure for Life's Woes. — Contempt for Science. V. — Socrates ;
his Life. — His Novel Aim, and Method of Instruction. — His Ethical Teaching. —
His Practical Side.— His Cross-examination of Civilization. — The Story of his
Death. — His Following. — The Cynic and Cyrenaic Schools _ _ - - 656
CHAPTER II.
PLA TO.
I. — The Vast Importance of Plato to Modern Thought. — Mr. Benn on his
Inconsistencies. — Platonism not to be Defined by one Word or Phrase. 11. — The
Life of Plato. — His Aristocratic Theories. — His Political Efforts for the Regenera-
tion of Mankind. — His Journeys, etc. — His Work ; the Nature of the Dialogues.
III. — His Accounts of Socrates; the Apology and the Crito. — Extracts. IV. —
The General Dialogues: their Literary Charm. — Various Ones Analyzed: the
Charmides, Lysis, Protagoras, Ion, Lesser Hippias, Meno. V. — The Symposium
and the Phsedrus. — The Gorgias. — The Cratylus. — The Timaeus, etc. VI. — The
RepubHc, its Utopianism and Aristocratic Longings. — The Generally Accepted
Notion of Platonism.— His Theorj'of Ideas. VII.— His Followers and his Influ-
ence, and his New Foundation for Ethics. VIII. — Extracts - - - - 686
CHAPTER III,
ARISTOTLE.
I. — Aristotle's Unfortunate Rivalry with Plato. — His Life. — His Influence,
Especially in the Middle Ages. — The Consequences of Exaggerated Praise not
Unknown to Aristotle's Fame. II. — His Relations to his Predecessors. — His Inter-
est in Scientific Study. — His Writings; their Lack of Literary Charm. — The Manner
of their Preservation. III. — His Conception of Philosophy, and his Division of its
Functions. — The Breadth of its Interests. — The Politics, etc. — His Repellant Style
Compared with the Charm of Plato's. — The Safe Middle Path which he Follows.
— His Cool Wisdom. IV. — The Poetics ; its Importance to Modern Literature.
V. — Extracts. VI. — The Peripatetics, and the Latest Course of Philosophy. —
Epicureans and Stoics - - - - - - - - - - -71S
XIV CONTENTS.
BOOK VII.— HELLENISM.
CHAPTER I.
ALEXANDRIA, THEOCRITUS. pags
I. — The Succession of Alexandria to Athens. — The Intimate Relation of
Alexandrinism to Modern Literature, through the Roman. — The Survival of Greek
Intellectual Influence after Political Decay. — The Gradualness of the Change.
II. — The Importance of Alexandria for the Cosmopolitan Sway of Greek Influ-
ence. — Its Generous Equipment for its New^ Duties. — The Beginnings of Scholar-
ship. III. — The Learning Influences the Literature. — Theocritus, and his Work.
— Its Relation to Contemporary Art. — Bion and Moschus. IV. — Extracts - - 741
CHAPTER II.
THE POETRY— Continued.
I. — The Relation of the New Movement to the Later Condition of Athens. —
Changed Treatment of Women, and their Influence. — The Pastorals and Elegies.
— Antimachus. — The Growth of Literary Art, and Various Writers of Forgotten
Fame. II. — Callimachus. — The Lyric Poetry. — The Drama. III. — The Epic
Writers. — ApoUonius Rhodius, and his Argonautics ; its Influence on Roman
Writers. — The Didactic Poets: Aratus, Nicander, etc. — Some Minor Writers
of Verse. IV. — Nonnus, and his Learned Epic. — Musaeus. V. — Quintus Smyr-
naeus, and his Unexpected Vigor. — The Gradual Dwindling of Poetry. VI. —
The Anthology. — Its Gradual Formation. — Its Abundance. — The Epigram.
VII. — Extracts from the Anthology ________ 762
CHAPTER III.
THE PROSE.
I —The Wide Circle of Hellenistic Culture. — The Abundance of Intellectual
Interests in Alexandria and Elsewhere. — The Growth of Scholarship. — The
Spread of Scientific Study. — Euclid. — Archimedes. — Astronomy. — Ptolem.y.
II. — The Importance of this Greek Scientific Work. — The Study of Medicine. —
Galen. — His Vast Influence, like that of Ptolemy and Aristotle. —Its Long Life
and Final Overthrow, possibly Portending an Altered View of All Things Greek.
III. — The Grecian Influence in Rome.— The Difference between the Greek and
Roman Ideals. IV. — Polybius ; his History and its Importance. — Extracts.
V. — Other Historians : Diodorus Siculus, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Strabo,
Flavius Josephus --.___.--..- 799
CHAPTER IV.
PLUTARCH.
I.— Plutarch. — His Life and Work. — His Method.— His Attractive Simplicity.
— His Influence. II. — His Naturalness and Impartiality. III. — Extracts. IV. —
His Morals. — Extracts ------ 818
CONTENTS. XV
CHAPTER V.
LUCIAN. PACK
I. — Lucian, the Satirist. — The First of the Moderns. — More Greek than the
Greeks of his Time. — His Life. II. — His Onslaughts upon the Moribund Religion.
— His Dialogues. III. — The Broad Burlesque which he sometimes Employs
against Gods, Philosophers, and Men of Letters. IV. — His Later Fame. — His
Notion of Hades. — His Treatment of Gross Superstitions. — Alexander the
Medium. — Various Writings of his. V. — His Wit, Comparison between it and
the Same Quality as Exhibited by Others. — His Denunciation of Science. — His
Exhibition of the General Condition of the Greek Man of Letters in those Times 830
CHAPTER VI.
PROSE WRITERS— Continued.
I. — Literary Trifles not the Only Interests. — The New View of Moral Great-
ness. — The Life of Epictetus. ^11. — Marcus Aurelius. — His Work as a Writer.
III. — Philostratus, ancf his Discussion of Literary and Artistic Subjects. IV. —
Thei Final Gatherings from Antiquity. — Athenaeus, and his Collection of Anec-
dotes. — ^lian. — Some Historians. V. — Pausanias. — Longinus, and his Literary
Criticism. — The Later Philosophy. VI. — In 529, the Closing of the University of
Athens, and the- Conversion of the Temple of Hermes into a Monastery. VII. —
Further Fragments. — The Threshing of Threshed Straw - _ - - 845
CHAPTER Vn.
THE GREEK ROMANCES.
I. — This Confusion, Great as it was. Led to an Attempted Reorganization of
Literary Work in the Romances. — The Method of Composition : Prominence of
Love, Wildness of Incident, etc. II. — lamblichus Xenophon of Ephesus. — Apol-
lonius of Tyre. — Heliodorus. — The Modern Descendants of these Romances.
III. — Achilles Tatius. — Chariton. IV. — Longus and his Pastoral. — The End - 860
GREEK LITERATURE.
INTRODUCTORY.
The Independence of the Greek Literature — Its Influence — Its Artistic Qualities. The
People ; their Earliest History. The Country ; its Geography — The Possible
Influence of Climate, etc. The Language.
ONE of the most striking qualities of Greek literature is its originality ;
it sprang, so to speak, from the soil, without marked traces of
foreign admixture, adopting, to be sure, the forms which are employed
independently by every other race that makes use of letters as a method
of expression, but developing them more completely than has been
done elsewhere. Starting in this way free in the main from outside
influences, it grew under the hands of the most wonderful people that
the world has ever known, to be the model for succeeding civilizations.
In literature, as everywhere, the best wins ; and in studying the litera-
ture of Greece we are really studying not merely forms of expression,
rich thought, wise comment and explanation that are unfailing sources
of delight and instruction, but also the foundations of nearly all the
work that has been done since in every civilized country. The lines
that the Greeks drew without rule or precedent have acquired an
•y,' r ,*' f '^ r "" ^ ? , "'' . •' INTRODUCTOR Y.
authority which has given them the force of literary canons to inspire
and direct subsequent work of the world. The quality that character-
izes their literature has proved a model for their successors ; it has been
absorbed, at times, with much conscious effort that has blurred the
force of its influence, and the ultimate consequenceof the whole ripen-
ing of modern civilization has been to bring men back to wonder and
admiration of their unparalleled performance. Naturally, Greek litera-
ture is not a unit ; when we speak of some of its most brilliant successes
we should properly define it as Athenian literature; and, too, the later
work of the Alexandrians, which was the only instance of the Greeks
imitating instead of directly producing, has been the main source of
modern inspiration ; yet it is to be remembered that even then they
were Greeks copying themselves, and not outside barbarians laying on
an artificial polish. And, too, it is towards the best of the native Greek
literature that men have gradually made their way with ever growing
respect. They have at times lost the way and have given their devotion
to what was second-best, but with a wider knowledge has come frank
reverence for only the most characteristic of their productions. As
the tracks where the first settlers strayed become the streets of the
established city, so have the different paths of the Greeks become high-
ways on which alone modern men have been free to move. Their epics,
their lyrics, their drama, their histories, their philosophy, have left
their mark on the taste of later generations. They imposed the laws
which have ruled since their day, not so much by legislation, however,
as by doing naturally what has been afterwards attempted by earnest
effort. Their unconscious ease has been succeeded by the more or less
deliberate attempts of those who have seen in the beauty of Greek
work an ideal as well as a model. This, then, marks the important
difference between the literatures of Greece on the one hand and on
the other that of Rome and modern civilizations, that the first grew up
untrammeled, as the natural expression of direct vision, while ever
since men have seldom felt themselves free from the necessity of refer-
ring to the foundations of literary art.
Yet the general resemblance in the growth of different literatures
can not be always explained as imitation. The path in which the
Greeks trod has been followed independently by different races, among
which we find that uniformly poetry precedes prose, and that the epic
appears before the drama, so that we may safely conclude that the
course of the Greek letters was in accordance with a form of develop-
ment that marks all literature, that there is a uniformity in the actions
of different races as there is between individuals, and that in both the
difference is in the accomplishment rather than in the ends aimed at.
To what extent this hypothesis is true, will be seen in the further study
THE ORIGIN OF THE GREEKS. 3
of Greek writings, but, granting a general analogy, we shall nowhere
find the same brilliant performance that we find in Greece. Its whole
literature is distinguished by a keen artistic sense that is made up of
freshness and truth to nature. Everywhere the Greek shunned ex-
aggeration. Unlike the Sanskrit writers he was impressive without
being grandiose ; unlike the Chinese, he was simple without being
puerile, and when we compare the Greek with more familiar literatures
that have been built upon it, the difference becomes even plainer. As
Taine has well said in his Philosophie de Vart en Grece, " A glance at
their literature in comparison with that of the East, of the middle ages,
and of modern times ; a perusal of Homer compared with the Divina
Commedia, Faust, or the Indian epics ; a study of their prose in com-
parison with any other prose of any other age or any other country,
would be convincing. By the side of their literary style, every style
is emphatic, heavy, inexact and unnatural ; by the side of their weird
types, every type is excessive, gloomy, and morbid ; by the side of their
poetic and oratorical forms, every form not based on theirs is out of
all proportion, ill devised, and misshapen." Possibly this statement
exemplifies the faults it names with profusion, but it also conveys the
truth that the Greek work is distinguished by proportion, by modera-
tion.
This moderation was a quality that it possessed from the beginning,
in, say, the tenth century before Christ, until the classic Greek literature
faded out of existence in the sixth century of our era, for so long was
its life. What then were the conditions in which we find it appearing ?
The Greeks belonged to the Aryan family, the great branch of the
human race that included Kelts, Slavs, Teutons, Lithuanians, Iranians,
Indians, Latins and Greeks, or, possibly, more exactly, the races that
first spoke these languages. The early home of the Aryans was long
held to be the high plateau, north of the Himalayas, in Central Asia,
but of late this hypothesis, which rested rather on ignorance of the facts
than on definite knowledge, has been much shaken, and it has been
held with plausibility that the once heretical notion that it had its home
in Europe has some interesting arguments in its favor. Together
with this hypothesis, which seems to have owed its origin to the general
impression that Asia, with its historical antiquity, must have been the
mother of nations, there has also succumbed any wide confidence in a
remote special connection between the Italians and the Greeks. In
the absence of definite knowledge this theory has flourished, as a bit
of inheritance from the loftier repute, doubtless, of Greek and Roman
antiquity, but it is only a hypothesis by no means firmly established.
It has been maintained that the two races, besides their common inheri-
tance, owned reminiscences of a union merely between themselves sub-
IN TROD UCTOR Y.
sequent to their separation from the main stock, reminiscences, to be
sure, of a very vague and shadowy kind, yet sufificient to prove their
early union. But this is mere conjecture, built on a very slight founda-
tion, and unable to present convincing proofs. The differences between
the two races are too great to warrant any assertion of their original
identity. At the first dawnings of history we find the Greeks settled
in the land which is still the home of their descendants.
Undoubtedly the early founders of this illustrious people formed a
race that had risen but little above absolute savagery. Just as mathe-
maticians are able to ascertain the height of a mountain without climb-
ing it, so modern science has been enabled to collect from detached
testimony a dim picture of the life of the pre-historic Aryan races.
But the dimness of the pic-
ture is still its most striking
quality, although very vivid
accounts have been made of
the idyllic condition of society
before the separation of the
different component parts.
Thus, they have been repre-
sented as forming a peaceful
collection of simple minded
men, interested in pastoral
pursuits, and enjoying all the
pleasures which poets have set
in the Golden Age. The
family life of the early Aryans
has been an especial object
of enthusiastic praise ; the
father, we have been told, was
the protector and guardian ;
the mother was a worthy
housewife, who addressed her
husband as "Master"; the
daughter, or "milker," as she
was named after her occupa-
tion in the dairy, flattered
her hard-working brother by calling him the " supporter," and all these
words were yet new enough to carry with them full significance. These
happy people did not live by agriculture alone ; they dwelt in houses
in walled towns, built wagons, and boats with rudders, understood the
art of weaving ; they painted pictures and composed poems ; indeed,
modern civilization seems to have had a formidable rival in its remote
A WOMAN (KORA) WITH A PLOW.
TRACES OF THEIR ORIGINAL SAVAGENESS.
ancestors. In fact, however, enthusiasm has probably overreached
itself in building from words alone this idyllic vision of the past, for it
seems more likely that men had not yet acquired the use of metals, and
enjoyed the meager civilization of the stone-age. Some memorials of
this antiquity we see in the discovery of the lake-dwellings in the lake
of Geneva, which are curiously like similar constructions in New Guinea.
Even if these were the dwellings of an earlier race, the invading Aryans
were but more slightly civilized, if indeed they enjoyed any superiority
in this respect. It must be remembered that in the earliest poetical
memorials that have reach-
ed us, there are abundant
traces of a wild and savage
past, as when, for example,
in the Iliad, Achilles drags
the body of Hector around
the walls of Troy, and bur-
ies twelve captured Tro-
jans at the grave of his
friend Patroclus ; and in
the mythology we find
further instances of other
barbarities of the gods. All
these things go to show the
existence of an earlier
period of rank savagery.
In prehistoric times they had risen, if not to such considerable civiliza-
tion as has at times been described, yet to a great advance upon actual
wildness. The stone and jade weapons had been wonderfully improved
and adapted to many useful practical ends, agriculture had been prac-
ticed, some animals had been tamed, the arts of tanning hides, braiding,
spinning, and probably weaving were known, the rudiments at least of
civilization had been painfully attained. The examination of their old
ash-heaps and a host of other bits of evidence lead us to the opinion
that for instance the first Aryan settlers in Italy were probably rather
lower than the Celts and Germans when these were first mentioned in
history. If we remember that the use of metals is one of the most
important steps in the civilization of a race, and that this had
not been learned by the Aryans until after their separation, it is easy
and probably accurate to estimate the degree of their culture as some-
thing yet extremely crude. The determining of dates in this misty
period is obviously impossible.
When and why the separation of the difTerent races took place can not
be determined. The Greeks, like almost all the Aryans at the begin-
PENELOPE AT THE LOOM.
INTRODUCTOR V.
ning of their history, imagined themselves the native, autochthonous
inhabitants of the regions where they found themselves settled from
time immemorial. There we find them at the first dawning of history,
and there they had been for many years,
Greece itself is a triangular shaped peninsula, with its northern base
resting on what is now Turkey in Europe, extending southeasterly into
the eastern part of the Mediterranean. Near the southeasterly part of
this peninsula, another peninsula is attached to the northern portion,
by the Isthmus of Corinth, that pro-
jects into the sea south of the main-
land with something of the shape of
an ivy-leaf. This part was called the
Peloponnesus. In addition there was
a fringe of islands in the sea, and a
small part of the coast of Asia. The
whole country lies between the for-
tieth and thirty-sixth degrees of lati-
tude ; its greatest length is not more
than two hundred and fifty miles ; its
greatest breadth, about one hundred
and eighty. The total area of the
mainland is only a little more than
twenty thousand miles or about one
third of that of New England. This
scanty region was sub-divided into
many small states ; Attica, for in-
stance, containing only about
seven hundred and twenty miles,
being thus a little more than half as large as the State of
Rhode Island. What the country lacked in size it made up in
variety. The outline was very large, greater than that of both
Spain and Portugal, and the mountainous formations helped to secure
the country from foreign invasion. These last had another, possibly
less advantageous effect on the political history of the country in
augmenting the sense of seclusion and diversity of the various states
Another direct effect was to give variety of climate ; in the highlands
the snow lay deep till late in the spring, while at a lower level snow
was never known. In the north, on the shore of the ^gean Sea, the
climate was harsh like that of central Europe ; on the southern slopes
grew olives and grapes, and in the warmer regions figs, dates, and
oranges. Athens especially enjoyed the advantages of a tropical land,
being saved from intense heat, however, by cooling sea breezes. This
variety in the productions protected the country from a monoton.
DORIAN WARRIOR.
THE GEOGRAPHICAL CONDITIONS. 7
ous existence as a mere granary, and helped to make it an inde-
pendent, self-supporting land, free from any one engrossing interest.
Greece was not strong or simple-hearted enough to become a conquering
nation ; it was defended by its position from its most powerful enemies ;
and the comparative barrenness of its soil kept it a country in which,
while life was easily supported, there was no temptation to seek for
great gain. The compact seclusion of the various regions was doubt-
less of very great influence in preventing the unification of the different
divisions into one whole. The political system of Greece rested on the
idea of the entire independence of each separate city, and its history
is made up of the records of the wars which this condition of things
called forth until its final termination in anarchy. Possibly the Greek
mind, with its aversion to abstractions, could never have been tolerant
of an arrangement which substituted a theoretical term for the form of
rule which was open to daily inspection, and moreover gave to the citi-
zens a lively sense of responsibility which knit politics with literature
in a way to preserve both from remoteness of life. Yet a less doubtful
reason was the geographical one, the natural limits of the separate divi-
sions, the local importance of the leading city. Yet even this political
unit was unknown in the earliest times ; the city grew up only by the
amalgamation of separate villages, and even at the beginning of the
Peloponnesian war, the remote parts of Greece, as in the northwest,
consisted of detached hamlets. How far the existence of various
boundaries and the great variety and unextravagant beauty of the
scenery contributed to the formation of the Greek taste can not be
definitely stated. We can now only mention the coincidence, and the task
of science is simply removing inexplicability from observed coincidences.
Although the question is a complicated one, it may yet be possible to
recognize in the conditions of the Greek life some of the causes that
led to the moderation of their taste and to their aversion to all forms
of extravagance. In the land that they inhabited they saw no inac-
cessible mountains ; there were no vast expanses of plain, no gloomy
masses of forest ; the water that washed their shores did not present
an unbroken vast expanse ; its surface was covered with numerous
islands, there was no great sweep of a mysterious sea to overawe the
imagination : every thing was limited and open to approach. These
facts perhaps saved the Greeks from a perception of their own insig-
nificance ; they were not overborne by the terrible relentlessness of
nature and the impossibility of taming it. They escaped the depres-
sion that other races knew in less gracious surroundings, just as a
person brought up in comfort or luxury is unconscious of the huge
store of misery that infolds the world. They had not ever present
before them any terrible symbol of the cruelty of nature, and thus their
o IN TROD UCTOR Y.
pictures of life were always marked by grace and freedom from exag-
geration.
Obviously, any such explanation can be no more than a mere hypoth-
esis, but there were other causes which affected less obscurely the
formation of the Greek character. The extent of their influence may
be readily estimated by those who remember that the Greeks and
Italians were equally descendants of one race, and that at their first
appearance in history they were already marked by sharply distinct
traits. The abundant coastline of Greece, the barrenness of its soil,
the number of fertile islands within easy sailing distance, contributed
to the formation of the many-sidedness of this people, by facilitating
commerce and exploration, and by adapting them to a varied, unmonoto-
nous existence. They were, moreover, thus brought into early contact
with other races of advanced civilization, whose arts and sciences they
swiftly absorbed and made their own ; what was thus acquired they at
once elevated into something beyond what had satisfied its original
owners. Nature thus marked out Greece as a spot where an intelli-
gent race, exceptionally preserved from anxious care on the one hand,
and from no less fatal prosperity on the other, might be free to
develop itself under the impulse, but not under the shadow, of riper
civilizations. It was an aristocratic immunity from sordidness and
materialism, as well as from the tiresome sameness of an agricultural
life, that the whole race enjoyed, and with the advantage that the race
was one in which subtlety, delicacy, and intelligence were the common
property of the whole people and not a costly exotic that was to be
acquired by only a few. The struggle for mere existence was not so
severe that half the men were turned into machines while the other half
found their chief delight in physical comfort ; but life was easy for all
who were free, and the higher interests were never crushed out of the
majority, as generally happens in our modern civilizations.
The Greeks had other qualities of an aristocracy : they were few in
numbers, and they were not marked by monotonous similarity. The
two main families into which they were divided were the ^Eolian and
the Ionic, to which must be added the Dorian and Athenian, who in
time acquired the greatest prominence in the political and literary
history of their country. The ^olian branch never attained equal
importance ; their qualities were' less peculiarly Greek than those of
their fellow countrymen, who were later never tired of casting their
faults in their teeth. The Boeotians, for instance, were despised as a
coarse, sordid people, without interest in intellectual matters, who
shared the qualities of their heavy air and thick soil. The Dorians,
originally a single people, soon grew to be a large branch. They
were a genuine mountain-race, who after the Trojan war invaded the
THE SUBDIVISIONS OF THE RACE.
Peloponnesus where they gradually established themselves and acquired
new power. The Dorians possessed sturdy, energetic, conservative
traits which preserved and extended a certain rugged virtue, but paid
for it the usual price of harshness and a latent hostility to high civil-
ization. The lonians, on the other hand, who settled on the coast of
Asia Minor, soon ripened into
an accomplished and brilliant
race, whose charm and flexibil-
ity stand in marked contrast
with the severity of the Dorians.
They founded colonies and dis-
seminated their curiosity about
life by their early attention to
literature, and not to the poeti-
cal side alone but also to history
and geography, as well as to
philosophy and science. The
Athenians were most closely
allied with the lonians, and they
carried out most fully what
these had begun. In all that
they did they left the mark
of grace and that highest art
which is simplicity. Their
glories will become sufficiently
clear in the progress of th,is
book, and it will be seen how
much splendor they threw on
the whole country. For, after
all, distinct as were the various
qualities of the different Greek
races, they all combined to
form a national character which
stands in sharp contrast with
that of other peoples. They
shared, though in unequal
measure, certain common properties, the love of freedom, keen interest^
in public affairs, poetical fancy, and a disposition for eloquence ; they
all possessed a sensitiveness to beauty and a delicacy of perception,
which made them a unit in the face of foreign nations, although they
were alive to their several family differences. Similar differences in'
what yet formed a separate entity, were those of the various dialects
of the one Greek language, which belonged to the different branches
DORIAN GIRL. — {Victor in the races.')
lO INTROD UCTOR V.
of the nation. And just as the Attic division became the most im-
portant, the language as they spoke it became the most authoritative
and finally the only prevalent one. The wealth of the Greek tongue
in its earliest traces proves that it was the product of a long prehistoric
development. What the language was in the Homeric poems it sub-
stantially remained throughout the whole period in which Greek
literature flourished : a rich, copious means of expression, abounding
in words that readily lent themselves to the formation of compounds,
and with a flexible syntax that well represented the Greek subtlety
and ingenuity. Of course it was not a mere chance that gave this
ATHENIAN COSTUMES.
race so marvelous an instrument ; they created it rather by the need
which they felt for expressing their own thoughts. As has been said,
its ripe form indicated a long past ; a language like the Greek does
not grow in a day, and other proofs of its antiquity are not lacking.
In their earliest work that has come down to us in a state of comple-
tion, that is to say in the Homeric poems, we find a degree of poetic
excellence that bears indubitable evidence of a long line of predeces-
sors. Every successful work implies a host of failures ; the opinion
that the facility and grace of the Homeric hexameter were a special
creation out of nothing by a gifted man, is one that has long
held sway over men's minds, fostering mistaken views concerning the
miraculous qualities of genius ; yet the examination of every case can
but confirm the opposite view. Wherever we have all the testimony,
THEIR GENIUS NOT MIRACULOUS. II
we see failures preceding the final success, and the slow growth of
victory, as inevitably as we see the growth of all phenomena. What
has at first seemed to be the product of some one half-inspired person
has, when closely studied, turned out to be only the full development
of a crude past. Such is uniformly the case in modern literatures, in
which alone we have all the evidence, while of the classic literatures
we have in general scarcely any thing but the best performance. Only
their most famous work remains in sight above the flood of oblivion,
and from the existence of two literatures, consisting mainly of master-
pieces, it was easy to imagine that the ancients possessed the art, since
lost, of producing great work without an apprenticeship. The indis-
criminating fervor, too, of praise poured out on Greek literature
has at times given to the difficult task of examining its growth the
appearance of irreverence and iconoclasticism. To be sure, this evil
spirit of analysis has met no more formidable opposition than the asser-
tion that the great writers, being creative, are hence superior to mole-
eyed criticism, but this assertion is itself open to doubt, and within the
last hundred years the whole point of view has been in process of
change.
BOOK I.— THE EPICS.
CHAPTER I.— THE HOMERIC QUESTION.
I. — The Beginnings of Literature — Tiie Influence of Religious Feeling — The Traces of
Early Song. II. — The Hexameter, and its Possible Growth. Ill, — The Homeric
Poems — The References to an Earlier Period — The Ionic Origin of the Poems—
The Existence of Homer. IV. —The Long Discussion of this Subject: Bentley,
Wolf, etc. Possible Date of the Compositions of these Poems — Archaeological
Illustrations.
I.
IN time the notion of what literature is, has undergone serious
modification, and it has been gradually becoming plain that it is
unwise to speak of it as a separate concrete thing which may be detached
from life and, as it were, be put on a shelf to be taken down at odd
moments for examination like a bundle of dry bones. Yet so readily
are unknown coins used as counters, and words employed as a substitute
for thought, that literature and art have been, and for that matter still
are, spoken of as if they were separate and remote exercises in com-
position rather than the utterances of human beings, the representation
of men's thoughts and feelings, the fixed shadows of generations of
men. Of no people is it truer than of the Greeks, that their litera-
ture is not an artificial product, but the race speaking. The most im-
portant thing to remember in studying their writings is that these are
the direct expression of a free people, leading its own life, untrammeled
by inherited rules or authoritative convention. This is the keynote to
the comprehension of Greek literature, and one that it is not perfectly
easy for us to understand, trained as we are to look at life not directly,
but through the eyes of some one else, and accustomed to learn methods
rather than to exercise direct vision. Only within the last hun-
dred years, and in some part under the inspiration of the Greeks, have
we begun again to see that life itself is something greater, vaster, and
more solemn than any literary method.
While the Iliad and the Odyssey are the earliest Greek poems that
have come down to us, it has become plain that they mark, as all the
best work does, the end rather than the beginning of a great movement.
Yet everywhere the earliest songs are those of a religious nature, and
THE GREEK GODS.
13
before men begin to draw pictures of society, indeed before there is
any society for them to draw, their attention is called to their relations
with the world about and above them with all its mysteries and terrors.
From the earliest times men grope for some religious explanation of
the various phenomena that they observe, and their first utterances are
the expression of their ready wonder and equally ready explanations.
From fancied or observed coincidences, through thousands of imagined
explanations, there grows up a mass of myths about the impressive
order and apparent willfulness of nature, such as we find to have been
the common property of the whole Aryan family, which developed
into the adoration and personification of natural forces and phenomena.
This underlies the Greek religion, but yet it is not a sufficient explana-
tion to call this simply a nature wor-
ship. Zeus did not rule as a mere
vast natural force ; Poseidon was
more than the mighty spirit of the
deep ; the gods were, rather, exalted
beings who retained as their appurte-
nances these qualities of the forces
of nature, but they had developed in
the clear sunlight of the Greek mind
into something like civilized human
beings, devoid of cruel and mon-
strous qualities, and subject to the
higher rule of ethical law. Inasmuch
as the first thing that strikes us in
examining the Greek mythology is
the absence of what we may call
municipal law in Olympus, and the
social laxity of the divine beings, the
mention of their subjection seems
absurd. Their frequent infractions
of the moral law seem to con-
tradict the notion of their subordi-
nation to ethical control, and since it
is man and not nature that is moral,
it has been held that the Greek religion was purely a worship of nature.
But other testimony destroys the absolute sway of this theory. In
the Homeric poems we find the gods but little removed from the con-
dition of extraordinary people. Even before Homer the deities seem
to have met more than half way the men who were promoted to their
company ; the relics of nature-worship survived, but as attributes of a
worshiped deity, not as themselves objects of adoration. Thus Apollo
OLYMPIAN ZEUS.
14 THE HOMERIC QUESTION.
was the sun-god, but it was the god and not the sun that received the
prayers and thanks of men.
Nothing again, to consider the ethical control of the gods, is remoter
from the Greek mind than the notion of lawlessness. It would espe-
cially ill become such half-human deities as those who filled its Olympus,
and in the most frequent as well as the most solemn expressions of
this literature we find continual reference to the existence of a higher
law that rules over gods as well as men, and the belief in this equable
justice was the core of their religion. In Homer, Herodotus, yEschylus,
Pindar, Simonides, Sophocles, we find the statement of this principle
which also animated the philosophers and the populace. What is most
striking about this faith is its coherence with the general attitude of
the Greek mind towards the universe with its abhorrence of inexplica-
ble and willful forces. Harmony was the law of its being, in art and
literature as well as in religion, and above and beyond the gods with an
incrustation of bafiflLng and discordant myths lay a wise fate that ruled
mysteriously but with justice. This was their solution, a harmonious
omnipotence directing gods and men.
How it grew up we can not affirm any more than we can affirm in
what manner the principles that we find in their earliest work grew up.
It is hard enough to show that they are there, but it may yet be said that
its existence at the remotest times is another proof of the existence of
a very long past of which only meager traces survive. In the Homeric
poems we find reference to this venerable antiquity in the mention of
the poems sung to propitiate Apollo at the time of the plague that
visited the camp of the Achaians, and as a hymn of victory for Hector's
death. Battle-songs, dance-songs, and military dances had a remote
religious origin, for the solemnity of religious exercises preserves the
oldest customs unchanged, and many of these found their way into
the subsequent development of profane poetry. Thus when men called
on the gods by many names under the belief that one of these might
be more acceptable to him than another, and attempted to conciliate
him by recounting his exploits, they were, in a way, laying some of
the foundations of profane poetry, as they were doing when they sang
the bold deeds of some great leader; thus we see the language and
measures acquiring the use which was afterwards of profit to literature.
The oracles, too, were of another ancient religious form.
In all these ways the use of songs was frequent : the deeds of heroes,
for instance, were perpetuated by minstrels from an early date, and
traces of their existence are to be found in the Homeric poems. Thus
Homer — to adopt for convenience the name of the alleged author of
the Iliad and Odyssey — calls Achilles swift-footed, but nothing in the
Iliad justifies the use of this name, which was apparently inherited from
THE POPULAR SONGS— THE HEXAMETER. 15
the poets who sang other incidents of the hero's career. They had an
abundance of subjects to choose from, and Homer frequently refers to
myths and legends that could scarcely have been overlooked by the
wandering bards, like those whom he mentions in the Odyssey. Of
other forms of popular poetry there are abundant traces, such as the
wedding and funeral chants and the many little songs of daily life ; for
farmers, mechanics, workmen of all sorts had their special favorite
poems, from which grew the familiarity of the people with poetical
melody and that general interest in song without which poetry is but a
cold, artificial thing. In the numerous riddles, fables, catches, proverbs,
and local legends, we see other familiar forms of verse. Names
of the authors of these various songs and sayings are naturally enough
lost in the same obscurity that always accompanies the beginnings of
popular literature. In later times the effort was made to relieve this
ignorance of the past by the invention of a number of bards who were
thrust into the dark period somewhat indiscriminately. Orpheus is a
pure invention, as mythical as his Sanskrit compeer, the ideal poet
Rithu. Musaeus, the Servant of the Muses, and Eumolpus, the Good
Singer, show by their names that they sprang from the brains of some
grammarian, and the rest are similar shadows. While the names of
the earliest singers are lost as hopelessly as those of the private soldiers
in the Trojan war, their existence is proved by the excellence of the
Homeric epics, and by the fixed formulas that are among the un-
mistakable reminiscences of those poems.
II.
Another strong proof of a long growth is the smoothness of the
hexameter, one of the most wonderful products of the Hellenic intelli-
gence. Yet it is not to be understood that the Greeks created this
amazing instrument out of hand. Far from it ; in the first place no
such complicated mechanism is ever suddenly created by any man, or
set of men, however brilliant ; and moreover, even if such creation were
possible, it was unnecessary, for the Greeks already possessed, in com-
mon with the rest of the Aryan family, a rudimentary measure out of
which they developed this favorite form. This common property of
the whole family, or at least of the Indian and Iranian division, the
Germanic, and the Greco-Italic, consisted of averse, formed of two dis-
tinctly separate parts, each of which contained four ictuses and four
unaccented syllables ; each part beginning with an unaccented syllable
and ending with an ictus. This four-timed half-verse underlies the
oldest songs of the Germanic races as well as the early Vedic hymns, the
crude Saturnian verse of Italian races, and formed the basis of the
1 6 THE HOMERIC QUESTION.
Greek hexameter in the hands of the race that touched it only to bring
it to perfection. The measure, still familiar to children beginning their
lessons at the dancing-school, — the left foot forward three times, then
right and left, in four time, was the basis of the mingled song and
dance, forward and back, or to the right or left and back, practiced at
the earliest sacrifices of our remote ancestors, thus forming another
instance of the way in which, as Sir John Lubbock says, the sports or
lessons of children reproduce early stages in the history of mankind.
Possessed by all before this separation, in the hands of the Greeks it
grew to the condition in which we find it in the early epic, the fitting
instrument for those wonderful poems. That they brought it to its
perfection is but one, and not the least important, of their many
accomplishments.
III.
Such are some of the reminiscences of the forgotten past that survive
in the work of Homer, but, as we have seen, they are not the only ones.
The development of the language into the rich, copious, and flexible
instrument which we find there, belongs also to the indirect proofs of
the already great age of the race. More than this, it is to be noticed
that Homer mentions the minstrels who sang the past glories of admired
heroes. The repose which followed the period of migrations gave an
opportunity for fuller literary development by securing the perspective
which is as essential for a poem as a picture. It was in the colonies
established on the coast of Asia Minor, and especially in the central
region, Ionia, that civilization first appeared. Doubtless, intercourse
with older foreign countries contributed, if not a model, at least many
valuable influences and suggestions of custom, which were soon modified
by the ingenious spirit of the Greeks. The colonies also preserved
distinct memories of their mother-country ; the emigrants had carried
with them their old legends and traditions, yet it is only natural that
the subject which had most interest for them was the description of
the victory of the Greeks over the Asiatics in the Trojan war. For
this they would have a feeling which they could not have for the legends
that referred to events that took place on Greek soil. Both their
inherited patriotism and that which their new home inspired, would
lend to this story a fascination which the many other tales of Greece
would have been unable to arouse. It was the same interest that the
Spaniards felt for the Cid ; or that the writers of later epics have pre-
sumed to exist with regard to their heroes.
THE HOMERIC QUESTION. 1/
So much is probable, or, to be safer, so much is possible, that
the Homeric poems were of Ionic origin. Any one, however, who feels
emboldened to make any further statements about their composition,
finds his path a thorny one, for the Trojan war is not yet over, and any
definite affirmation that may be made about it is likely to call forth
serious opposition. In regard to so unsettled a matter it may be best
simply to state some of the conditions that render certainty about
Homer and the Homeric poems extremely difficult. In the first place
the question as to whether or not Homer, the author of the Iliad and
Odyssey, ever lived, is one that finds waiting it two widely distinct
answers. Until towards the end of the last century, the existence of
Homer was no more generally doubted than that of Virgil. Yet even
the many birthplaces that were assigned him by popular tradition could
not save him from modern criticism, and while the superfluous claim-
ants for the honor of fellow-citizenship with Homer could never come
to agreement, their unusual number was held to corroborate the opinion
that he certainly must have lived at some time and at some place.
Under the impression that there was a Homer, his bust was made,
evidently at a time when sculpture was in a flourishing condition, but
its existence no more proves that the poet ever lived than does the
famous statue in the Belvedere of the Vatican prove that Apollo ever
actually appeared in human form. Both do but attest what most of
the Greeks generally believed.
IV.
Already in antiquity a few writers held that the Iliad and Odyssey
were probably written by diff"erent men, but this view met with no
wide acceptance and was commonly regarded as a mere paradox.
During the tutelage of modern civilization the views of the ancients
prevailed, especially with regard to their own writings, and during the
greater part of the last century the traditions of Homer who composed
the Iliad and Odyssey remained almost unquestioned. A century
earlier, indeed, F^nelon in his De r Existence de Dieu, brought forward
the writings of these poems by a man of genius as an argument in
favor of the analogous creation of the world by an all-wise ruler of the
universe ; yet at about the same time, the Abbe d'Aubignac, who is
only known now for his unfaltering allegiance to the three unities,
affirmed that it was impossible that a Homer ever lived, and gave
utterances to skeptical views concerning the origin of the Homeric
poems. But this was a mere vague statement by an unlearned man
who expressed an opinion without t4ie capacity to support and defend
i8
THE HOMERIC QUESTION.
it by any other argument than mere abuse of all Greek literature,
which he set much lower than that of Rome. This view of the
superiority of Latin literature was one that belonged to the whole age
between the expiration of Humanism in the seventeenth century and
the beginning of the Romantic movement at the end of the eighteenth,
a period of benumbing reaction in literature, art, and politics, against
individuality and independence. The tamer merits of the Latin
writers found sympathizing admirers in men who felt disgust with the
extravagances of the later writers who drew their inspiration from the
Renaissance. The Roman hterature was the readiest model of cor-
rectness and of what could be done
by training, and the study of the less
formal Greek consequently lan-
guished, surviving mainly because it
was the language in which the New
Testament was written. Through-
out Europe the tepid excellence and
echoing rhetoric of the Latin writers
prevailed almost without opposi-
tion ; Statius, Lucan, and Virgil
were the admired models. If we
consider England alone, we shall
recall Pope's ignorance of Greek,
Addison's very moderate command
of the tongue. Dr. Johnson's supe-
rior knowledge of Latin ; and the
history of education there and on
the continent makes it clear that
when men spoke of the classics they
meant the Latin writers, and that
the influence of the Greek was almost
n \^ i»i cj i\, .
nothing.
The quarrel between the ancients and the moderns, as it is called,
which broke out in England, France, and Italy at the end of the
seventeenth century, was full of unexpected results for both ancient
and modern literature, for it rendered necessary a general overhauling
of men's opinions concerning both. The most modern of the moderns
agreed in giving Homer an inferior place ; at this the scholars took fire
and began to sing the praises of the old poet. They were further
driven to amending their rusty scholarship. In England the discus-
sion called forth from Bentley (1662-1742) his exposure of the ungen-
uineness of the so-called letters of Phalaris, which was a serious attack
on the previous rhetorical, uncritical reading of the ancients. The
THE HISTORY OF GREEK STUDIES. 1 9
work which Bentley began in this way, he carried further in his
later investigations, and he thus deserves the credit of establishing mod-
ern scholarship on the lines which it has since followed. He gave only
incidental attention to what afterwards became the still unsettled
Homeric question, yet in 171 3 we find him denying the current notion
that the Iliad and the Odyssey were fables ingeniously devised by a
moral teacher for the purpose of carrying allegorical instruction to
mankind. Thus Pope, in the preface to his translation of the Iliad,
speaks of the allegorical fable as one of the many causes of admiration,
and treats the poem throughout as a bit of literary composition, an
artificial product. Anthony Collins, in his Discourse of Free Think-
ing, had said that Homer " designed his poem for eternity, to please
and instruct mankind." " Take my word for it," said Bentley, " poor
Homer, in those circumstances and early times, had never such aspiring
thoughts. He wrote a sequel of songs and rhapsodies, to be sung by
himself for small earnings and good cheer at festivals and other days
of merriment ; the Iliad he made for men, and the Odyssey for the
other sex. These loose poems were not collected together in the form
of an epic poem till Pisistratus' time." This again was but a side asser-
tion, thrown out without the proof that only longer and more careful
study could supply. The same opinion, however, found frequent
expression in the books of separate authors, for every important mod-
ification of the generally accepted views on any given subject is com-
monly preceded by a running fire that shows that many men are
working in the same direction. Thus Vico in Italy, and a Professor
Blackwell of Aberdeen, made very similar statements on this question.
Robert Wood's Essay on the Original Genius of Homer, published in
1775, was another important contribution to the general discussion.
On the one hand it disposed of the moribund notion that Homer had
composed his poems with a didactic intention and substituted for it
the representation of a man of vast native genius, therein, it will be
noticed, agreeing with the then new and now vanishing idea of genius
as an inspirer of literary composition ; on the other, it proposed a pos-
sibly more useful novelty, for it contained an account of his visit to
Troy and an attempt to test Homer's descriptions by an examination
of the sites mentioned in the Iliad.
All these instances, as well as the increasing number of translations,
attest the growth of general interest in Homer. The whole course of
men's thoughts was in process of change, a new generation was turn-
ing from outworn traditional authority to the study of nature and
original literatures, and the investigation of the earliest Greek poems
gave men the same delight that they received from the study of their
own national beginnings ; for in fact they were going back to the
20 THE HOMERIC QUESTION.
beginning of all modern civilization. What had before seemed harsh
and violent in Homer no longer needed to be apologized for, as Pope
had done for "the vicious and imperfect manners" of his heroes.
Wider knowledge brought its reward in the greater tolerance of what
had shocked those men who drew their notions of what a hero should
be, and do, and say, from what we may call the secondary literatures.
With this tolerance there came, however, a certain intolerance of
artifice and literary conventions. This, however, is not only remote
from ancient literature, it is anticipating the changes in modern taste.
Only very gradually did the Latin literature lose its former superiority,
and did aesthetic criticism give way to modern criticism, which consists
rather of scientific examination of the historical growth than of mere
enforcement of conventional taste. Along with this change appeared
the decay of imitation as the groundwork of literature. By the direct
application of the altered views concerning the classics, Lessing and
Winckelmann led the way to the purer and remoter Greek classicism,
and to the general overhauling of long accepted dogmas. The new
study of modern literature, the exhumation of old ballads and popular
poems, threw unexpected light on Greek antiquity, and in 1795, F. A.
Wolf, who is rightly called the father of modern philology, published
his Prolegomena. The effect of this book on the studies of the classics
has been really incalculable ; it is scarcely too much to say that its
appearance clearly marked the period when the modern mind, which
had hitherto been trained under the influence of Roman literature,
attained its majority, and became able to instruct and correct its old
classical teachers. Modern science overthrew the old classical tradi-
tion, but in so doing, while it revised, it renewed, our connections with
antiquity by proving the historical rather than the purely pedagogical
relation of the past to the present. The aim of Wolf's book was to show
that the Iliad and the Odyssey were not composed by a single poet,
Homer, but that each of them, and more particularly the Iliad, was made
up of a number of separate songs by different authors. For a long time,
for hundreds of years, these heroic songs describing incidents of the
siege of Troy had circulated among the Greek tribes ; each one nar-
rated but a single incident of the war, and had been composed for
singing, with the accompaniment of the lyre, at banquets and festivals.
In time, these songs were combined into orderly groups and then into
complete wholes, very much as we now have them, and were finally
written down in permanent form by the command of Pisistratus in the
sixth century before Christ.
These views of Wolf's at once made a great stir, and received from
many persons warm welcome. Others again were pained by what
seemed to them the irreverence of Wolf's propositions, for at no time
WOLF'S PROLEGOMENA. 21
in the history of modern literature was the impression stronger that
sheer genius could accomplish any thing it undertook. In Germany,
however, there was also growing the principle which has given that
country the lead it now holds in most matters of scholarship, namely,
that what had previously seemed the work of creation proved on closer
examination to be the product of growth. This view, which was first
clearly uttered by Herder, underlies the modern opinion regarding
Homer. Even at the present day, however, although in Germany
the disbelief in Homer's personality may be said to be the prevailing
opinion, there are still men of great learning and keen intelligence,
who refuse to accept Wolf's views. In France and England there are
still more, for often scholarship is influenced by national pride, and the
fact that the Germans hold an opinion has been known to delay its
acceptance among its morbidly patriotic neighbors. Long after
Wolf's views were current in Germany, and had made over classical
scholarship, they were without influence in France and England.
Since the war of 1870, however, France has assimilated more
German thought and learning than it had done in fifty years before;
and if England lags behind, we must remember that a great deal of
valuable material reaches its shores only as wreckage.
It is not necessary to give a detailed account of all the modifications
of the original heresy that have been suggested by German scholars.
The vagueness of every explanation of the way in which the poems
grew into their present shape has given them all perfect freedom to
arrange the particulars as might seem best. Lachmann, to mention
one of the most important, in his examination of the Iliad, imagined
that he found sixteen (or, counting the last two books, eighteen) dis-
tinct lays by different authors and without connection. Each lay, he
held, was at first complete in itself, but was afterwards expanded,
and was finally brought into its present shape by the recension of
Pisistratus. Grote, again, in the History of Greece, suggested that
the Iliad consisted of an earlier Achilles (to which belong bks. i, 8,
1 1-22 ; the 23d and 24th being later), and an Iliad proper, composed
of bks. 2-7, and 10. The ninth book, he holds, was composed later.
Those who have defended the Iliad as the work of a creative genius
have maintained equally diverse views. They agree, however, in
opposing Wolf's statement with an unbroken negative. When he
argued that the poems are too long to have been composed and handed
down to us without the use of writing, which only came into vogue
later, they afifirm that there were many persons in classic times who
knew them all by heart ; and that in other countries, as in Iceland and
India, long and important poems have been handed down by oral
transmission. To Wolf's argument that such extensive works would
22 THE HOMERIC QUESTION.
never have been composed unless for readers as well as hearers, they
reply that the poems themselves were of sufficient popularity to bring
and keep together delighted and unwearied listeners. This affirmation
that the poems did not exist as a whole until the time of Pisistratus,
they directly deny ; and the numerous contradictions and inaccuracies
they match with instances from the works of later poets. Yet the extent
to which what we may call the attack has been carried on since by Wolf's
followers, has had the effect of introducing many modifications in
the defense, and almost every writer in behalf of Homer has found
himself compelled to accept some of the statements of his adversaries.
The original Homer survives, but often in an unrecognizable shape, and
frequently his best friends strip him of much of his ancient glory.
Bergk, for instance, acknowledges that the original work of Homer
was much modified and enlarged by his successors. Their main argu-
ment, however, is the unanimous voice of antiquity in behalf of single
authorship and the general consistency of the Iliad. Only genius, it is
affirmed, could make use of the abundant material that undeniably
existed and weave it into a harmonious and generally consistent whole.
The discussion, if it has left Homer still to be wrangled over, has yet
been of service in accustoming scholars to apply to the investigation
of classical subjects a method of examination which rests rather on
science than on prepossession. Modern scholarship may be said to
have begun with this controversy, which has seriously shaken the blind
confidence in the power of genius to accomplish whatever it may wish ;
even Homer's most earnest supporters have ceased to regard him as a
man who thought suddenly of an epic poem as one thinks of the
answer to a riddle. Then, too, the fact that the question is really
insoluble has given it an eternal freshness and made its discussion an
important part of education, for scarcely any training is more
valuable than the weighing of evidence, which is, after all, the main
business of life. And even those who still cling to the belief that
Homer created these two poems out of his own head by sheer genius,
may perhaps be willing to acknowledge that the long discussion, which
they hold to be unconvincing, has at least helped men to sounder views
on general questions of literature ; and it is hard to doubt that its
influence will not continue to promote wider study. In oneway, how-
ever, they will perhaps object to a possible result, for the examination of
the early literature of remote races can not fail in time, by the mere
accumulation of evidence, to enlarge men's sympathies beyond the
limits of Greece and Rome. To some this will seem an irreverent
misuse of study, for to scholars of a certain sort the real Holy Land is
Greece, and any thing which exposes its literature to comparison with
what has been done in outside regions will meet as much opposition
THE MODERN METHODS OF STUDY. 23
as did the science of philology, when it began to assert its claims, and
to show the relation between Greek and Latin and all the members of
the Indo-European family. It is obvious, however, that only in this
way can literature be profitably studied, and that it will tend to
diminish delight can not be shown by analogy from the other sciences.
Interest in geology has not been proved to have diminished men's
love of natural scenery, nor are botanists conspicuous for their indif-
ference to the beauty of flowers. On the other hand, it would be
fairer to say that their enthusiasm only increases with their knowledge,
that their notions of beauty are enlarged by study, that the man who
knows the most about any given subject loves it most. The much
commended system of learning any thing about literature solely by
studying beautiful extracts, is necessarily one-sided and insufficient.
We should laugh at those who read Shakspere only in this way, and
what is true of him is true of Greek literature or of any other litera-
ture, that only when taken as a whole can the full secret of its beauty
be intelligently perceived. The connotations of wit, eloquence,
grace, simplicity are only fully appreciated when we can understand
the general condition of interest in these matters and the degree
of accomplishment already attained. Of this absolute value we
know practically nothing, and our efforts to define it only define
ourselves.
I We may say indeed with perfect truth that we also know nothing
(or next to nothing about the conditions in which the poems were pro-
duced. We know only that the Greeks were settled in Greece and on
the eastern coast of Asia Minor, and we have a certain number of
baffling legends and myths regarding their hopelessly obscure past, as
well as a few equally puzzling memorials of an uncertain antiquity,
and suddenly we are confronted by these two poems which stand
unrivaled in their wonderful portrayal of human nature. Achilles,
Patroclus, Hector, Andromache and Penelope — and the list does not
end with them — remain now, as they appeared in the dawn of history,
full of noble feelings, accurately portrayed, living people in fact, so
wonderful is the poet's skill, and their various fates are recounted with
a perfection of form that delights every reader and inspires questions
which in spite of a multitude of voices yet await an answer. The
Ionian Greeks were settled in a region that was already the home of
older and riper culture, and traces of its influence may be found in
some of the arts, though there is no sign of it to be found in this
early poetry. There, at least, there is no reason for doubting, we have
an original outgrowth of the Greek intelligence, and especially of
that part of the race, J^oYxz and Ionic, which had made its home
in Asia. But more than this, as to which of these two elements
24
THE HOMERIC QUESTION.
was the more prominent, assertion is difficult, indeed impossible, and
when we ask who wrote the poems,
we get no convmcmg answer.
Whether or not a Homer
wrote the Iliad is but one of the
questions that divide scholars.
The calm security with which
students used to read in the
chronological tables that the
Trojan war began 1 198 B. c.
and ended with the fall of Troy
in 1 187, is wholly gone, and in
its place has arisen uncertainty
whether there was any war at
all, while if there was one, its
date is anything but fixed. The
main authority for the war is
the poem itself, although the
account is in good part made
up of unhistoric incidents. Yet
when we remember that scien-
tific statement was a thing as
impossible at that time as the
power to write an epic poem is
now, we shall not be intimi-
dated by the inexactness with
which the story is told. Still,
even with the best will in the
world, it is not possible to go
further than to affirm, at the
most, more than the probability
of some historic foundation for
the poet's invention, and his-
tory is not a record of prob-
abilities. The war, if it was
ever waged, was one of the
earliest of the long line of con-
flicts between the East and
Europe, and it is possibly not
a mere coincidence that the
editing of the poems by order
of Pisistratus, if it ever hap-
pened, should have taken place
shortly before the great Persian
THE HOMERIC QUESTION. ^5
war, when the Homeric poems helped to encourage the patriotism of the
Greeks by recounting the glories of their ancestors. Some few writers
indeed hold that only at this time were these epic poems brought into
their present condition, that before then what was known to the
ancients as Homer was very different from our Homer, and included
all the abundant epic literature. This view is supported by the refer-
ences of the older poets to Homer which are not to be found in our
present texts. Yet this interesting suggestion obviously does not
touch the question before us, the possible historical basis of the
poems. The only real principle to guide the student here is this, that
sooner or later, as Grote says, " the lesson must be learnt, hard and
painful though it be, that no imaginable reach of critical acumen will
of itself enable us to discriminate fancy from reality, in the absence of
a tolerable stock of evidence." In other words, history is a science,
which must be confined within the limits of observation. On the one
hand, Dr. Schliemann, who is absolutely convinced that there is a
fixed historical basis for the Iliad, is hard at work digging up what he
asserts are the remains of that city over which scholars and archaeol-
ogists are contending as warriors contended in the mythical past. As
in much of the poem, the war is one of words, and ironical compli-
ments and expressions not veiled in irony, are interchanged after a
fashion that the Greek and Trojan heroes knew well. Besides these
combatants there are other men who have distinctly shown that
about the Trojan war there collected a number of Aryan myths, which
appear elsewhere in other forms. Thus, Achilles, Paris, and Helen,
are found in the Rig Veda as well as in the Iliad, and thus belong to
a period preceding the separation of the Aryan nations. The whole
story of the wrath of Achilles is told over again as well in the Nibe-
lungenlied, and in its origin was a solar myth, a tale of the eternal con-
flict between night and day, which formed the basis of the Indo-Euro-
pean mythology. Yet even by the time when the Homeric poems were
composed, these old myths had wholly lost their original significance
for the poet ; they were mere bits of legend no more conveying a no-
tion of their remote beginning than do Grimm's Household Stories
unfold their history to the children that read them. They were wholly
obscure tales which clustered about the story of the Trojan war, in possi-
bly much the same way that in the middle ages the Carlovingian
romance gathered floating traditions which were ascribed to Char-
lemagne, who was represented, for instance, as a crusader, although
the crusades only began long after his death. Here again the solar
myth reappeared, and about a man whose life and deeds are well
known to us. If our only data about Charlemagne were the romances
of which he is the hero, it is evident that the process of reconstructing
26
THE HOMERIC QUESTION.
the historical basis would be a hopeless one, and in describing the cam-
paigns of the Trojan war we are equally far afield. Yet, as the myths
with which Charlemagne is in-
crusted do not disprove his exist-
ence, those that surround Achilles
do not terrify the investigators of
Troy. While it is very likely that
the questions that the poems
bring up will outweigh the an-
swers that archaeology and lin-
guistics can give, it is yet true that
the rapidly growing supply of evi-
dence is greatly widening our
knowledge of the past. This ad-
ditional information is gathered
from the humblest and most varied
sources ; stray epithets already
CO petrified before Homer used them,
£ ^ bits of pottery and all the miscel-
" I laneous collections of ornaments,
o I arms and cooking utensils that
as « °
'^ h have been dug up by energetic
g :^ excavators, the lines of Homer
§ and the relics of the ash heaps —
^ combine to set before us a tolera-
bly complete picture of a rude
period just emerging from barbar-
ism, and curiously compounded
of squalor and splendor. Thus,
the walls of the houses were
adorned with sheets of metal,
leather and carved ivory ; the in-
ner woodwork was cut into some
ornamental shape, and polished ;
and while at an early period the
floors of temples or of the richest
buildings at least were inlaid with
gold and silver, as was common
in the East, most of the dwellings
we may take to have had no floors
at all, not even of wood, but to
have left the bare earth uncov-
ered. Moreover, on the ground
2 «;.
THE ARCH^OLOGICAL TESTIMONY.
27
GOLD RINGS FROM MYCEN^.
of the hall where the wooers of Penelope used to gather, there lay-
all sorts of remnants of recently slaughtered beasts. The other parts
were cooked in the same room, which had no special provision for the
escape of the smoke, and " the sweet savor of the fat " was a most
admired odor in the estimation of all. In front of this unsanitary
but gorgeous house lay a dungheap ; such at least was the condition
of things near the house of Odysseus, and in the court-yard of Priam's
palace.
What was gorgeous in this style of living came from the East ; and
the dress, the deco-
ration, the treat-
ment of the hair and
beard were all mod-
i fi e d by oriental
fashions. The rich
robes and drinking
vessels came from
Phoenician sources,
as did the decora-
tions of the arms
and many of the
ways of using them ;
for example, the de-
pendence laid on
chariots. Not all,
however, were thus
armed ; the remote
Locrians wore no
helmets, and car-
ried no shields or
spears, but were
equipped with bows
and arrows. Only
their leader Aias,
the son of Oileus,
was fully armed for
close combat. From
the East, too, came the use of perfumes and cosmetics, the necessity
of which was greater, because the habit of bathing had not been
acquired. The practice was reserved for extraordinary occasions,
after fighting or returning from a long journey. Further traces of
prehistoric savageness are to be seen in the account that is given of
the sacrifices offered up by Achilles at the funeral of Patroclus,
GOLD SEAL RING FROM MYCEN^.
28 7'HE HOMERIC QUESTION.
when he slaughtered twelve Trojan captives, four horses and two
dogs.
Yet amid all this crudity and confusion, abundant forerunners of
the peculiar qualities that distinguish the Hellenic spirit at the time
of its classical perfection are yet clearly marked. Not only, as we
have said, do the rich and harmonious language, and the varied charms
of the hexameter indicate this, but we notice already the aversion to
exaggeration, and the sensitiveness to physical beauty which always
characterized the Greeks. The immortal description of Helen is one
familiar instance ; but it is not merely the sight of a beautiful woman
that awakens this feeling: Achilles is filled with wonder at the aspect
of Priam ; all the Greeks crowd about the dead Hector and express
their admiration of his beauty. There are a few descriptions of mon-
sters, such as Briareus with his hundred arms, the giants Otus and
Ephialtes, who at the age of nine were nine cubits broad and nine
fathoms high, Scylla with her twelve feet and six heads, each with
three rows of teeth " set thick and close, full of black breath," but
these misshapen beings are for the most part not only outlying
remote creatures, but possibly merely Oriental inventions that had
found their way into Greek folk-lore. At any rate, they did not belong
to the customary objects, and their number is small in comparison
with the normal creations of Greek fancy, whose aspects and qualities
indicated the same grace and beauty that was in later centuries to
form the inimitable glory of Greek sculpture.
The Iliad and the Odyssey then have other qualities than those that
fit them for a tilting-field for angry and derisive scholars, some of
whom dig up forgotten facts with an eye solely to their value as mis-
siles ; and the reader of the Iliad can follow the varying fortunes of the
war without being distracted by doubts concerning the historical foun-
dation of the incidents narrated, or their possible importance as solar
myths. Whatever our conclusions may be — and a vast number invite
our acceptance — the poet or poets who sang, and the people who
listened to the story of the wrath of Achilles and of the wanderings of
Ulysses, believed in the truth of the immortal poems. The wealth of
legend was to them at least history in the bud, and they gave to the
singers the same confidence that all early nations give to those who
celebrate their past glories; and indeed in civilized time it is not those
who praise us most whom we are accustomed to doubt first.
The composition of these poems is the subject of an endless contro-
versy; whether they were composed piecemeal and afterwards strung
together, small bits being sung at any one time, or whether the whole
long poems were by any chance recited at any great festival, we may
not know with certainty ; possibly the one custom followed the other.
THE HOMERIC QUESTION UNANSWERED.
29
What seems tolerably certain is that they were composed for recitation
and not for reading. We are safe too in conjecturing that whatever its
original form, the Iliad, for instance, grew into its present shape by
enlargement, development and the bringing together of separate lays.
The points of junction are not to be readily distinguished, and the
broad swell of harmonious measure lifts the reader — and how much
more readily a listener — over the incongruities and contradictions that
have been discovered since the text has been put through the fine
sieve of modern criticism. The inconsistencies are too many and too
serious to be accounted for by any plea of natural oversight, and
throughout it is the vividness of the separate scenes that command
the highest admiration. Yet the separate strands are woven into
a tolerably complete whole ; the general reader is carried on without a
chance to notice the puzzling questions that can be answered only by
denying the single composition of the poem. It is hard for us to sup-
pose that the Iliad and the Odyssey were the sole epics, for we know
how a striking success clearly indicates abundant competition, and it
is easily to be believed that Homer surpassed the others and monopol-
ized the praise, when we think of the prominence of Shakspere in
comparison with the other Elizabethan dramatists. Men have little
interest in those who take the second prize.
POMPEIIAN BRACELET.
CHAPTER II.— THE ILIAD.
I. The Subject of the Poem — The Admiration felt for it — Its Fate at different Periods
of Ancient and Modern History — Adaptations and Translations : Chapman, Pope
Etc II. — An Analysis of the Poem. III. — Some of the Qualities of the Heroes :
their Unconventional Timidity ; their Relations to the Gods. IV.— The Greek
Epic Treatment compared with that of other Races. V. — The Illustrative
Extracts.
I.
WHATEVER may have been the origin of the Iliad and the Odys-
sey, these two poems stand unrivaled in the world. The reputa-
tion that they won in Greece has extended itself among all the races
whose civilization rests remotely on this prehistoric past. At the very-
dawn these two poems stand, in their ancient glory unapproached, as
if to justify those men who look back to the past as a golden age.
What then are the qualities of these epics? The Iliad recounts some
incidents of the siege of Troy, not the capture of the city, though that
is clearly foreshadowed in the poem, but the story of the wrath of
Achilles in the tenth and last year of the siege. So much may be
said, without discussing the inconsistencies that are clearly manifest.
This siege of Troy had been undertaken by the Greeks in order to
bring back Helen, the wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta, who had
been carried off by Paris, son of Priam, King of Troy. The love of
Helen had been promised him by Aphrodite, when she, Here, the wife of
Zeus, and Athene, had chosen him to decide which was the most beauti-
ful of the three. Paris at that time was a shepherd, although a son of
Priam ; at his birth the oracles had announced future perils that he
would bring to his people ; his mother, Hecuba, had dreamed before
his birth that she brought forth a flaming hand. In consequence
he was exposed on Mount Ida; but the oracles were not to be disap-
pointed in that way, and when Aphrodite bribed him to assign the
palm of perfect beauty to her — Here ofTered him future power;
Athene, wisdom — by promising him the love of the most beautiful
woman in the world, he readily made his decision in her favor. This
most beautiful woman was Helen, and after being acknowledged by
his father, he set sail for Greece, where he was received at the court
of Menelaus, and here he verified the evil omens by running off with
Helen. Priam received the guilty pair, and Greece joined its forces
MAGIC SWORDS— THE GREEK HEROES.
31
to punish the foreigner's insult. For ten years preparations were
made; Menelaus appealed at once to his brother Agamemnon, King
of Argos and Mycenae, and these two sons of Atreus incited their
neighbors to seek revenge. While at Mycenae recent excavations
have brought to light many proofs of a powerful civilization that
belong to prehistoric times, we find in the Iliad a curious instance of
the existence of an old and wide-spread legend in the scepter which
Agamemnon carried, having inherited it from the king of the gods,
for whom it had been
made by Hephaistos.
Zeus had given it to
Hermes, Hermes to
Pelops, the house to
which Agamemnon be-
longed. This scepter,
with its divine origin,
reminds us of the
sword Durandal which
Charlemagne gave to
Roland ; of Arthur's
Excalibur, which were
similar magic insignia.
Not all the Greek
heroes were anxious to
go to the wars, and their
efforts to avoid the un-
pleasant duty are recon-
ciled with the simpli-
city of the race. They
tried to bribe Agamem-
non to exempt them ;
Odysseus feigned mad-
ness, but his device was detected and he joined the army. There
was no lack of heroes here, and their bravery seems incontestable
when the reluctance of the others has been frankly admitted.
Of these heroes was Achilles, the son of the sea-goddess, Thetis,
by Peleus, a mortal, the son of ^Eacus. Around him are gathered
all the admirable qualities of the ideals of the time when the
poems were composed. He is strong and brave, beautiful in person,
generous, proud, a true friend, and a relentless enemy. . His fierceness
in war is tempered by his love for his friends, and the mere raw thirst
for the conflict is elevated by eloquence, for even in this remote
antiquity the Greek possessed the ready tongue for which he was
THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS.
32
THE ILIAD.
afterwards famous. There is a pathetic side to Achilles as well,
because his early death in the war has been previously announced,
and he has chosen it in preference to a life of inglorious ease, which
had been offered to him. This latent fate that awaits him lends dignity
to the whole poem.
The heroes, after ten years of preparation, met at Aulis, on the
coast of Boeotia, to sail together to Troy. The first time that they
put forth, they lost their way and were obliged to return, and
before they could start again it was necessary that Agamemnon should
placate Artemis, whom he had offended. This story, however, does
not belong here, but to the discussion of the later tragedies. Once
more the armament started ; and when it had reached Tenedos,
Menelaus and Odysseus proceeded to Troy, and asked the Trojan
king to return Helen and the treasures taken at the same time ; the
Trojans declined, so the Greeks once more moved on. As has been
said above, the poem opens in the tenth year of the siege. The Greeks
had ravaged the country outside of the walls of Troy, but were power-
less against its fortifications. They were encamped outside, with their
BIRTH OF ACHILLES.
galleys drawn up on the shore. There had been many fights between
the two armies, when the Trojans sallied forth from behind the walls.
Such, then, was the general condition of affairs, which was perfectly
familiar to the Greeks when they heard the poem, as was also a much
/ larger fund of legend bearing on the same subject. The whole story
was in every one's mind, and in choosing a part, the author, whom
for convenience we call Homer, in taking an episode of the war, was free
to leave the whole great story untouched, and the part that he chose
was that announced in the first line :
"Sing, goddess, the wrath of Achilles, son of Peleus."
The wrath of Achilles and the evil that it wrought on the Greeks
when deprived of his services; the death of Patroclus, which was the
result of his anger ; his return to the field, which the death of his
young friend inspired, and the slaying of Hector: such is the whole
story of the Iliad. This use of an episode of a greater tale distin-
guishes the Iliad from every other epic poem of ancient or modern
CONTRAST WITH OTHER EPICS— MYTHOLOGICAL ORIGIN.
33
times. Even the Odyssey narrates a full, complete story. The ^neid
is still more packed with a complex message, and the modern imita-
tions have kept close to this model in at least this respect. The
Sanskrit epic, the Mahabharata, is even a more marked instance of the
same tendency. It was left to the Greeks alone to tell the simplest
story in the most impressive way. Every thing else about the Iliad
has been copied with greater or less success, but it has always been
held necessary to tell a great story in a long poem, and artifice has
taken the place of art.
Fortunately the poem lives apart from its historic or mythological
meaning. That Achilles may have been a solar hero doomed to a brief
career, whose glory was adapted to some brave fight in a war with
BOATS, FROM ARCHAIC VASES.
the Asiatics, is a matter which no more perplexes the reader of the
poem than does the success of the investigators who find in
" Hamlet " a reappearance of the old legend of night and day, confuse
our enjoyment of the play. Even in Homer's time the myth survived
only as a tale ; its ancestry was wholly lost, and Homer thought of
such remote meaning as little as Shakspere did. The two names
belong together, for nowhere outside of Shakspere do we find such
closeness of observation, grandeur of expression, and comprehension of
human nature. Homer is the poet of an early age, to be sure, but of
one already old in thought and experience.
To what extent the lavish use of epithets is a survival of an old
custom is uncertain. At any rate they are used with a freedom that
34 THE ILIAD.
is now lost ; they serve but to lend vividness to the object described.
Now epithets are more frequently characteristic of the ingenuity of the
man who uses them : they are not direct aids to our comprehension of
the poem so much as illustrations of the poet's ingenuity. The differ-
ence between the simple manner of Homer and the more sophisticated
formalism of a time of advanced civilization enormously complicates
the question of translating him, and to express his joyous dignity has
been found as hard and as tempting a problem as the utterance of any
of the emotions of human life. Just as every generation is confronted
with the old novelty of the delight of life, the present charm and
future fate of beauty and strength, which has to be sung anew for those
who feel that only now does the world exist, so do the great classics
stand as eternally tempting subjects for men who wish to convey their
charm to readers. The work is continually done over again, for at the
most but one or two generations are satisfied with any rendering.
Every translation has but a temporary life ; it is best when it utters
its meaning after the fashion which the time most approves, and when
new forms appear it is succeeded by new attempts to say the same
thing in the later language. Consequently, the student will learn about
the various influences that have gone to the making of English litera-
ture by comparing the various versions.
At the time of the Renaissance the interest in Homer, which had
slumbered during the middle ages, in the general darkness of the
period, awoke to new life. After the fall of Rome, the study of Greek
had ceased ; and with the revival of letters, scholars at once perceived
that in literature at least all roads led to Greece. Petrarch's reverent
admiration for the manuscript of Homer, no word of which he could
read ; his eagerness to study the Greek language ; the delight with
which he and Boccaccio read the Iliad in a bald Latin translation, fore-
boded the future importance of the poem, even if it may be said that
it also indicates the manner in which Greek was to be known through
a Latin medium. Throughout the middle ages the fame of the Trojan
war had survived in a maimed and crippled form, resting principally on
the accounts of Dictys of Crete, and of Dares the Phrygian, which
were alleged contemporary records of the siege by participants, trans-
lated into bad Latin from now lost Greek originals. Dictys had
fought, or asserted that he had fought, upon the Greek side ; Dares
had been among the Trojans ; and since, in imitation of Rome, every
country in modern Europe traced its lineage back to Troy, Dares
was the favorite. It is in his arid record that Troilus first comes into
prominence. Before that he is a mere name ; but in this account h6
is an important personage, as we see him in Chaucer's " Troilus
and Creseide," and in Shakspere's " Troilus and Cressida." These
TRANSLATIONS— EARLY FRENCH— CHAPMAN. 35
later forms, however, belong more directly to Benoit de Sainte-More
{Roman de Troie), in which medieval and classical notions and tradi-
tions are curiously jumbled together, as in the English imitations. A
similar vitality of the spirit of the middle ages is to be seen in the
French mystery, written about the middle of the fifteenth century, the
Myst^re de la Destruction de Troye-la-Grant, by J. Millet, a still more
curious maltreatment of the ancient story. This, although a century
earlier than Shakspere's play, was a century later than Petrarch's
re-discovery of Homer, and with the spread of the Renaissance there
appeared great hunger for a true rendering of Homer. The first com-
plete English translation of the Iliad was that of George Chapman,
which began to appear in 1596 or 1598, and was finished some time
between 1609 and 161 1. This had been preceded by a translation of
ten books of the Iliad, from a metrical French version, by one Arthur
Hall, in 1581. To judge from the single line quoted in Warton's
" History of English Poetry," the field was left well open before Chap-
man. This line, the first of the poem :
" I thee beseech, O goddess milde, the hatefull hate to plaine,"
has left students willing to carry their researches no further. Chap-
man's version shares with every one that has ever been made the mis-
fortune of not being Homer, but it has soine of the Homeric qualities
in its impetuous and vivid force. It at least runs on and carries the
reader with it, although too often Chapman introduces the conceits of
his own time which are far removed from the simplicity of the great
original. Abundant inaccuracies, too, reward the man who is searching
for faults. Nor is this surprising: he tells us in the preface that he
translated the last twelve books in fifteen weeks, which is at the rate
of about eighty lines a day, at a time when the study of Greek in
England was in its infancy — Groeyn was the first to teach it at Oxford
in 1491 ; and Sir John Cheke at Cambridge about 1540 — and there
were but few of the aids to the student that now abound. With all his
obvious faults, however, his fervor has left him the favorite of the
poets at least, and that is perhaps the most honorable immortality
that the writer of verse can have. Dryden tells us that Waller could
never read his translation without transport. Pope, on the other
hand, although he gives Chapman credit for " a daring fiery spirit . . .
which is something like what one might imagine Homer himself
could have written before he arrived at years of discretion," yet
says that "his expression is involved in fustian," and condemns his
work as a "loose and rambling" paraphrase. Indeed Chapman's
manifest errors were peculiarly obnoxious to the age of Pope. It was
not until the revival of interest in the Elizabethan writers that
appeared in the reaction against the spirit that animated Pope, that
36 THE ILIAD.
justice was done Chapman. The most glowing expression of this late-
born enthusiasm is in Keats's beautiful sonnet " On First Looking into
Chapman's Homer." Chapman imagined it to be " a pedantical and
absurd affectation to turn his author word for word," and that a trans-
lator "must adorn " the original "with words, and such a style and
form of oration as are most apt for the language into which they are
converted," and this theory led him far astray. A certain trace of it
is at the bottom of every translator's soul, whether he seek the smooth
turning of Homer which was Pope's effort ; or he, like Cowper,
imitate the Miltonic inversions ; or like many more recent men try to
be dignified by being slow. For one thing every translation is in
some degree a failure, because our language has by mere use lost the
original freshness of the Homeric Greek, and the necessary literalness
conveys different connotations to our minds. The epithets are often
worn threadbare ; their repetition, which originally was a natural
thing, falls on ears accustomed to greater artifice, and every evidence
of the difficulty is exposed to the charge of inaccuracy. After count-
less attempts, to describe and estimate which would require a volume,
the present generation is finding its completest satisfaction in literal
prose translation. Even here, however, it is a remote and conventional
prose that undertakes to give us the majesty of the Homeric verse ;
it is, after all, a frank avowal that the task is impossible. Yet through
all the muffling which time and the conditions of translation have
imposed, Homer stands out immortally young and vivid. His story
of ceaseless and numberless battles finds ever delighted readers who
never weary; who find the tale told with dignity and the loftiness
of the grand style. Here is a brief abstract of the events.
n.
As we saw, the poem describes events in the tenth year of the siege
of Troy. Chryses, a priest of Apollo, had entreated Agamemnon to
return his daughter Chryseis, who had been captured, but his entreat-
ies are of no avail ; he is turned away with contempt. In return for
this insult Apollo sends a pestilence among the Greeks, and Achilles
convokes an assembly to deliberate on the best way of appeasing the
offended deity. Calchas, " most excellent far of augurs," declares
that the favor of the god can be won again only by Agamemnon's sur-
render of the damsel to her father. Agamemnon is enraged by this
counsel, especially when Achilles urges him to follow it. The discus-
sion grows hot, and only the advice of Pallas Athene, who suddenly
appears before him, restrains Achilles from drawing his sword upon
WRATH OF ACHILLES.
37
Agamemnon ; but he threatens, nevertheless, to leave the army and to
take himself home to Phthia with his forces. Agamemnon consents
to send back Chryseis with rich gifts to her father, but in her place he
takes Briseis, a female slave who had become the property of Achilles
SEIZURE OF BRISEIS. {Frotn a Vase Painting.')
and to whom he was much attached. Achilles in his anger wanders
by the shore of the sea, and asks his mother Thetis, the daughter of the
sea-god Nereus, to contrive some revenge for him. She appears and
promises to petition Zeus to let the Greeks suffer for their wrong-
doing by bitter defeats, and she mourns the harsh fate that has
granted her son so brief and perturbed a life. Meanwhile the messen-
gers from Agamemnon, with Odysseus at their head, proceed to
Chryses and restore to him his daughter ; they further prepare a sump-
tuous sacrifice for the offended god and entreat his good offices : in this
they are successful and Apollo relents. Twelve days later — the gods
meanwhile being absent in Ethiopia, at the uttermost edge of the
38 THE ILIAD.
world — Thetis hastens to Olympus, and beseeches Zeus to grant
vengeance to her son, and Zeus promises, with a nod at which all
Olympus trembles, that he will let the Trojans be victorious until
Achilles has received 'satisfaction. But Here, who had observed
Thetis's presence, bitterly reproaches Zeus, who bids her hold her
peace ; and all the gods are troubled. Hephaistos, however, restores
good feeling. (Book I.) The next night Zeus sends a deceptive
dream to Agamemnon which tempts him to renew the conflict by a
false promise of victory. In consequence Agamemnon the next morn-
ing summons the Achaians (the name applied then to the Greeks) to
an assembly, and to test their opinions urges a return to their homes.
The excited multitudes rush to their galleys, but Odysseus withstands
them and induces them to go back to the assembly. Here he denounces
the insolence of Thersites, to the delight of all who are present, and urges
Agamemnon to enter the fight, before which a meal is taken and a sacri-
fice is offered to Zeus. Then follows the catalogue of the ships, in
which the galleys, the commanders and the tribes of both armies are
enumerated. (Book H.) When the Greeks and Trojans are in battle
array, Paris steps forth to open the fight, but gives ground before
Menelaus. Stung by Hector's reproaches, he challenges Menelaus to
single combat for the possession of Helen ; Menelaus accepts for his
part, and asks that a sacrifice should be offered and that Priam should
be called to the battlefield to pledge the oath. The aged king is
looking down from the Skaian gate upon the battlefield with a num-
ber of venerable companions, and while there thej'' are joined by
Helen, to whom the king points out and names the different Greek
leaders. From this place he is summoned to the field, and an agree-
ment is made that to the conqueror shall belong Helen and all her
treasures. The duel begins and Menelaus is victorious, but Aphrodite
conveys Paris to his palace, where Helen is, while Agamemnon
announces Menelaus the winner and demands the observance of the
compact. (Book HI.) In the council of the gods, Zeus, at Here's
request, determines the fall of Troy. Athene is sent down to instigate
a treacherous renewal of hostilities, and she persuades the Trojan Pan-
darus to shoot an arrow at Menelaus. After the truce is thus broken,
Agamemnon goes about encouraging the Achaians to a renewal of the
fray and the battle begins. (Book IV.) Diomed, who is endowed by
Athene with resistless might, performs wonderful deeds; he plunges
into the thickest hordes of the Trojans, slaying Pandarus and wound-
ing ^neas, whom Aphrodite undertook to remove from the field,
but she is herself wounded by Diomed and she returns to Olympus.
Apollo carries ^neas, still pursued by Diomed, to his temple on the
height of Pergamos. Ares now hastens to aid the Trojans, and before
REPULSE OF THE GREEKS BEFORE TROY. 39
him and Hector the Greeks begin to give ground. Athene and Here
descend from Olympus to take part in the battle, and Diomed,
encouraged, and supported by Athene, wounds even Ares. (BookV.)
Hector goes into the city to ask his mother Hecuba to entreat of
Athene aid for the Trojans; meanwhile Diomed and Glaucus meet,
but recognize each other as guest-friends. While Hecuba prays
to Athene for aid, Hector goes to Paris to urge him to come forth
again to battle ; and then he makes his way to his own house,
and then to the Skaian gate, where he meets and consoles his
wife Andromache and commends his son Astyanax to the care
of the gods. Having done this he returns with Paris to the
battlefield. (Book VI.) When there. Hector challenges the bravest
of the Greeks to single combat, and they draw lots to see which shall
face the Trojan leader. The lot falls on AjaxTelamon, who joyfully
begins the fight, which prolongs itself, with varying success, till night-
fall, when the heralds separate the two combatants, who exchange
gifts and depart to their respective camps. After the evening meal,
Nestor advises that on the next day there be no fighting, that they
burn the dead and build about the camp. At the same time in Troy
Antenor proposes to return Helen, but Paris refuses. The next
morning, after a truce is determined, both sides pay the last rites to
their dead, and the Greeks build their barricade, at which Poseidon
complains to Zeus. (Book VH.) At the beginning of the next day
Zeus forbids all interference of the gods in the war. The conflict goes
on, but remains undecided until noon, then fate determines the success
of the Trojans, and the Greeks are driven back behind their intrench-
ment. Here and Athene wish to go to their aid, but Zeus sends Iris
with a message to prevent them. Hector and the Trojans pass the
night by their watchfires before the Greek encampment. (Book
VIII.) Agamemnon, despairing of success, speaks in the assembly of
the leaders in favor of flight, but is opposed by Diomed as well as by
Nestor, by whose advice it is determined to send ambassadors to con-
ciliate Achilles. Those chosen are Odysseus, Ajax and Phoinix, the
former teacher of Achilles ; yet their entreaties are vain ; Achilles
remains obdurate and says that until Hector reaches his ships he shall
not raise his hand. Phoinix remains with Achilles while the others
take back the sad tidings. (Book IX.) The next night, Agamemnon
and Menelaus, who are unable to sleep, arise and wake up the other
Greek leaders to take counsel together in their distress. It is decided
that Diomed and Odysseus shall reconnoiter within the Trojan line and
find out their plans. On their way thither they meet a Trojan spy,
Dolon, whom they slay, after learning all that he had to tell; and then
they proceed to the camp of the Thracian prince Rhesus, who had but
40 THE ILIAD.
newly come to the war. Him they kill with twelve of his companions,
and they carry off his horses to the Greek camp, where they are
warmly received. (Book X.) The next morning the fighting is
renewed ; the Greeks advance victoriously until Agamemnon is
wounded and withdraws. Hector sweeps all before him ; Diomed,
Odysseus and other Greek leaders are wounded and forced back to
the ships ; Achilles sends Patroclus to inquire of Nestor about the
condition of the Greeks ; Nestor bemoans the state of affairs and asks
Patroclus to persuade Achilles to take part in the fight, or at least to
borrow the hero's armor and return to the field. (Book XI.) The
Achaians are driven back by Hector and the Trojans within the
encampment about their ships, at which point Hector makes the
Trojan horsemen dismount and charge against the walls in five lines.
Despite the bravest resistance, especially on the part of the two
Ajaxes, Sarpedon tears down the breastwork, Hector breaks through
the gate with a huge stone, and the Trojans rush in over the
walls and through the breach. (Book XH.) While Zeus for
a season withdraws his attention from the conflict, Poseidon,
disguised as Kalchas, the augur, encourages the Greeks; the
two Ajaxes drive back Poseidon from the gateway. Idomeneus and
Meriones, Antilochos and Menelaus offer courageous resistance on the
left of the line ; at last. Hector masses together the bravest of the
Trojans and advances victoriously. (Book XIH.) Nestor steps out of
his tent, disturbed by the noise and confusion, and meets the wounded
leaders, Agamemnon, Diomed and Odysseus, who are about to watch
the fray and to encourage the dejected Achaians. In order that
Poseidon may lend them his aid. Here borrows from Aphrodite her
magic girdle, and distracts Zeus from the observance of terrestrial
things until he falls asleep. In the battle, a stone hurled by Ajax
Telamon knocks down Hector, who is carried off insensible and the
Trojans retreat. (Book XIV.) But Zeus awakens and sees what has
happened : and in his wrath he commands Here to call Iris and
Apollo to remove Poseidon from the battle, and to give new strength
to Hector, who revives and drives back the Achaians over the
intrenchments to the ships. There a terrible fight rages ; Ajax, leaping
from deck to deck, repels the assaults of the Trojans with a great pike,
and Hector throws firebrands into the ship of Protesilaos. (Book XV.)
In this stress, Patroclus begs Achilles to lend him his armor to wear
against the Trojans ; and Achilles gives his consent, on the condition
that Patroclus shall return as soon as the Trojans are driven back from
the ships. Then Achilles prepares his forces for the fight, dividing
them into five bands, and encourages them for the battle. Patroclus
drives back the Trojans from the burning ship of Ajax and kills
X —
o
42 THE ILIAD.
Sarpedon, the son of Zeus, who gives the body to Sleep and Death to
carry to his home in Lykia. Then Patroclus, against the commands
of Achilles, presses on to the very walls of Troy, but is driven back
by Apollo, who also disarms him, and Hector kills him. (Book XVI.)
A long contest follows for the possession of the body of Patroklos,
whose armor Hector takes and puts on himself, but at last the corpse
is saved from the Trojans, who follow the stubborn retreat of the
Greeks. (Book XVH.) Achilles receives from Antilochos the news
of his friend's death,\and gives way to such uncontrollable grief that
his mother, Thetis, hastens to him, and tries to comfort him by the
promise of new armor from Hephaistos. The fight for the body of
Patroclus is resumed until the voice of Achilles drives back the Tro-
jans in terror. Patroclus is then carried to the tent of Achilles, where
the Achaians mourn for him during the whole night ; then the body
is bathed and anointed and placed on a bier. At the request of
Thetis, Hephaistos makes a new suit of armor for Achilles ; the shield of
which is especially a masterpiece. Thetis hastens with the arms to her
mourning son. (Book XVHI.) Achilles laments aloud for Patroklos,
and his grief breaks forth anew at the sight of the new armor. Thetis
sprinkles ambrosia on the corpse to preserve it from corruption.
Achilles at once summons an assembly, to which all come joyfully.
Achilles and Agamemnon become reconciled, the latter recognizing
his error, and he offers anew to Achilles, Briseis and rich gifts. Achilles
is anxious to begin the fight for revenge at once ; but, following the
advice of Odysseus, they determine to refresh the men with food and
drink and that chosen youths shall bring Briseis and the gifts to
Achilles. This is done with solemnity. Briseis bursts into loud
mourning for Patroclus, and Achilles refuses food and drink
before he has revenged his friend. When he again laments with a
loud outcry, Zeus bids Athene to strengthen him with nectar and
ambrosia, the food of the gods. The Achaians march forth again to
battle, Achilles leading in his rich armor. As he steps into his chariot,
his horse Xanthos warns him that the day of his death is near. (Book
XIX.) The armies are arrayed against each other, and Zeus calls a
council of the gods to declare that they are now free to take part in
the conflict. They consequently hasten to the battlefield : at their
arrival the earth trembles so violently that there is terror in Hades.
Here, Athene, Poseidon, Hephaistos and Hermes stand on the side of
the Achaians ; Aphrodite, Apollo, Artemis and Ares aid the Trojans.
The battle begins, and ^neas, as the first of the Trojans, goes forward
to meet Achilles; he would have been killed, however, if Poseidon had
not taken him away in order that the royal race of Troy should not
be extinguished. Achilles makes great havoc among the Trojans.
ACHILLES AND HECTOR.
43
(Book XX.) As the defeated Trojans are retreating in confusion
from the battle, some to the city, and some plunging into the river
Xanthos, Achilles pursues the last into the stream, where he performs
more deeds of valor and takes captive twelve young men as an atone-
ment for the slain Patroclus. The enraged Xanthos, together with
Simoeis, the other river, rush upon Achilles with great violence, but
Here sends Hephaistos against the streams ; he turns the banks and the
swollen waters in their bed. The gods take part in the battle ; Athene
wounds Ares and casts Aphrodite to the ground ; Artemis is injured
by Here, and hastens
lamenting to Zeus ;
finally the gods return
to Olympus. Achilles
hastens to the city,
the gates of which are
thrown open to admit
the fleeing Trojans ;
Achilles can not pre-
vent this, being led to
one side by Apollo in achilles and hector before the skaian gate.
the guise of Agenor.
(Book XXI.) After the Trojans have fled into the city, Hector, in spite
of the lamentations of his parents, remains outside before the Skaian
gate, awaiting Achilles. When the Greek hero approaches, however.
Hector flees thrice around the walls of Troy. Since the golden bal-
ance that, held in the hand of Zeus, foretold Hector's death, Apollo
\\ , - , , , ,
3
^^ /9^
[—
m
r^-C ^
W^^ d
^k
■^i^
tX
-f-^^^ 1 i
r ^
^
'^^K
=
•'w^
J^.
•yW
} J^—^
NJt;
^^
L
^"^i fy^ /y^
f&*-^—
^-<4
W-,^^=^=s?^^^^$^
f o \V/A //T^
^^rin-~J.i>S^.^-<""r'^=^==^l.--
K. JAm CTZOvf^fjq), and the sound of the
string is like the whizzing of a swallow in its flight. In an instant every heart is filled with dread, and every
cheek turns pale (tzolCI r/awf ETpcnreTo), and, to complete the imagery, they hear at the same moment the
crash of the thunder in the sky.
98 THE ODYSSEY.
behind the veil of his sorrow. Still he too, like Achilleus, knows how to take
vengeance on his enemies ; and in stillness and silence he makes ready for
the mortal conflict in which he knows that in the end he must be victorious.
His foes are many and strong ; and, like Patroklos against Hektor, Tele-
machos* can do but little against the suitors, in whom are reflected the Tro-
jan enemies of the Achaians. But for him also, as for Achilleus, there is aid
from the gods. Athene, the daughter of the sky, cheers him on, and restores
him to the glorious beauty of his youth, as Thetis clothed her child in the
armour of Hephaistos, and ApoUon directed his spear against Hektor.
Still in his ragged beggar's dress, like the sun behind the rent and tattered
clouds, he appears in his own hall on the day of doom. The old bow is
taken down from the wall, and none but he can be found to stretch it. His
enemies begin to fear that the chief has indeed returned to his home, and
they crouch in terror before the stranger, as the Trojans quailed at the mere
sight and war-cry of Achilleus. But their cry for mercy falls as vain as that
of Lykaon or of Hektor, who must die to avenge the dead Patroklos ; for
the doom of the suitors is come for the wrongs which they had done to Pen-
elope. The fatal bow is stretched. The arrows fly deadly and unerring as
the spear of Artemis, and the hall is bathed in blood. There is nothing to
stay his arm till all are dead. The sun-god is taking vengeance on the
clouds, and trampling them down in his fury. The work is done ; and Pene-
lope sees in Odysseus the husband who had left her long ago to face his
toils, like Herakles and Perseus. But she will try him still. If indeed he
be the same, he will know his bridal chamber and the cunningly carved
couch which his own hands had wrought. lole will try whether Herakles
remembers the beautiful net-work of violet clouds which he spread as her
couch in the morning. The sun is setting in peace. Penelope, fair as Oin-
one and as pure (for no touch of defilement must pass on her, or on lole or
Daphne or Brisei's), is once again by his side. The darkness is utterly scat-
tered ; the corpses of the suitors and of the handmaidens who ministered
to them cumber the hall no more. A few flying vapours rush at random
across the sky, as the men of Ithaka raise a feeble clamour in behalf of the
slain chieftains. Soon these, too, are gone. Penelope and Odysseus are
within their bridal chamber. Oinone has gone to rest with Paris by her
side ; but there is no gloom in the house of Odysseus, and the hero lives
still, strong and beautiful as in the early days. The battle is over. The one
yearning of his heart has been fulfilled. The sun has laid him down to rest
In one unclouded blaze of living light.
If tliis theory of the solar myths is the true explanation, and it
certainly seems at least to point out the direction from which light
may come, it enables us to comprehend what is archaic in these
poems, and, moreover, teaches us to admire the art of the Greeks in
lending to what was the common property of the Aryan races so many
attractive qualities. These traditional stories formed, as it were, the
material for a competitive examination of the different peoples, and
that from which the East Indian family drew inspiration for religious
lyrics, became the subject of epic poetry among the Scandinavian,
* Grote, History of Greece, Vol. II., page 238.
THE OLD MYTHS.
99
Teutonic and Hellenic races, who sang their own versions of the old
myths common to all the Aryan nations. The Greek civilization, the
beautiful land in which it flourished, and possibly some brief period of
unusual success, enabled some poet or poets to compose the epics
which stand forever without a rival, for every poet is but the resultant
of the many forces of the time in which he lives. This explanation
obviously fails to give ground for any historical lessons to be learned
from Homer, but, on the other hand, as Sir George Cox says, " it
reveals to us a momentous chapter in the history of the human mind."
ni.
In choosing extracts from the Odyssey we shall find that the story
within the story, that is to say, the hero's recital of his own adven-
tures, is told with the most vivid interest. Thus in the ninth book :
EKTHZ AlHrHZHOI THI HPOZ AAKINOTN TOT tCAOnA
ADVENTURES OF ODYSSEUS WITH CIRCE.
I, then, Odysseus am, Laertes' son,
For all wise policies a name of fear
To men ; my rumor to the skies hath gone.
And sunward Ithaca my country dear
I boast. Hill Neritus stands waving there
His green trees visible for many a mile ;
Centre of soils divine, which, clustering near.
Stars of the blue sea, round about him smile,
Dulichium, Same steep, Zacj-nthus' wood-crowned isle.
THE ODYSSEY.
Thus lies the land high-tabled in the main
Westward ; the others take the morning sun ;
Rough, but a good nurse, and divine in grain
Her heroes. Never can I gaze upon
Land to my mind so lovely as that one,
Land not to be forgotten — aye, though me
Calypso in her caves would fain have won,
And Circe, deep-embowered within the sea.
Held me with artful wiles her own true love to be.
Never could these the inward heart persuade.
Never make sweet the cold unfaithfulness.
More than all pleasures that were ever made
Parents and fatherland our life still bless.
Though we rich home in a strange land possess.
Still the old memories about us cling.
But hear, while I the bitter woes express.
Which, as from Troia I my comrades bring,
Zeus, the Olympian Sire, around my life did fling.
Me winds to Ismarus from Ilion bear.
To the Ciconians. I their town lay waste,
And wives and wealth with my companions share,
That none for me might sail away disgraced.
Anon I urged them with quick feet to haste
Their flight, but they, infatuate fools, forbore —
There the red wine they ever dreaming taste.
While carcasses of sheep lie many a score.
And trailing-footed beeves, slain on the barren shore.
But all this while, on other works intent.
Loudly the Cicons to the Cicons call.
Who more and braver hold the continent.
These both from horseback cope with heroes tall,
Or foot to foot can make their foemen fall.
Wrapt in the morning mist they loom in view,
Thick as the leaves and flowers ambrosial,
Children of Spring. Onward the dark fate drew.
Big with the woes which Zeus had destined for our due.
Hard by the swift ships, each in ordered line.
With steely spears the battle they darrayne.
While toward the zenith clomb the day divine.
We, though much fewer, their assault sustain.
But when toward loosing of the plough did wane
The slanting sun, then the Ciconian host
Turned us to flight along the shadowy plain.
Six of our comrades from each ship were lost,
But we the rest fled safely from the Thracian coast.
Then on our course we sail, distressed in heart.
Glad of our lives, yet grieving for the dead ;
Natheless we list not from that shore depart.
Ere thrice with cries we hailed each fallen head
Of those whose blood the fierce Ciconians shed
In the wide plain. Ere yet we ceased to weep,
Zeus on our fleet the rage of Boreas dread
Launched, and with black clouds veiled the earth and deep,
While the dark Night came rushing from heaven's stormy steep.
ODYSSEUS'S ADVENTURES. lOI
Headlong the ships were driven with tattered sails.
These having furled we drave our keels ashore,
Fearing destruction from the raving gales.
Two nights and days we eating our heart's core
Lay till the third light beauteous Dawn upbore ;
Then we the masts plant, and the white sails spread.
And sitting lean to the laborious oar.
Wind and good pilotage the brave barks sped ;
Soon had 1 scatheless seen my native earth ahead,
But me the current and fell Boreas whirled,
Doubling Malea's cape, and far astray
Beyond the rude cliffs of Cythera hurled.
So for nine days along the watery way,
Teeming with monsters, me the winds affray
And with destruction ever seem to whelm :
But, on the afternoon of the tenth day.
We reached, borne downward with an easy helm.
Land of the flowery food, the Lotus-eating realm.
Anon we step forth on the dear mainland,
And draw fresh water from the springs, and there,
Seated at ease along the silent strand.
Not far from the swift ships our meal prepare.
Soon having tasted of the welcome fare,
I with the herald brave companions twain
Sent to explore what manner of men they were,
Who, on the green earth couched beside the main,
Seemed ever with sweet food their lips to entertain.
Who, when they came on the delightful place
Where those sat feeding by the barren wave.
There mingled with the Lotus-eating race;
Who nought of ruin for our comrades brave
Dreamed in their minds, but of the Lotus gave ;
And whoso tasted of their flowery meat
Cared not with tidings to return, but clave
Fast to that tribe, for ever fain to eat.
Reckless of home-return, the tender Lotus sweet.
These sorely weeping by main strength we bore
Back to the hollow ships with all our speed,
And thrust them bound with cords upon the floor.
Under the benches : then the rest I lead
On board and bid them to the work give heed.
Lest others, eating of the Lotus, yearn
Always to linger in that land, and feed.
Careless for ever of the home-return :
Then, bending to their oars, the foamy deep they spurn.
Thence we sailed onward overwhelmed in heart.
And to the land of the Cyclopes came.
An undiscerning people, void of art
In life, and tramplers on the sacred claim
Of laws which men for civil uses frame.
Scorners of common weal, no bounds they keep.
Nor learn with labors the rude earth to tame ;
Who neither plant nor plough nor sow nor reap ;
Still in the gods they trust, still careless wake and sleep.
S c,-
THE ODYSSEY.
There all good fruits on the spontaneous soil
Fed by the rain of Zeus for ever grow ;
Unsown, untended, corn and wine and oil
Spring to their hand ; but they no councils know
Nor justice, but for ever lawless go.
Housed in the hills, they neither buy nor sell.
No kindly offices demand or show ;
Each in the hollow cave where he doth dwell
Gives law to wife and children, as he thinketh well.
ODYSSEUS AND THE DRUNKEN CYCLOPS.
{From a Sarcophagus Relief. )
Skirting their harbor, neither near nor far,
A little island lies, with forest crowned.
Wherein wild goats in countless numbers are;
Since there no track of mortal men is found
Who hunt in hardship over mountain ground.
And never plough hath pierced the woodland glen.
Unvisited it lies the whole year round.
None their tame flocks amid those pastures pen.
Feeding wild goats, and widowed of the race of men.
Not to Cyclopian brood doth appertain
Skill in the seas, or vermeil-painted fleet
Of barks, which, sailing o'er the azure main.
Pass and repass wherever seemeth meet.
And all the covenants of men complete;
Nor have they shipwrights who might build them such ;
Else would they soon have colonized this seat.
Not worthless is it, but at human touch
Would take the seasons well, and yield exceeding much.
Fast by the margin of the hoary deep
Lie soft well-watered meadows. There the vine
ODYSSEUS'S ADVENTURES. 103
Would bloom for ever. If to plough and reap.
Observant of the hours, one's heart incline,
Black with fertility, the soil doth shine.
Smooth is the haven, nor is need at all
Of anchor cable, and shore-fastened line.
Floating in shelter of that firm sea-wall
Sailors at will may wait till prosperous breezes call.
There a white waterfall beneath the cave
Springs forth, and flashes at the haven-head ;
Round it the whispering alders darkly wave.
Thitherward sailing through the night we sped,
Yea, some divinity the swift ships led
Through glooms not pierceable by power of eye.
Round us the deep night-air swung listless, dead ;
Nor moon nor stars looked down from the wide sky,
Hid by the gross cloud-curtain brooding heavily.
No mariner beheld the nearing strand.
Helmsman expert or wielder of the oar.
Nor marked the long waves rolling on the land.
Still with a steady prow we onward bore
Till the keels grated on the shelving shore.
Then we the sails take down, and, past the line
Of ripple, landing from the waters hoar.
Along the margin of the deep recline.
And sound-asleep wait dreaming for the Dawn divine.
But when the rosy-fingered Dawn came on.
Child of the mist, we wondering rose apace
The beauteous island to explore anon.
And lo ! the Nymphs inhabiting the place
Stirred in our sight the creatures of the chase.
That so my comrades might have food to eat.
Straight to the ships for bows and spears we race,
And, parted in three bands, the thickets beat ;
Soon did the god vouchsafe large spoil exceeding sweet.
Me twelve ships followed, and for each we won
Nine goats ; but for myself I chose out ten.
Thus all day long, till falling of the sun,
We sat there feasting in the hollow glen ;
Cheerily I ween the red wine circled then ;
Since of the liquor there remained much more
Sealed safely in the ships ; for when our men
Sacked the Ciconian citadel, good store
Of wine in earthen vessels to our fleet they bore.
And on the land of the Cyclopes near
We looked, and saw their smoke, and heard their hum.
Also the bleatings of their flocks we hear.
Till the ambrosial Night made all things dumb.
But when the rosy-fingered Dawn was come,
I called my friends, and said : " Stay ye the rest,
While I go forward to explore with some,
Mine own ship's crew, what folk this shore infest,
Despiteful, wild, unjust, or of a gentle breast."
I04 THE ODYSSEY.
Forthwith I march on board, and bid my crew
With me their captain the tall bark ascend,
And the stern-calDles vigorously undo.
They to their several tasks with zeal attend ;
Then, sitting, to the oars' long sweep they bend,
And smite in unison the billows hoar.
Right quickly to the continent we wend ;
And lo ! a huge deep cave our eyes before.
Shaded about with laurels, very near the shore.
And all around the flocks and herds recline.
Parked by a rough-hewn fence of mountain stone,
Ail overhung with oak and tow'ry pine.
There dwelt the monstrous keeper all alone.
Who in his breast no kindred ties did own,
But, far apart, ungodly ways pursued ;
Sight not resembling human flesh and bone.
But like a mountain-column, crowned with wood.
Reigning above the hills in awful solitude.
Then of my comrades I the rest command
To guard the well-benched ship, remaining there,
But I the while with my twelve bravest land.
And of dark wine an ample goatskin bear.
Which Maron, venerable priest and seer
Of lord Apollo, the divine defence
Of Ismarus, because we held him dear.
Son of Euanthes, gave us to take thence.
Whom with his wife and child we saved in reverence.
Deep-foliaged grove his dwelling doth enfold,
Phoebus Apollo's, who there keeps his shrine.
Rich gifts he gave me — talents seven of gold
Which curiously was wrought and well did shine.
And bowl of silver, and twelve jars of wine.
Which in his halls lay hidden out of view.
Mellow with age, unmingled, sweet, divine ;
Known but to him the priest and other two.
His wife and chief house-dame, of all his retinue.
When they the red wine drank, he filled one cup.
Which when in twenty measures he did pour
Of water, and the scent divine rose up,
'Twere hard to hold one's cravings any more.
Thereof a goatskin filled I with me bore.
And in a wallet did provision crowd,
For my brave heart at once foreboded sore.
How I a man should meet, unpitying, proud,
Lawless and void of right, with giant strength endowed.
Soon to the cave we came, nor him there found.
Who 'mid the pastures with his flocks did stay.
We then the crates admire with cheeses crowned.
And the pens, packed with kids and lambs, survey
Where in his place each kind distinguished lay.
Here rest the firstlings, there the middle-born.
And further on the yeanlings. Brimmed with whey
Pails, ranged in ordered rank, the walls adorn —
Wherein his flocks he wont to milk at eve and morn.
ODYSSEUS'S ADVENTURES. 105
With strong persuasion me my friends besought
To steal some cheeses, and return with haste
To the swift ship, and thither having brought
Both kids and fat lambs, from their pens displaced.
Sailing to vanish o'er the watery waste.
I to our loss would not persuaded be.
Wishing to see him and his cheer to taste,
If chance he lend me hospitality —
Alas ! to my poor friends no welcome host proved he !
We then for holy offerings kindle flame,
Eat of the cheeses, and till eventide
Wait. Then with flocks and herds the Cyclops came
Bearing a mighty pile of pine wood dried.
Wherewith his evening meal might be supplied.
Down with a crash he cast it in the cave ;
We to the deep recess ran terrified.
Anon his flocks within the walls he drave,
But to the males a place without the courtyard gave.
Forthwith a rock stupendous with his hands
He lifted, and athwart the entrance flung.
Firm-rooted o'er the cave's deep mouth it stands.
Not two-and-twenty wagons, four-wheeled, strong.
Ever could move the mighty bulk along.
Then sat he down and milked each teeming ewe
And she-goat, and anon their eager young j
Under the dams disposed in order due ;
And all the while thick bleatings rang the wide cave through.
Half the white milk he curdled, and laid up
On crates of woven wicker-work with care ;
And half he set aside in bowl and cup
To stand in readiness for use, whene'er
Thirst should invite, and for his evening fare.
Thus he his tasks right busily essayed.
And at the last a red flame kindled there ;
And, while the firelight o'er the cavern played.
Us crouching he espied, and speedy question made.
Strangers, who are ye .'' from what strand unknown
Sail ye the watery ways .'' After some star
Of purpose, or on random courses blown
Range ye like pirates, whom no perils bar,
Who risk their own lives other men to mar ? "
So made he question, and our dear heart brake.
Scared at the dread voice searching near and far,
The rough rude accent, and the monstrous make,
Natheless, though sore cast down, I thus responding spake:
' We sons of Argos, while from Troy we keep
Straight homeward, driven by many storms astray.
Over the wide abysses of the deep.
Chance on another course, a different way.
Haply such doom upon us Zeus doth lay.
Also of Agamemnon, Atreus' son,
Soldiers we are, and his command obey
Whose name rings loudest underneath the sun.
City so vast he sacked, such people hath undone.
lo6 THE ODYSSEY.
" So in our wanderings to thy knees we come
If thou the boon of hospitality
Wouldst furnish to our wants, or render some
Of those sweet offices which none deny
To strangers. Thou at least the gods on high
Respect, most noble one ! for theirs are we,
Who now poor suppliants on thy help rely ;
Chiefly revere our guardian Zeus, for he
Avenger of all such is ever wont to be ! "
So did I speak : he ruthlessly replied :
" O fool, or new from some outlandish place,
Who by the fear of gods hast me defied !
What then is Zeus to the Cyclopian race,
Matched with whose strength the blessed gods are base ?
Save that I choose to spare your heads, I trow
Zeus will not much avail you in this case.
But tell me where your good ship ye bestow.
At the land's end or near, that I the truth may know."
Thus spake he, urging trial of our state.
Nor caught me, in the experience manifold
Well versed. With crafty words I answered straight :
" Mighty Poseidon, who the earth doth hold.
Near the far limits which your land enfold.
On the sharp rocks our vessel did impel.
Thither a great wind from the deep us rolled.
I with these comrades from the yawning hell
Of waters have alone escaped, the tale to tell."
He nought replied, but of my comrades twain
Seized, and like dog-whelps on the cavern-floor
Dashed them : the wet ground steamed with blood and brain.
Straight in his ravin limb from limb he tore
Fierce as a lion, and left nothing o'er ;
Flesh, entrails, marrowy bones of men just killed.
Gorging. To Zeus our hands, bemoaning sore.
We raised in horror, while his maw he tilled,
And human meat devoured, and milk in rivers swilled.
After his meal he lay down with the sheep.
I, at the first, was minded to go near
And in his liver slake my drawn sword deep ;
But soon another mind made me forbear ;
For so should we have gained destruction sheer.
Since never from the doorway could we move
With all our strength the stones which he set there.
We all night long with groans our anguish prove,
Till rosy-fingered Dawn shone forth in heaven above.
At dawn a fire he kindled in the cave,
And milked the famous flocks in order due.
And to each mother her young suckling gave.
But when the morning tasks were all gone through.
He, of my wretched comrades seizing two,
Gorged breakfast as became his savage taste,
And with the fat flocks from the cave withdrew.
Moved he the stone, and set it back with haste.
Lightly as on some quiver he the lid replaced ;
ODYSSEUS'S ADVENTURES. 107
Then toward the mountain turned with noise ; but I
Sat brooding on revenge, and made my prayer
To Pallas, and resolved this scheme to try :
For a huge club beside the sheepfold there,
Green olive-wood, lay drying in his lair,
Cut for a staff to serve him out of doors,
Which we admiring to the mast compare
Of some wide merchantman with twenty oars,
Which the divine abysses of the deep explores.
Therefrom I severed as it were an ell.
And bade my comrades make it smooth and round.
Then to a tapering spire I shaped it well.
And the green timber in the flame embrowned
For hardness ; and, where dung did most abound,
Deep in the cave the pointed stake concealed.
Anon my comrades cast their lots all round.
Which should with me the fiery weapon wield.
And twirl it in his eye while sleep his huge strength sealed.
Then were four chosen — even the very same
Whom I myself should have picked out to be
My comrades in the work — and me they name
The fifth, their captain. In the evening he
Came, shepherding his flocks in due degree.
Home from the hills, and all his fleecy rout
Into the wide cave urged imperiously.
Nor left one loiterer in the space without,
Whether from God so minded, or his own dark doubt.
Soon with the great stone he blocked up the cave.
And milked the bleating flocks in order due.
And to each mother her young suckling gave.
But when the evening tasks were all gone through,
He of my wretched comrades seizing two
Straight on the horrible repast did sup.
Then I myself near to the Cyclops drew,
And, holding in my hands an ivy cup
Brimmed with the dark-red wine, took courage and spake up :
' Cyclops, take wme, and drink after thy meal
Consumed, of human flesh, that thou mayest know
The kind of liquor wherein we sailors deal.
This a drink-offering have I brought, that so
Thou mightest pity me and let me go
Safe homeward. Thou alas ! with fury extreme
Art raving, and thy fierceness doth outgrow
All bounds of reason. How then dost thou dream
Others will seek thy place, who dost so ruthless seem .? "
He then received and drank and loudly cried
Rejoicing : " Give me, give me more, and tell
Thy name, that some good boon I may provide.
True, the rich earth where the Cyclopes dwell.
Fed by the rain of Zeus, in wine doth well, —
But this is nectar, pure ambrosia's soul."
So spake he. Thrice I gave the fatal spell ;
Thrice in his foolishness he quaffed the whole.
Then said I, while his brain with the curling fumes did roll :
lo8 THE ODYSSEY.
" Cyclops, thou askest me my name renowned —
Now will I make it known ; nor thou withhold
That boon whereto thy solemn troth is bound —
Hear then ; my name is Noman. From of old
My father, mother, these my comrades bold,
Give me this title." So I spake, and he
Answered at once with mind of ruthless mould :
" This shall fit largess unto Noman be —
Last, after all thy peers, I promise to eat thee."
Therewith his head fell and he lay supme,
Tamed by the stroke of all-subduing sleep ;
And the vast neck heaved, while rejected wine
And morsels of men's flesh in spasms did leap
Forth from his throat. Then did I rise, and deep
In the live embers hid the pointed stake.
Urging my comrades a good heart to keep.
Soon the green olive-wood the fire did bake
Then all a-glow with sparkles I the red brand take.
Round me my comrades wait. The gods inbreathe
Fierce ardour. In his eye we thrust the brand,
I twirling from above and they beneath.
As when a shipwright at his work doth stand
Boring ship-timber, and on either hand
His fellows, kneeling at their toil below.
Whirl the swift auger with a leathern band
For ever ; — we the weapon keep whirling so,
While round the fiery point red blood doth bubbling flow.
And from the burning eyeball the fierce steam
Singed all his brows, and the deep roots of sight
Crackled with fire. As when in the cold stream
Some smith the axe untempered, fiery-white,
Dips hissing ; for thence comes the iron's might ,
So did his eye hiss, and he roared again.
Loudly the vault rebellowed. We in flight
Rushed diverse. He the stake wrenched forth amain.
Soaked in the crimson gore, and hurled it mad with pain ;
Then, bursting forth into a mighty yell.
Called the Cyclopes, who in cave and lair
'Mid the deep glen and windy hill-tops dwell.
They, trooping to the shriek from far and near,
Ask from without what ails him : " In what fear
Or trouble, Polyphemus, dost thou cry
Through night ambrosial, and our slumbers scare ?
Thee of thy flocks doth mortal violently
Despoil, or strive to kill by strength or treachery .-* "
And frenzied Polyphemus from the cave
This answer in his pain with shrieks out-threw :
" Never by strength, my friends, or courage brave !
Noman by treachery doth me subdue."
Whereto his fellows winged words renew :
" Good sooth ! if no man work thee injury,
But in thy lone resort this sickness grew,
The hand of Zeus is not to be put by —
Go, then, in filial prayer to king Poseidon cry."
OD YSSE WS'S AD VENTURES.
109
So they retiring; and I laughed in heart,
To find the shrewd illusion working well.
But the dread Cyclops over every part
Groped eyeless with wild hands in anguish fell,
Rolled back the massive mouthstone from the cell,
And in the door sat waving everywhere
His lightless arms, to capture or repel
Any forth venturing with his flocks to fare —
Dreaming to deal with one of all good prudence bare.
Seeking deliverance 'mid these dangers rife.
So deadly-near the mighty evil pressed,
All thoughts I weave as one that weaves for life.
All kinds of scheming in my spirit test ;
And this of various counsels seemed the best.
Fat rams there were, with goodly fleeces dight
Of violet-tinted wool. These breast to breast
I silent link of osiers twisted tight,
Whereon the ill-minded Cyclops used to sleep at night.
By threes I linked them, and each middle one
Carried a man : one walked on either side :
Such was our plan the monster's rage to shun ;
And thus three rams for each man we provide.
But I, choosing a beast than all beside
Fairer, in length more large and strength of spine,
Under his belly in the woolly hide
Clinging with both hands resolutely recline ;
And thus, groaning in soul, we wait the Dawn divine.
ESCAPE OF ODYSSEUS BOUND TO THE RAM.
{Front a yase Painting.)
But with the rosy-fingered Morn troop thence
The fat rams toward their pastures eagerly.
While bleat the unmilked ewes with udders tense.
Distressful. So their lord, while each went by.
Feeling their backs with many a bitter sigh.
Dreamed not that we clung bound beneath the breast.
Last came the great ram, trailing heavily
Me and his wool, with cumbrous weight oppressed.
Him mighty Polyphemus handling thus addressed :
"O THE ODYSSEY.
" Ah ! mine own fondling, why dost linger now
So late ? — far other wast thou known of old.
With lordly steps the flowery pastures thou
First ever seekest, and the waters cold,
First too at eve returnest to the fold. —
Now last of all — dost thou thy master's eye
Bewail, whose dear orb, when I sank controlled
With wine, this Noman vile with infamy.
Backed by his rascal crew, hath darkened treacherously }
" Whom let not vaunt himself escaped this debt,
Nor think me quenched and poor and powerless ;
Vengeance may chance to overtake him yet.
hadst thou mind like mine, and couldst address
Thy master, and the secret lair confess
Wherein my wrath he shuns, then should his brain
Dashed on the earth with hideous stamp impress
Pavement and wall, appeasing the fell pain
Which from this Noman-traitor nothing-worth I drain ! "
Thus spake he, and the great ram from his doors
Dismissed. A little eastward from the cave
Borne with the flock we passed, and left his floors
Blood-stained behind, escaping a dire grave.
First mine own bands I loosened, and then gave
My friends their freedom : but the slow fat sheep.
Lengthily winding, to the ships we drave.
Joy stirred within our comrades strong and deep.
Glad of our help from doom, though forced the slain to weep,
Natheless their lamentations I made cease.
And with bent brows gave signal not to wail ;
But with all haste the flock so fine of fleece
Bade them on shipboard set, and forward sail.
So they the canvas open to the gale
And with timed oarage smite the foamy mere.
Soon from such distance as the voice might hail
A landsman, and by shouting make him hear,
1 to the Cyclops shrilled with scorn and cutting jeer :
"Cyclops, you thought to eat a poor man's friends
Here in your cavern by sheer brutal might.
Go to : rough vengeance on thy crime attends ;
Since, in thy soul not reverencing the right.
Thy guests thou hast devoured in foul despite,
Even on thine own hearth. Therefore Zeus at last
And all the gods thine evil deeds requite."
So did I blow wind on his anger's blast.
He a hill-peak tore off, and the huge fragment cast
Just o'er the blue-prowed ship. As the mass fell.
Heaved in a stormy tumult the great main.
Bearing us landward on the refluent swell.
I a long barge-pole seize and strive and strain
To work our vessel toward the deep again.
Still beckoning to my crew to ply the oar ;
Who stoop to the strong toil and pull right fain
To twice the former distance from the shore.
Then stood I forth to hail the Cyclops yet once more.
OD YSSE C/S'S AD VENTURES.
Me then my friends with dear dissuasions tire
On all sides, one and other. " Desperate one !
Why wilt thou to a wild man's wrath add fire?
Hardly but now did we destruction shun,
So nigh that hurling had our bark undone.
Yea, let a movement of the mouth but show
Where through the billows from his rage we run,
And he with heads will strew the dark sea-flow,
And break our timbered decks — so mightily doth he throw."
So spake they, but so speaking could not turn
My breast large-hearted ; and again 1 sent
Accents of wrath, his inmost soul to burn :
" Cyclops, if mortal man hereafter, bent
To know the storj- of this strange event,
Should of thy hideous blindness make demand,
Asking whence came this dire disfigurement,
Name thou Laertes-born Odysseus' hand,
Waster of walls, who dwells in Ithaca's rough land."
Then did he groaning in these words reply :
" Gods ! the old oracles upon me break —
That warning of the antique prophecy
Which Telemus Eurymides once spake —
Skilled seer, who on our hills did auguries take,
And waxed in years amid Cyclopian race.
Of all these things did he foreshadowings make,
And well proclaimed my pitiable case,
And how this lightless brow Odysseus should deface.
" But always I some great and beauteous man
Expected, one in awful strength arrayed,
So to assail me as the legend ran.
Now one unworthy by unworthy aid
Doth blind me helpless, and with wine waylaid,
And al-to strengthless doth surpass the strong.
But come, Odysseus, let respect be paid
To thee my guest, and thou shalt sail ere long,
By the Earth-shaker wafted, free from scathe and wrong.
" His child am I, my sire he boasts to be,
Who if he will, none else of mortal seed
Or of the blest, can heal my wound." Thus he :
But I made answer : " Now in very deed
I would to heaven this right arm might succeed
So surely in thy death, as I am sure
That not Poseidon even, at thy need.
Thee of thine eyelessness hath power to cure,
Know well thy fatal hurt forever shall endure."
Then to the king Poseidon he made prayer.
Lifting his heart up to the starry sky :
" Hear now, great monarch of the raven hair ;
Holder of earth, Poseidon, hear my cry,
If thou my father art indeed, and I
Thy child ! Or ever he the way fulfil,
Make thou Laertes-born Odysseus die,
Waster of walls ! or should the high Fates will
That friends and home he see, then lone and late and ill
1^2 THE ODYSSEY.
" Let him return on board a foreign ship,
And in his house find evil ! " Thus he prayed
With hand uplifted and indignant lip :
And the dark-haired one heeded what he said.
He then his hand upon a great stone laid,
Larger by far than that he hurled before,
And the huge mass in booming flight obeyed
The measureless impulse, and right onward bore,
There 'twixt the blue-prowed bark descending and the shore.
Just short of ruin ; and the foaming wave
Whitened in boiling eddies where it fell.
And rolling toward the isle our vessel drave,
Tossed on the mane of that tumultuous swell.
There found we all our fleet defended well.
And comrades sorrow-laden on the sand.
Hoping if yet, past hope, the seas impel
Their long-lost friends to the forsaken strand —
Grated our keel ashore ; we hurrying leap on land.
Straight from the hollow bark our prize we share.
That none might portionless come off. To me
The ram for my great guerdon then and there
My well-greaved comrades gave in courtesy ;
Which 1 to Zeus, supreme in majesty.
Killed on the shore, and burned the thighs with fire:
But to mine offering little heed gave he ;
Since deep within his heart the cloud-wrapt Sire
Against both friends and fleet sat musing deathful ire.
So till the sun fell did we drink and eat,
And all night long beside the billows lay
Till blushed the hills 'neath morning's rosy feet ;
Then did I bid my friends, with break of day,
Loosen the hawsers, and each bark array ;
Who take the benches and the whitening main
Cleave with the sounding oars, and sail away.
So from the isle we part, not void of pain.
Right glad of our own lives, but grieving for the slain.
The passage describing Eurycleia's recognition of Odysseus is thus
translated by Messrs. Butcher and Lang : (Book XIX.)
Then wise Penelope answered him : '* Ah ! stranger, would that this
word may be accomplished. Soon shouldst thou be aware of kindness and
many a gift at my hands, so that whoso met with thee would call thee
blessed. But on this wise my heart has a boding, and so shall it be.
Ne^ither shall Odysseus come home any more, nor shalt thou gain an escort
hence, since there are not now such masters in the house as Odysseus was
among men, — if ever such an one there was, — to welcome guests revered
and speed them on their way. But do ye, my handmaids, wash this man's
feet and lay a bed for him, mattress and mantles and shining blankets, that
well and warmly he may come to the time of golden-throned Dawn. And
very early in the morning bathe him and anoint him, that within the house
beside Telemachus he may eat meat, sitting quietly in the hall. And it shall
be the worse for any hurtful man of the wooers, that vexes the stranger, yea
EURYCLEIA RECOGNIZES ODYSSEUS. 113
he shall not henceforth profit himself here, for all his sore anger. For how
shalt thou learn concerning me, stranger, whether indeed I excel all women
in wit and thrifty device, if all unkempt and evil clad thou sittest at supper in
my halls ? Man's life is brief enough ! And if any be a bad man and hard
at heart, all men cry evil on him for the time to come, while yet he lives, and
all men mock him when he is dead. But if any be a blameless man and
blameless of heart, his guests noise abroad his fame among all men and
many call him excellent."
Then Odysseus, rich in counsel, answered her and said : " O wife revered
of Odysseus, son of Laertes, mantles verily and blankets are hateful to me,
since first I left behind me the snowy hills of Crete, voyaging in the long-
oared galley : nay I would lie as in time past I was used to rest through the
sleepless nights. For full many anight I have lain on an unsightly bed, and
awaited the bright-throned Dawn. And baths for the feet are no longer my
delight, nor shall any women of those who are serving maidens in thy house
touch my foot, unless there chance to be some old wife, true of heart, one
that has borne as much trouble as myself ; I would not grudge that such
an one should touch my feet."
Then wise Penelope answered him : '* Dear stranger, for there has been
none ever so discreet as thou, nor dearer, of all the strangers from afar that
have come to my house, so clearly thou speakest all things discreetly ; I
have such an ancient woman of an understanding heart, that diligently nursed
the hapless man my lord, and cherished him and took him in her arms, in
the hour when his mother bare him. She will wash thy feet, albeit she is
weak with age. Up now, wise Eurycleia, and wash this man, who is of like
age with thy master. Yea and perchance the feet and hands of Odysseus
are even now such as his, for men quickly age in sorrow."
So she spake, and the old woman covered her face with her hands and
shed warm tears, and spake a word of lamentation, saying :
" Ah ! woe is me, child, for thy sake, all helpless that I am ! Surely Zeus
hated thee above all men, though thou hadst a god-fearing spirit ! For
never yet did any man burn so many fat pieces of the thigh and so many
choice hecatombs to Zeus, whose joy is in the thunder, as thou didst give
to him, with prayers that so thou mightest grow to a smooth old age and
rear thy renowned son. But now from thee alone hath Zeus wholly cut
off the day of thy returning. Haply at him too were the women like to
mock among strangers afar, whensoever he came to the famous palace of
any lord, even as here these shameless ones all mock at thee. To shun their
insults and many taunts it is that thou sufferest them not to wash thy feet,
but the daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, hath bidden me that am right
willing to this task. Wherefore I will wash thy feet, both for Penelope's
sake and for thine own, for that my heart within me is moved with pity. And
now mark the word that I shall speak. Many strangers travel-worn have
ere now come hither, but I say that I have never seen any so like as thou art
in fashion and voice and feet to Odysseus."
Then Odysseus, rich in counsel, answered her, saying : " Old wife, even
so all men declare, that have beheld us twain, that we favor each other
exceedingly, even as thou dost truly say."
Thereupon the crone took the shining cauldron which she used for the
washing of feet, and poured in much cold water and next mingled there-
with the warm. Now Odysseus sat aloof from the hearth, and of a sudden
he turned his face to the darkness, for anon he had a misgiving of heart lest
114 THE ODYSSEY,
when she handled him she might recognize the scar, and all should be
revealed. Now she drew near her lord to wash him, and straightway she
knew the wound, that the boar had driven with his white tusk long ago, when
Odysseus went to Parnassus to see Autolycus, and the sons of Autolycus, his
mother's noble father, who outdid all men in thievery and skill in swearing.
This skill was the gift of the god himself, even Hermes, for that he burned
to him the well pleasing sacrifice of the thighs of lambs and kids ; where-
fore Hermes abetted him gladly. Now Autolycus came to the rich land
of Ithaca, and found his daughter's son a child new-born, and when he
was making an end of supper, behold Eurycleia set the babe on his knees,
and spake and hailed him : " Autolycus, find thou a name thyself to give thy
child's own son ; for lo ! he is a child of many prayers."
Then Autolycus made answer and spake : " My daughter and my daugh-
ter's lord, give ye him whatsoever name I tell you. For behold I am come
hither in great wrath against many men and women over the fruitful earth,
wherefore let the child's name be ' a man of wrath,' Odysseus. But when
the child reaches its full growth, and comes to the great house of his mother's
kin at Parnassus, whereby are my possessions, I will give him a gift out of
these and send him on his way rejoicing."
Therefore it was that Odysseus went to receive the splendid gifts. And
Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus grasped his hands and greeted him with
gentle words, and Amphithea, his mother's mother, cast her arms about him
and kissed his face and his beautiful eyes. Then Autolycus called to his
renowned sons to get ready the meal, and they hearkened to the call. So
presently they led in a five-year-old bull, which they flayed and busily pre-
pared, and cut up all the limbs and deftly chopped them small and pierced
them with spits and roasted them cunningly, dividing the messes. So for
that livelong day they feasted till the going down of the sun, and their souls
lacked not aught of the equal banquet. But when the sun sank and dark-
ness came on, then they laid them to rest and took the boon of sleep.
Now so soon as early Dawn shone forth, the rosy-fingered, they all went
forth to the chase, the hounds and the sons of Autolycus, and with them
went the goodly Odysseus. So they fared up the steep hill of wood-clad
Parnassus, and quickly they came to the windy hollows. Now the sun was
but just striking on the fields, and was come forth from the soft flowing
stream of deep Oceanus. Then the beaters reached a glade of the wood-
land, and before them the hounds ran tracking a scent, but behind them
came the sons of Autolycus, and among them goodly Odysseus followed
close on the hounds, swaying a long spear. Thereby in a thick lair was a
great boar lying, and through the coppice the force of the wet winds blew
never, neither did the bright sun light on it with his rays, nor could the rain
pierce through, so thick it was, and of fallen leaves there was great plenty
therein. Then the noise of the men's feet and the dogs' came upon the
boar, as they pressed on in their hunting, and forth from his lair he sprang
towards them with his back well bristled and fire shining in his eyes, and
stood at bay before them all. Then Odysseus was the first to rush in, hold-
ing his spear aloft in his strong hand, most keen to smite ; but the boar was
too quick for him and struck him above the knee, ripping through much
flesh with his tusk as he charged sideways, but he reached not to the bone
of the man. But Odysseus smote at his right shoulder and hit it, so that the
point of the bright spear went clean through, and the boar fell in the dust
with a cry, and his life passed from him. Then the sons of Autolycus began
to busy them with the carcase, and as ior the wound of the noble godlike
ii6
THE ODYSSEY.
Odysseus, they bound it up skilfully, and stayed the black blood with a song
of healing, and straightway returned to the house of their dear father.
Then Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus got him well healed of his
wound, and gave him splendid gifts, and quickly sent him with all love to
Ithaca, gladly speeding a glad guest. There his father and lady mother
were glad of his returning, and asked him of all his adventures, and of his
wound how he came by it, and duly he told them all, namely, how the boar
gashed him with his white tusk in the chase, when he had gone to Parnassus
with the sons of Autolycus.
Now the old woman took the scarred limb and passed her hands down it,
and knew it by the touch and let the foot drop suddenly, so that the knee
fell into the bath, and the vessel rang, being turned over on the other side,
and that water was spilled on the ground. Then grief and joy came on her
in one moment, and her eyes filled up with tears, and the voice of her utter-
ance was stayed, and touching the chin of Odysseus she spake to him, saying :
" Yea, verily thou art Odysseus, my dear child, and I knew thee not
before, till I had handled all the body of my lord."
Therewithal she looked toward Penelope, as minded to make a sign that
her husband was now home. But Penelope could not meet her eyes nor
understand, for Athene had bent her thoughts to other things. But Odys-
seus feeling for the old woman's throat seized it with his right hand and
with the other drew her closer to him and spake, saying :
*' Woman, why wouldst thou indeed destroy me ? It was thou that didst
nurse me there at thine own breast, and now after travail and much pain I
am come here in the twentieth year to mine own country. But since thou
art ware of me, and the god has put this in thy heart, be silent lest another
learn the matter in the halls. For on this wise I will declare it, and it shall
surely be accomplished : If the gods subdue the lordly wooers unto me, I
will not hold my hand from thee, my nurse though thou art, when I slay the
other handmaids in my halls." Then wise Eurycleia answered, saying :
" My child, what word hath escaped the door of thy lips ! Thou knowest
how firm is my spirit and unyielding, and 1 will keep me close as hard stone
or iron. Yet another thing will I tell thee, and do thou ponder it in thine
heart. If the gods subdue the lordly wooers to thy hand, then will I tell
thee all the tale of the women in the halls, which of them dishonour thee and
which be guiltless."
Then Odysseus, rich in counsel, answered her saying : " Nurse, wherefore
I pray thee wilt thou speak of these ? Thou needest not, for even I myself
will mark them and take knowledge of each. Nay, do thou keep thy saying
to thyself, and leave the rest to the gods." Even so he spake, and the old
woman passed forth from the hall to bring water for his feet, for that first
water was all spilled. So when she had washed him and anointed him well
with olive oil, Odysseus again drew up his settle nearer to the fire to warm
himself, and covered up the scar with his rags.
There is another beautiful passage describing the dog's v^^elcome to
his master, in the seventeenth book :
Thus they spake one to the other. And lo ! a hound raised up his head
from where he lay and pricked his ears, Argos, the hound of the enduring
Odysseus, which of old himself had bred, but had got no joy of him, for ere
that, he went to sacred Ilios. Now in time past the young men used to lead
the dog against wild goats and deer and hares ; but now was his master
ODYSSEUS AND HIS DOG AUGOS,
117
gone, and he lay cast out in the deep dung of mules and kine, whereof he
found great plenty spread before the doors, till the thralls of Odysseus
should carry it away to dung therewith his wide demesne. There lay the
dog Argos, full of vermin. Yet even now when he saw Odysseus standing
by, he wagged his tail and dropped both his ears, but nearer to his master he
had not the strength to draw. But Odysseus looked aside and wiped away
a tear that he easily hid from Eumaeus, and straightway he asked him, say-
ing :
" Eumaeus, verily this is a great marvel, this hound lying here in the dung.
Truly he is goodly of limb, but I know not certainly if he have speed with
his beauty, or if he be comely only as are men's trencher dogs that their lords
keep for the pleasure of the eye."
Then didst thou make answer, swineherd Eumaeus : ** In very truth this
is the dog of a man that has died in a far land. If he were what once he
was in limb and in the feats of the chase, when Odysseus left him to go to
Troy, thou wouldst marvel at the sight of his swiftness and his strength.
There was no monster that could flee from him in the deep places of the
wood, when he was in pursuit ; for even on a track he was the keenest hound.
But now he is holden in an evil case, and his lord has perished far from his
own country, and the careless women take no charge of him. Nay, thralls
are no more inclined to honest service when their masters have lost the
dominion, for Zeus, of the far-borne voice, takes away the half of a man's
virtue when the day of slavery comes upon him."
Therewith he passed within the fair-lying house, and went straight to the
hall, to the company of the proud wooers. But upon Argos came the fate
of black death, even in the hour that he beheld Odysseus again, in the
twentieth year.
ARGOS RECOGNIZES IN THE BEGGAR, HIS MASTER ODYSSEUS,
CHAPTER IV.— THE EPICS IN GENERAL, AND THE
HOMERIC HYMNS.
-Extravagance of Some of the Praise given to Homer by Over-enthusiastic Admirers
— Some of the Points of Resemblance and Difference between the Iliad and
Odyssey, as in the relation of Gods to Men, etc. ; The Different Kinds of Similes
in the Two Poems ; of Epithets — The Moral Law as it is Implied and Stated.
II. — The Other Compositions Ascribed to Homer ; Hymns, Parodies and Minor
Poems — The Light that the Hymns throw on Early Religious Thought — The
Myths not invented as Stories, but Attempted Explanations of the Universe —
The Mock-Homeric Poems. III. — Illustrative Extracts. IV. — The Later Epics :
their Subjects ; their Relation to the Homeric Poems ; and their Merit.
I.
NATURALLY enough, the Iliad and the Odyssey have been the ob-
ject of much indiscriminate praise, and the reverence that is their
due has at times inspired a form of laudation which is scarcely to be dis-
tinguished from enthusiastic worship, and admiration for the beauty of
the poems has blinded rapturous adorers to the exact significance of some
of the extravagant paeans. One of the commonest as well as one of the
least warranted of these extravagant utterances is this, that Homer
drew a perfectly happy period. Thus Mr. Frederic Harrison says :
*' In Homer alone of the poets a national life is transfigured, wholly
beautiful, complete, and happy ; where care, doubt, decay, are as yet
unborn." Fortunately for his fame, however, Homer did not conceive
of the world as a place devoid of care and decay, and although this
statement as the author made it is really only a dithyrambic expression
of admiration and nothing more, we often find a similar incongruity
between the text of Homer and the canticles of thosie who perhaps are
readier to praise than to read him. This author goes on to say that
the imitative writers of epics draw imaginary pictures of flawless bliss
out of their own imagination, but Homer " paints a world which he
saw," as if he saw a world without care, doubt and decay. In other
words, Mr. Harrison accepts the mythical story that Homer was blind.
Yet, in fact, this is an excellent specimen of the error that has in-
spired Homer's would-be rivals to describe a faultless ideal world. He
did, to be sure, paint the world he saw, and they have tried to outdo
him by painting worlds that no one has ever seen, which should
exceed his by their freedom from faults, but with the result that he
THE WORLD DESCRIBED BY HOMER. 119
survives, while they linger as men adorned with merely literary charm.
The world that he beheld was one full of grief, disappointment,
treachery, and the immortal charm of his portrayal lies in his recogni-
tion and expression of this truth. Was there no care in Troy, or in
the Grecian camp ? None in Penelope's heart as she waited for
Odysseus? None in Odysseus as he made his weary way homeward ?
Was there no doubt among the stalwart warriors that fought the
immortal fight about Ilium? No decay? These questions are
curiously answered if Mr. Harrison's statements are affirmed. When
Homer mourned that men had dwindled so that in these degenerate
days they could not lift the weight which the heroes swung without
an effort ; when he described Priam's anguish at pleading with
Achilles, or Penelope's faithful watch for her husband, it was no fan-
tastic world he described ; we are all ready enough to decry the
imagined inferiority of the present; and as for the other and more
serious matters, it seems scarcely worth while to say that it is Homer's
perception of the world that makes him great ; all the intervention of
the gods and the impossible machinery can not mar the vividness of
his perception of human emotions, and these emotions are made up
of care, doubt, and decay.
The error of this indiscriminate enthusiasm is easy to comprehend.
We all place the Golden Age in the past, and associate with the
chronicles of a vague early period the general inexactitude of our
impressions ; but Homer either saw something like what he sang, or,
as is more likely, lived when its harsh outlines were a little misty, and
so readily lent it its air of cloudland ; yet he was not so remote from
his object as to forego the very life of poetry, which is truth. An
impossible land of faultless happiness would have faded like a dream.
Homer is immortal because he wrings our heart with agony, despair,
and doubt. He does not call upon us to sympathize with angels ; if
he had done so, angels would have been his only readers.
The main resemblance between the Iliad and the Odyssey is this :
that the two, beside holding altogether the highest position in epic
poetry, evidently belong to very nearly the same period. They both
treat of the myths concerning the Trojan war, but as to the manner
of treatment countless differences arise as soon as they are at all
carefully examined. In ancient times, as indeed is still the case, the
two poems were ascribed to the one poet. Homer, but there were
many who found the points of difference too great for the acceptance
of that hypothesis. Some explained this diversity on the theory that
Homer wrote the Iliad in his youth or early maturity, and the Odyssey
in his old age, a proposition which no longer commends itself to
scholars. Yet the explanation, though unacceptable, points out very
I20 EPICS IN GENERAL.
clearly the difference between the two poems. No one can read them
without being convinced that the Odyssey is the later poem ; the
whole tone is that of a riper civilization. The gods still interfere in
human actions, but Olympus is no longer distracted by their quarrels ;
the hero is not a tool of the gods, but a dependent being, who is, so to
speak, their favorite, but not their tool. In the Odyssey, too, we observe
a change in the growth of respect for oracles and in the maturer reflec-
tion that frequently finds expression. There are, moreover, what we
may call technical differences, such as the extension of the use of the
word Hellas for the main division of Greece exclusive of the Pelo-
ponnesus, instead of limiting it to the Thessalian home of the
Myrmidons, as is the case in the Iliad, and in the prominence given in
the Odyssey to Hermes, who takes the place assigned in the other
poem to Iris.
All of these arguments concern scholars rather than readers, who
will demand no stronger proof than their own feelings, and especially
is this true of that convenient figment of the imagination, the gen-
eral reader who always thinks what the writer tells him to think.
The likeness between the two poems is probably part of their common
possession of the qualities of the period in which they were composed.
In both, the vivid and direct representation of nature is a striking
merit. Homer, first and almost alone, has seen nature, while most of
his successors have seen it with eyes dimmed by the reading of books.
It is in the comparisons that Homer has spoken most impressively.
Some of these are of the utmost simplicity: "As beautiful as an im-
mortal;" "he fell like a tower in the raging battle;" "they fought like
blazing fire ; " " they were as numberless as the sands on the sea-shore
or the leaves in the forest," etc., etc. Others again are fuller and
more complicated ; they consist not of the single image that strikes
the eye, but of a series, or of several distinct parts of one image that
are combined to throw light on some human action or feeling. The
Iliad is especially rich in comparisons of this kind ; many of them are
taken from hunting adventures ; others from various familiar scenes
and occupations. Thus the many accounts of battles are saved from
monotony by the numerous vivid similes : thus, Paris shrinks back
like the traveler before the snake ; Apollo overthrows the wall as a
boy knocks down a sand fort; one hero slips behind the protecting
shield of Ajax, like a child behind his mother; Achilles, when he
sees Priam in his tent, stares at him as strangers stare at a fugitive
murderer ; Ajax gives ground before the Trojan like the ass retreating
before boys with sticks, etc., etc.
In the Odyssey we find similes of a more refined sort : Penelope's
tears at hearing the recital of her husband's woes are like melting
THE SIMILES OF HOMER — ETHICAL QUALITIES. 121
snow, and when the two meet, they embrace like shipwrecked per-
sons who have escaped death ; and when Odysseus reaches the
land of the Phaeacians, " as when children are watching the pre-
cious life of a father, who lies sick, in pain, slowly fading away
— for some baneful power attacks him — and the gods free from
peril the man who is thus loved ; so precious appeared to Odys-
seus the land and the trees." One sees the advance from direct
vision to reflection in comparing the similes of the Odyssey with
those of the Iliad. Homer's use of epithets also attracts the reader's
attention; almost every noun has its descriptive adjective; the sea is
continually wide ; the sword, sharp ; the lance, long ; these are the
simplest epithets. The yoke-carrying steers, the never-resting sun,
the silver-buckled sword, indicate more careful thought. The abundance
of epithets that marks the poems is but one of many indications of
the tireless ingenuity of the Greeks and of the many-sidedness of their
minds. The same keen love of clearness that enriched their syntax is
seen here in the simpler enumeration of the various sides of different
objects ; the profusion of qualities that caught their attention proves
the susceptibility of their perceptions, while the avoidance of mere
mechanical repetition and the agreeable variety bear witness to the
sensitiveness of their taste. The astounding brilliancy of the Greeks
is here, as it were, in the bud, and we find it fascinated by the spec-
tacle of the world in its newness, before literature had left its trail of
associations over the whole face of nature.
The moral world was known, however, more fully than the physical
world, and the ancients drew from the Homeric poems profound
moral instruction. They perceived the praise given to love of home,
of family, to bravery and persistence, and drew from it courage and.
inspiration. Every accurate portrait of an individual abounds with
moral lessons, because no man lives who is not in some ethical relation
with his kind at every step. Every act of his concerns his neighbor
as truly as it concerns himself ; his inaction is equally far-reaching,
and no portrait can be drawn of him that shall not be full of moral
teaching, however little this may be intended by the author. It is as
impossible to escape this eternal necessity as it is to paint with the
brush or to describe with the pen a man not in relation with the physical
laws of the universe. In both tasks the final test is the truth with
which the work is done, and the impressiveness of the lesson depends
far more on the way in which the characters and incidents are repre-
sented than on the energy with which the moral is urged. No book,
for instance, is so full of profitable instruction as is life itself, yet the
lessons of experience are not directly didactic, and the literature that
avoids the inculcation of moral lessons has more influence than that
122 EPICS IN GENERAL.
which rests on the supposition that teaching is necessary. It is the
same error that is made by writers who seem to think that by
endowing their characters with more than human qualities and by
accumulating impossible incidents, they will surely attain impressive-
ness. But, after all, what is more impressive, more solemn, as well as
more instructive than life?
Homer, or what is the same thing, the early Greeks, can not be
convicted of such a mistake. The same objection to impossibilities
that characterized their religious feelings and kept their ideas of their
gods within what we may call finite limits, also found expression in
their art and literature. Formlessness and lack of bounds had no
charm for them, indeed such qualities were something they could not
conceive, or at least contemplate with any thing like satisfaction.
Homer eschewed exaggeration and impossibility; here at least he is
thoroughly secure from attack. The wealth of the material that he
emploj'^ed is less surprising than his unfailing artistic sense which
knew only what was true. In both respects Shakspere is his only
rival in the literature of the whole world. Nowhere else do we find
the thorough and sympathetic comprehension of the human heart that
marks these two great poets. Homer tells his story by representing
the determining causes within the minds of men, by disclosing the
secret springs within the hearts of his characters. And since he does
this with unequaled psychological knowledge, the rivalry of those
successors who have accumulated external incidents without real
analysis leaves him untouched. What might be hastily judged to be
a tale of slaughter is a deep study of human passions ; the adventures
of Odysseus become in Homer's hands profound pictures of the
many-sidedness of human life: he teaches great lessons without
preaching, and the lessons, too, that every generation has to learn
anew for itself. This quality is what gives him his eternal value.
It is a value, it must also be remembered, that is very different from the
quality of childishness that is sometimes ascribed to Homer. Because
we find a frequent repetition of conventional epithets after a fashion
that seems to betoken simplicity, it is affirmed that we have in him
the poet of an infantile period. But the remark is perhaps mislead-
ing, for the very conventionality of the epithets indicates an antiquity
of petrifying custom, and is further contradicted by the ripeness of
reflection and observation to be met with on every page. The ethical
ripeness of the poems is in no way childlike ; the conditions of the
civilization are those of comparative immaturity in contrast with the
later growth of Greece and of modern times, but they indicate a long
and important past, in which the great facts of life have appeared as
solemn and important as they do now. If Homer were merely child-
THE HOMERIC HYMNS. 123
like, he would be read only in the nursery; and while many of the
circumstances that he describes find in the young their heartiest
admirers, his wisdom delights all, and it is a wisdom derived only
from experience. The effort to attain it by artifice has never yet
succeeded, any more than has the attempt to draw ideal scenes
that shall be greater than those he knew. Yet, as we saw, his truth-
fulness once seemed ideal to his imitators as it now does to some of
his admirers.
II.— THE HOMERIC HYMNS.
Besides the two great epics that are ascribed to Homer, there are
other m-uch shorter poems which bear his name, being attached to it
probably by the same attraction that ascribes all sbrts of old and new
jests to prominent wits. These consist of a collection of hymns and
of a few shorter poems which have survived the destruction that has
fallen on a number that were known to antiquity. It is a mere form
to call any of these poems Homer's, even on the supposition that a
man of that name wrote both the Iliad and the Odyssey or either of
them ; they belong to different writers and are of very unequal merit.
Their age is uncertain, but it is evident that they belong to a later
period than the epics. The hymns are of the nature of introductory
innovations composed for recitations at great meetings of the populace,
when the bards sang in rivalry, or at the opening of religious feasts.
They were not liturgical compositions, but rather expressions of the
fortunate Hellenic combination of literature and religion. The gods
are sung by the bard : Apollo, and Aphrodite at the greatest length,
and more briefly Ares, Artemis, Athene, Here, Demeter, Hercules,
Asklepios, the sons of Zeus, Castor and Polydeuces, Pan, Zeus,
Hestia (the Latin Vesta), the Muses, Helios and Selene. Some
of the short hymns are simply a brief address to the gods, with
some description of the divinity, mention of his genealogy, or praise
of his deeds and qualities. The longer ones, to Pan and Dionysos, are
among the noteworthy ones, but the longest, to Apollo, Hermes,
Aphrodite and Demeter, are the most important. The one to Apollo,
in which scholars have detected the combination of two separate
hymns, bears the mark of literary mannerism in the conduct of the
various subjects of which it treats. The first part contains an account
of the god's birth, and of the establishment of worship on the island
of Delos ; the other part, or, more properly, the other hymn, narrates
Apollo's establishment of the Delphian sanctuary and oracle, a fact
that gave it more credit than its literary merit deserves. The hymn
to Hermes reads like any thing but a devotional utterance, and
124 THE HOMERIC HYMNS.
the pranks of the mischievous young deity are recounted with an
approving amusement that knows nothing of reverence. Nothing can
be imagined further from the modern feeling than the apparent inti-
macy with the gods that fills these hymns. The simplicity of the
APOLLO-KALLINIKOS.
writer is far removed from ribaldry as we see it in the blasphemies of,
for example, those French writers of the last century who turned the
Bible to ridicule ; it seems like sheer light-heartedness that inspires the
poet. Indeed it is perfectly possible to suppose that it is a serious
expression of religious feeling, if we remember the difference between
the emotions that this subject produces in us moderns and those that
ORIGIN OF THE MYTHS ; SURVIVAL OF A CRUDE AGE. 125
appeared at all times among the Greeks. With us these are full of a
reverential awe which is in good measure the result of Semitic influ-
ences, while in the Greeks we continually observe a jocund compan-
ionship with their various deities, whose escapades are narrated with
unwearying delight and amusement, with no consciousness of irrev-
erence or disrespect. Obviously it is difficult to suppose that sheer
love of scandal could have contributed to the formation of a mythol-
ogy of this sort ; it is fairer to suppose that these legends grew up in
a state of society in which the occurrences did not arouse any other
feeling than one of admiration for the craft or ability that they dis-
played ; they thus prove that they grew into shape in a barbaric time,
as the existence of a flint arrowhead proves that the metals were not
commonly used at the time of its manufacture. In the cunning of
Odysseus we see a survival of the admiration for an ingenious hero,
just as some qualities of Achilles represent an early savageness — in
neither case was there any desire to ridicule a hero — and the mythol-
ogy is full of similar relics of the past. Hence it is possibly more
than likely — if one may speak of the unknown with even such posi-
tiveness — that this hymn to Hermes is a fair representation of an
immoral period when the pranks of a deity were legitimate objects of
admiration, just as the coarser crimes which abound in the mythology
carried with them in early days no imputation on the excellence of
the gods, although later these incidents became a serious stumbling-
block. They are in fact to be regarded as traces of the anthropomor-
phism of a savage period, when successive violence and brutality were
admired qualities, and we should look at them not as fanciful inven-
tions, but as crude attempts at a scientific explanation of the universe.
What survives as romance existed as apparent fact, just as the bows
and arrows with which early men slew their enemies and secured food
are now the toys of children or idlers. Otherwise it is hard to see how
the myths came into existence, especially when we reflect upon the
difficulty of comprehending the invention of incidents discordant with
current beliefs and feelings, and the universality of the survival in
later times of old emotions and habits. The tender conservatism of
religion especially preserves these memorials of antiquity, as is shown
by the late usage of flint implements by Jews and Romans, by the
robes of priests that make traditional and solemn the customary garb
of the time when they were introduced, and the language and forms
of the ritual. Indeed, a frivolous person might say that the present
impressive attire of the Faculty of Harvard College upon days of
ceremony is the only known instance of uninherited formality.
In the hymn to Aphrodite, which was written quite late, w^e find the
story, of Aphrodite's love for Anchises, to w^hom she bore ^Eneas,
126
THE HOMERIC HYMNS.
told in a similar way, with as little modern religious feeling for the
Greek divinities as we find in Hawthorne's " Wonder-Book." On
the other hand, the hymn to Demeter is marked by a more serious
tone. The subject, the rape of Persephone, indeed, required it, and
the poet supplied it. The references to the Eleusinian mysteries lent
solemnity to the serious cast of the poem.
APHRODITE AND ANCHISES.
Two mock-heroic poems were also ascribed to Homer ; one of these,
which Aristotle believed to be the work of that poet, was the Margites,
an amusing treatment of a foolish " simple Simon," whose feats are
said to have been very much like those recounted in the folk-lore of
many nations. Unfortunately only six lines of the poem have come
down to us. The Batrachomyomachia, or the Battle of the Frogs and
Mice, enjoyed less reputation among the Greeks than among the
Romans, who were ready to be pleased with any thing that came to
them from the older literature. It is a parody of the epic composi-
tions, and while parodies often thrive when the original flourishes, this
statement is especially true of periods when any form of composi-
QUALITY OF THE POEMS — PARODIES OF THE EPICS. 127
tion is the exclusive possession of a single class, and the Greek epic
was the property of the whole people. Doubtless the poem was a
parody of the attempts made in an uncongenial time to continue or
to revive the outgrown epic. The artificial humour of the pom-
pous names of the heroes, for instance, leaves the Homeric poems
untouched. Yet the parody, unamusing as it is, has been frequently
imitated in later times, and has done service to modern literature by
justifying a certain amount of frivolity by means of an Homeric
precedent. The handful of short poems that have been ascribed
to the same writer belong to uncertain poets of an early period,
who made use of the hexameter as the only possible form of poetical
expression. The epic machinery controlled even the lyric verse.
Thus the one called, " Cuma. Refusing his ofTer to eternize their
state, though brought thither by the Muses " may easily be supposed
to be the work of some later poet who had heard the old tradition.
EXTRACTS FROM THE MINOR HOMERIC POEMS.
HI.
To what fate hath Father Jove given o'er
My friendless life, born ever to be poor !
While in my infant state he pleas'd to save me,
Milk on my reverend mother's knees he gave me,
In delicate and curious nursery ;
yEolian Smyrna, seated near the sea,
(Of glorious empire, and whose bright sides
Sacred Meletus' silveK current glides,)
Being native seat to me. Which, in the force
Of far-past time, the breakers of wild horse,
Phriconia's noble nation, girt with tow'rs ;
Whose youth in fight put on with fiery povv'rs.
From hence, the Muse-maids, Jove's illustrious Seed,
Impelling me, I made impetuous speed.
And went with them to Cuma, with intent
T' eternize all the sacred continent
And state of Cuma. They, in proud ascent
From off their bench, refus'd with usage fierce
The sacred voice which I aver is verse.
Their follies, yet, and madness borne by me.
Shall by some pow'r be thought on futurely.
To wreak of him whoever, whose tongue sought
With false impair my fall. What fate God brought
Upon my birth I'll bear with any pain.
But undeserv'd defame unfelt sustain.
Nor feels my person (dear to me though poor)
Any great lust to linger any more
In Cuma's holy highways ; but my mind
(No thought impair'd, for cares of any kind
Borne in my body) rather vows to try
The influence of any other sky.
And spirits of people bred in any land
Of ne'er so slender and obscure command.
128 THE HOMERIC HYMNS.
FROM THE BATRACHOMYOMACHIA.
Ent'ring the fields, first let my vows call on
The Muses' whole quire out of Helicon
Into my heart, for such a poem's sake,
As lately I did in my tables take,
And put into report upon my knees,
A fight so fierce as might in all degrees
Fit Mars himself and his tumultuous hand.
Glorying to dart to th' ears of every land
Of all the voice-divided ; and to show
How bravely did both Frogs and Mice bestow
In glorious fight their forces, even the deeds
Daring to imitate of Earth's Giant Seeds.
Thus then men talk'd ; this seed the strife begat :
The Mouse once dry, and 'scaped the dangerous cat,
Drench'd in the neighbour lake her tender beard.
To taste the sweetness of the wave it rear'd.
The far-famed Fen-affecter, seeing him, said :
" Ho, stranger ! What are you, and whence, that tread
This shore of ours ? Who brought you forth ? Reply
What truth may witness, lest I find you lie.
If worth fruition of my love and me,
I'll have thee home, and hospitality
Of feast and gift, good and magnificent,
Bestow on thee ; for all this confluent
Resounds my royalty ; my name, the great
In blown-up count'nances and looks of threat,
Physignathus, adored of all Frogs here
All their days' durance, and the empire bear
Of all their beings ; mine own being begot
By royal Peleus, mix'd in nuptial knot
With fair Hydromedusa, on the bounds
Near which Eridanus his race resounds.
And thee mine eye makes my conceit inclined
To reckon powerful both in form and mind,
A sceptre-bearer, and past others far
Advanc'd in all the fiery fights of war.
Come then, thy race to my renown commend."
The Mouse made answer : " Why inquires my friend }
For what so well know rnen and Deities,
Arid all the wing'd af^ecters of the skies ?
Psicharpax I am call'd ; Troxartes' seed,
Surnamed the Mighty-minded. She that freed
Mine eyes from darkness was Lichomyle,
King Pternotroctes' daughter, showing me,
Within an aged hovel, the young light.
Fed me with figs and nuts, and all the height
Of varied viands. But unfold the cause.
Why, 'gainst similitude's most equal laws
Observed in friendship, thou mak'st me thy friend }
Thy life the waters only help t' extend ;
Mine, whatsoever men are used to eat.
Takes part with them at shore ; their purest cheat.
Thrice boulted, kneaded, and subdued in paste.
In clean round kymnels, cannot be so fast
From my approaches kept but in I eat ;
Nor cheesecakes full of finest Indian wheat,
BA TRA CHOM YOMA CHI A . 129
That crusty-weeds wear, large as ladies' trains ;
Liverings, white-skinn'd as ladies ; nor the strains
Of press'd milk, renneted ; nor collops cut
Fresh from the flitch ; nor junkets, such as put
Palates divine in appetite ; nor any
Of all men's delicates, though ne'er so many
Their cooks devise them, who each dish see deckt
With all the dainties all strange soils affect.
Yet am I not so sensual to fly
Of fields embattled the most fiery crj%
But rush out straight, and with the first in fight
Mix in adventure. No man with affright
Can daunt my forces, though his body be
Of never so immense a quantity,
But making up, even to his bed, access,
His fingers' ends dare with my teeth compress.
His feet taint likewise, and so soft seize both
They shall not taste th' impression of a tooth.
Sweet sleep shall hold his own in every eye
Where my tooth take his tartest liberty.
But two there are, that always, far and near.
Extremely still control my force with fear,
The Cat, and Night-hawk, who much scathe confer
On all the outways where for food I err.
Together with the straits-still-keeping trap.
Where lurks deceitful and set-spleen'd mishap.
But most of all the Cat constrains my fear,
Being ever apt t'assault me everywhere ;
For by that hole that hope says I shall 'scape.
At that hole ever she commits my rape.
The best is yet, I eat no pot-herb grass,
Nor radishes, nor coloquintidas.
Nor still-green beets, nor parsley : which you make
Your dainties still, that live upon the lake."
The Frog replied : " Stranger, your boasts creep all
Upon their bellies ; though to our lives fall
Much more miraculous meats by lake and land,
Jove tend'ring our lives with a twofold hand.
Enabling us to leap ashore for food.
And hide us straight in our retreatful flood.
Which, if you will serve, you may prove with ease.
I'll take you on my shoulders, which fast seize,
If safe arrival at my house y' intend."
He stoop'd, and thither spritely did ascend.
Clasping his golden neck, that easy seat
Gave to his sally, who was jocund yet.
Seeing the safe harbours of the king so near,
And he a swimmer so exempt from peer.
But when he sunk into the purple wave.
He mourn 'd extremely, and did much deprave
Unprofitable penitence ; his hair
Tore by the roots up, labour'd for the air
With his feet fetch'd up to his belly close ;
His heart within him panted out repose.
For th' insolent plight in which his state did stand;
Sighed bitterly, and long'd to greet the land.
Forced by the dire need of his freezing fear.
First, on the waters he his tail did steer.
Like to a stern ; then drew it like an oar.
Still praying the gods to set him safe ashore ;
13° THE HOMERIC HYMNS.
Yet sunk he midst the red waves more and more,
And laid a throat out to his utmost height,
Yet in forced speech he made his peril shght.
And thus his glory with his grievance strove :
" Not in such choice state was the charge of love
Borne by the bull, when to the Cretan shore
He swum Europa through the wavy roar,
As this Frog ferries me, his pallid breast
Bravely advancing, and his verdant crest
(Submitted to my seat) made my support.
Through his white waters, to his royal court."
But on the sudden did appearance make
An horrid spectacle, — a Water-snake
Thrusting his freckled neck above the lake.
Which seen to both, away Physignathus
Dived to his deeps, as no way conscious
Of whom he left to perish in his lake.
But shunn'd black fate himself, and let him take
The blackest of it ; who amidst the fen
Swum with his breast up, hands held up in vain,
Cried Peepe, and perish 'd ; sunk the waters oft.
And often with his sprawlings came aloft.
Yet no way kept down death's relentless force,
But, full of water, made an heavy corse.
Before he perish'd yet, he threaten 'd thus :
" Thou lurk'st not yet from Heaven, Physignathus,
Though yet thou hid'st here, that hast cast from thee.
As from a rock, the shipwrack'd life of me,
Though thou thyself no better was than I,
O worst of things, at any faculty,
Wrastling or race. But, for thy perfidy
In this my wrack, Jove bears a wreakful eye ;
And to the host of Mice thou pains shalt pay,
Past all evasion." This his life let say,
And left him to the waters.
And first Hypsiboas Lichenor wounded.
Standing th' impression of the first in fight.
His lance did in his liver's midst alight.
Along his belly. Down he fell ; his face
His fall on that part sway'd, and all the grace
Of his soft hairfiird with disgraceful dust.
Then Troglodytes his thick javelin thrust
In Pelion's bosom, bearing him to ground,
Whom sad death seized ; his soul flew through his wound.
Seutlaeus next Embasichytros slew.
His heart through-thrusting. Then Artophagus threw
His lance at Polyphon, and struck him quite
Through his mid-belly ; down he fell upright.
And from his fair limbs took his soul her flight.
Limnocharis, beholding Polyphon
Thus done to death, did, with as round a stone
As that the mill turns, Troglodytes wound.
Near his mid-neck, ere he his onset found ;
Whose eyes sad darkness seized. Lichenor cast
A flying dart off, and his aim so placed
Upon Limnocharis, that sure he thought
The wound he wish'd him ; nor untruly wrought
The dire success ; for through his liver flew
ORIGIN OF THE HOMERIC HYMNS.
131
The fatal lance ; which when Crambophagus knew
Down the deep waves near shore he, diving-, fled,
But fled not fate so ; the stern enemy fed
Death with his life in diving ; never more
The air he drew in ; his vermilion gore
Stain'd all the waters, and along the shore
He laid extended.
IV.
While the genuineness of these minor poems was even in ancient
times frequently doubted or denied, it was yet held that they were
probably the work of the Homerides or successors of Homer. At
present any absolute statement concerning their origin would be
shunned by the prudent, except perhaps that they belong to a later
age, a statement that does not err on the side of positiveness,
because it is difficult to say just what the Homeric age was. As we
shall soon see, they have for the most part but little in common with
the poetry of Hesiod, and the same thing is true of what are called
the cyclic poets, whose work has only come
down to us in fragments ; indeed, only about
sixty lines remain of all their epics.
It is apparent that any discussion of these
epics is, to a great extent, work in the dark.
At one time it was. held that a number of
poets banded together for the purpose of, as
it were, engrossing the mythical history of
Greece in a series of epics which should cover
the whole ground without repetition, but this
view, according to which epic poetry was
catalogued before it was written, is now gener-
ally abandoned, for it has been discovered that
the authors observed no such conditions as
the arrangement implies, and men have become
aware that in no conditions that can be con-
ceived will poets agree to divide their Avork in
this mechanical way. We may assume that
even inferior epic poems are not written by the
job. These epics were, first, the Cypria, which
was at an early period ascribed to ^om&x,^T,,, so-cafe^^^vllus 0/ muo.-)
though this was subsequently denied. How
the poem got this title is not clear ; it has been suggested that its
author may have come from Cyprus or else that it sang mainly of
Aphrodite, the Cyprian goddess. Whatever the reason may have
been, the poem recounted a great many myths, and told the story
132
THE HOMERIC HYMNS.
>»>
ft >
ft en
of the Trojan war from its
remote causes up to the
tenth year of its history.
Second, the ^thiopis, by
Arctinus of Miletus, who is
supposed to have lived at
about the time of the first
Olympiad (776 B. c). It cov-
ered the ground between
the death of Hector and that
of Achilles, treating of the
advent of the Amazons and
Ethiopians in aid of Troy.
The poem ended with the
struggle for the possession
of the arms of Achilles and
the suicide of Ajax. Third,
the Little Iliad, by Lesches,
a Lesbian (about Ol. 30),
carried the recital down to
the fall of Troy. Fourth,
the Nostoi, in five books by
Agias of Trazen, described
the homeward journeys of
the heroes, except of course
Odysseus. Fifth, the Tele-
eonia dealt with the adven-
tures of Odysseus, Tele-
machus, and of Telegonus,
son of Odysseus and Circe.
The poem opened with the
burial of the suitors ; Odys-
seus offers sacrifices to the
nymphs and then sails away
to Elis, to look after his
herds, and is hospitably re-
ceived by Polyxenus, who, at
parting, gives him a large
drinking-cup on which are
represented the adventures
of Trophonius, Agamedes
and Augeas. After returning
134 THE HOMERIC HYMNS.
to Ithaca he performs the sacrifices commanded by Teiresias, and
still following that prophet's commands, goes to the Thesprotians,
and marries their queen, Callidice. As king of the Thesprotians
he wages war with the Thracians, but Ares, their national god,
protects and defeats Odysseus. Callidice dies, and, the kingdom
descending to Polypoites, her son by Odysseus, the old Greek
hero returns to Ithaca. Meanwhile Calypso has sent Telegonos
— for the authorities vary as to whether Calypso or Circe was his
mother — to seek his father. He lands in Ithaca, and as he is wandering
through the island he meets Odysseus without recognizing him, and
kills him. Telegonus then becomes aware of his error and carries the
corpse to his mother, as well as Telemachus and Penelope ; she makes
both the survivors immortal, and Telemachus takes Circe for his wife,
and Telegonos marries Penelope.
The confusion and weakness of the end of this epic, as well as some
of the earlier incidents, make it clear that the author drew his inspira-
tion from myths that had grown corrupt with time, and that we are
far removed from the simplicity of the Homeric age. All of these
later epic poets had the Iliad and the Odyssey before them as models,
and they supplemented what had been omitted by the older poet, with
undoubted zeal but with less original fire. Their work was often
admired in antiquity. The Sack of Troy, for instance, by Arctinus,
which contained the story of the Trojan horse and the fate of
Laocoon, was closely followed by Virgil in the second book of the
^/Erteid ; and other epics, such as the Thebais, furnished a vast amount
of rnaterial to the later Greek tragedians, and Ovid made liberal use of
them all in his Metamorphoses. But of all these poems the merest
scraps have come down to us, only enough to console us for this loss.
If one could fill any one of the gaps in Greek literature, it would not
be the cyclic poems that would be called for.
While, so far as we can judge, these epics were marked by the
pallor that often distinguishes a copy from the original, the Homeric
poems abound with life. Their historic value cannot be determined,
but it is hard to conceive that they should not reflect an actual civili-
zation either existing or surviving in tradition, because otherwise they
would have had no meaning to those who first listened to them. In
no case could a poet, even a creative poet, as those men are called
whose intellectual lineage is obscure, have wholly invented a degree of
civilization very different from that which he knew from legend or by
experience. For one thing, the words would not have existed unless
the things themselves either existed or had existed. Thus, even the
most original genius could never have invented castles, for instance,
as a bit of poetical scenery, unless he had seen or heard of actual
LIMITATIONS OF THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY. I35
castles. When he had done so, he might have decked them out with
extravagant details, such as fathomless moats and cloud-hidden tow-
ers, but the mention of the word proves the existence of the thing,
for the imagination is closely and inevitably tethered to facts. When
men have gone astray, as in the Indian epics, it has been only in the
direction of magnifying familiar phenomena that they have erred;
they have not definitely devised anything new. The properties of
various objects are often confused : horses fly and fish speak, but more
than that no one can do. To expect more of men is like searching
for a savage who uses logarithms or has invented the telephone.
Moreover, these digressions from the truth may be instantly detected,
but Homer has for thousands of years stood this test not only with-
out serious loss, but with ever increasing fame for vividness and accu-
racy. That Homer had ever seen, for example, doors of gold and
door-posts of silver such as he speaks of in the palace of Alcinous
may perhaps be doubted, but in describing this unknown land he only
mentioned something that he had seen or heard of, probably the
luxury of the lonians, with ready amplifications. It is safe to extend
the inference from the material to the general representation, and to
believe that only from something like the general description of so-
ciety could the poet have drawn inspiration for his account of the
heroic times of Greece. This view especially impresses itself upon
the reader when he considers how prominent are the qualities that the
poet celebrates among the historical Greeks, as well as the corrobora-
tion that archaeological investigation gives to his report.
The later epics belong to the vanishing heroic period, during which
the early civilization was transforming itself into the shape in which
it existed' when the lyric poetry began to take the place of the con-
ventional epic. With advancing culture the early simplicity disap-
peared, yet of the remote past we have other remains.
CHAPTER v.— HESIOD.
I. — All Our Positive Information about This Poet Most Vague — His Boeotian Origin ;
All that This Implies in Comparison with the Ionic Civilization — The Doric
Severity and Conservatism — The Devotion to Practical Ends. II. — The Story of
Hesiod's Life — His "Works and Days" Described. — Its Thrifty Advice Com-
bining Folk-lore and Farming. — The " Theogony," a Manual of Old Mythol-
ogy — His Other Work — Its General Aridity. — Illustrative Extracts.
I.
WHILE the Odyssey portrays a tolerably advanced civilization such
as we find repeated in the most flourishing period of the middle
ages and in some eastern countries, we find Hesiod describing a very
different state of things in a very different way. He, too, belongs to
a remote and uncertain time, and of him as well as of Homer it is
certain that what we know is much less than what we are told, and
nothing but the comparative dullness of the Hesiodic poems has saved
them from arousing as agitating a discussion as the Homeric poems
have done, and among scholars the war has been a hot one. The
absence of definite and trustworthy information has had the usual
result. No sooner has one critic fixed him securely in one century
than a more critical rival has followed and placed him a century or two
earlier or later, so that Hesiod swings loose between the very indeter-
minate period to which Homer is said to have belonged, or possibly a
century later, and the seventh century B.C. At some time in this
vague age were written the poems ascribed to Hesiod ; at least, the
one called "Works and Days" was composed then. Hesiod was an
vEolian and a native of Boeotia, a part of Greece, which was a by-word
for the dullness and stupidity of its inhabitants. The soil was fertile,
but the air was heavy with fogs, and those who anticipated modern
theories by crediting the atmosphere with a direct effect upon the
intellect found in the mists a satisfactory explanation of the sluggish
wits of the Boeotians. It is notorious that no satisfactory warrant can
be found for many of these local prejudices which make their appear-
ance in all countries and at all times, and are generally more long
lived than accurate. In the Hesiodic poems, at least, we see very
clearly marked the differences between the picturesque life of the
Ionic race with its foothold in Asia, where it doubtless met and pro-
THE LIFE DESCRIBED BY HESIOD.
137
fited by older civilizations, and the Boeotian, crowded on the mainland,
not tempted to undertake foreign travel, content with agricultural
prosperity and proud of their political and religious conservatism.
Obviously the conditions in which they lived rendered them less likely
to produce poems so full of incident and varied emotion as those that
the Ionic branch produced. The Homeric epics bear witness to
leisure and refinement ; the Hesiodic verse is rather that of a home-
keeping, hard-working people, with a great deal of shrewd sense in
worldly matters and somewhat rigid faith in religion ; for it was on
the mainland that priestcraft established itself with the greatest
formality. The Delphian oracle early acquired a prominence in political
as well as religious affairs. Moreover, the political conditions were
reflected in the religions, as is found to be always the case in our
study of history. Thus we see Christianity forming itself into an
ecclesiastical system after the model of Roman imperialism ; and later,
feudalism appearing in the church as well as in society, while the
138 HESIOD.
Reformation is the equivalent in religion of the Renaissance. It may
not be impossible to detect a contrast between the different ways in
which the lonians and Dorians regarded religious questions in the
literary remains of the two races. The Homeric poems, as we have
seen, represented the gods almost as allies of men ; the Dorians, how-
ever, appear to have imagined a complicated religious system bearing
close resemblance to their political condition. Their religion was
solemn and simple ; their myths were not preserved almost at random,
as among the lonians, they were worked together into a sort of
historic relation ; they were assumed to refer to the foundation of
some lordly house or to belong to the ritual of some deity. It was
here that what might be called a theology first appeared, and religion
became an important part of civilization.
The contrast between the life portrayed in the Homeric poems and
that which Hesiod narrated rather than sang is most vivid. Homer
describes the chiefs, the leaders of men, possessed of all heroic quali-
ties, while Hesiod busies himself with the humble occupation of hard-
worked peasants bound together in simple communities, without ideals
or indeed any other thoughts than those about subsistence and a few
meagre holidays. The difference, as it is further portrayed, in reli-
gion and politics, defines the distinct social conditions of the main-
land with its conservative, undeveloped maintenance of the old tradi-
tions of clan life, and the awakening evolution that was produced by
foreign intercourse and varied conditions. Hesiod describes the prose
side, as we may call it, of feudal life ; and the romantic side is sung by
Homer, who saw only the glory and bravery of the leaders.
In the cruder civilization the older forms of social existence were
spreading far and fastening themselves more firmly on every condition
of society. The rigidity of the system was making itself deeply felt.
Young and old were closely bound together for the discharge of po-
litical and military duties. Everywhere there was evidence of rigid
training, which was based mainly on military gymnastics and on music
of an orchestral kind. The main point, however, was the close union
of people of all ages : it was, to use modern forms of expression, col-
lectivism that prevailed among them rather than individualism, which
is always a later growth. Their religious feelings had the solemnity
of their political system ; even at the present day we see it in the
simple majesty of their temples. This seriousness showed itself again
in their language, which was marked by brevity and concision. It
was not the charm of life that fascinated them, their attention was
confined rather to social and political duties. Obviously, in a race
like this, literature flourishes less than among an active people at-
tracted in a thousand directions by the manifold charm of life. Indeed,
SOCIAL CONDITION OF THE DORIANS. 139
it may almost be affirmed that it is when the individual most keenly
feels his rights and powers, that letters are most brilliant. The /Eo-
lians, of which the Dorians were in early times a single branch, pos-
sessed many of the qualities which culminated among that race and
some of those of the lonians. The most important divisions of the
vEolians were the Boeotians, Thessalians, Elaeans and the Lesbians, and
in them all is to be noticed a curious indifference to the intellectual life
GYMNASTIC EXERCISES.
in the rest of the Greeks. Their early aristocratic regimen survived
long especially among the Boeotians and Thessalians, and only the
nobility preserved the training which was widespread among the
Dorians. The lower classes were kept in degradation. In the
poems of Hesiod, however, we find the simplicity of the Dorian reli-
gion rather than the later degeneration of the vEolians. Many poems
are indeed the earliest memorials of the hieratic poetry which had
grown up in the contemplation of religious questions. In the
Homeric poems the gods are accepted as part of the order of things
with unquestioning simplicity, but there is a difference here which was
14° HESIOD.
also expressed in the profounder political interests of the people, and
there was demanded an explanation that should satisfy a thoughtful
people. The very different social conditions brought forth answers
unlike those that we find expressed or implied in the Homeric poems,
and probably such as had grown up in a distant antiquity. It is very
clear that the Hesiodic poems contain collections from remote periods
and possibly distant lands, such as could only have been gradually
accumulated. To the ancients they were a storehouse of instructive
legends concerning nature and religion ; a worldly interest was given
them by the genealogies of lordly houses, and by the direct, Poor
Richard, practical advice concerning husbandry. All of this is remote
from the ethical simplicity and undidactic tone of the heroic epics, but
it clearly marks a time when life was beginning to be complex.
II.
Although the time at which Hesiod lived is uncertain, a few accounts
of his life have come down to us in his poems. According to these
it appears that his father came from Cyme in yEolia and settled in
BcEotia. The poet was born in Ascra, and in his youth he tended his
father's sheep on Mt. Helicon, in which congenial neighborhood he
determined to become a poet. His own version of the choice asserts
that his mind was made up by a direct demand from the Muses, who
appeared in person and gave him a staff of bay in token of his poetic
functions. At a later date was acquired this art of prophesying who
should be poets. Much nearer the general experience of mankind is
the mention of a lawsuit between himself and his brother Perses about
the paternal inheritance, in which — although it is to be remembered
that we hear only Hesiod's side — Perses gained his case by tampering
with the judges. We are also told that at a poetical contest he won
the prize, and he is said to have wandered about as a singer, after the
custom that survived the decay of the epic. Further tradition says
that he perished by violence at an advanced age.
One mythical story that existed in antiquity was this, that once
when Homer and Hesiod contended for a prize it was won by Hesiod.
The fact is now, of course, believed by no one, but it has been sup-
posed to refer to the success of Hesiodic poetry over the older form.
The Works and Days is the most important of the poems ascribed
to Hesiod. It consists of but eight hundred and twenty-eight lines,
but a great deal is compressed into this moderate compass. The first
three hundred and eighty-three lines are rather ethical than practical:
the poet recommends virtue in the abstract before directing its con-
crete application. After an address to Zeus, who can easily overthrow
PRECEPTS OF THE ''WORKS AND DAYS." Ml
the haughty and exalt the humble, the poet tells his brother that there
are two sorts of contest, one in courts of law, the other by way of
rivalry in farming and manual labor. Shun the first, and try not
again, by bribing the judges, to rob me of my own ; rather turn thy
mind to honest gain. Zeus once imposed pain and toil on men, and
because Prometheus, to make their existence easier, secretly brought
down fire from heaven to the dwellers upon the earth, he, for a pun-
ishment, sent down Pandora with the fateful box enclosing all mis-
fortune. Since then pain and misery possess the world, especially in
these present days of the fifth, the iron age, when vice, godlessness
and injustice combine to add to the general confusion. Princes are
like the hawk who seizes the nightingale and in answer to her outcries
says he is the stronger, and to withstand them is but to add disgrace
to defeat. But only that city flourishes in prosperous peace, where
justice is dispensed to stranger and citizen ; on the other hand, where
the authorities are bribed to pronounce false judgments, Cronion
sends plagues and pests and famine ; the race dies out, the women
become barren, war ravages land and country, and the ships are sunk
in the seas. Countless hosts of immortal beings, the holy messengers
of Zeus, wander over the earth, hidden in a mist, and watch the deeds
of men, observing whether they act justly or wickedly. Then the
people suffer for the misdeeds of their rulers. Animals are subject
only to the right of the stronger, but the gods have endowed man
with the sense of justice, the most precious of his possessions. The
road to evil, O Perses! is easy and near, but the immortal gods have
made uprightness almost inaccessible ; the path to virtue is steep and
hard to climb, but when you have reached the top it is easy and
smooth. Work is agreeable to the gods and carries no disgrace ; but
only honest gain procures lasting benefit. Beware of unkindness to
your father and brother, to orphans and to those who claim your pro-
tection ; pray and sacrifice to the gods with clean hands and an un-
stained heart. Keep on good terms with friends and neighbors who
may be of service to you : invite them to your table, and give them
better food than they set before you. Be on your guard against the
fascinations of your wife, for whoever confides anything to a woman,
confides in a deceiver. Provide for sufficient but not too numerous
descendants, who shall receive and augment your possessions.
These few hundred lines, with their occasional exalted turn and
their frequent utilitarianism of a kind that indicates along experience,
show how omnipresent are the rules of morality and prudence. The
first step from savageness brings with it the perception of the need of
those virtues which are almost equally rudimentary in an advanced
civilization. The earliest records of even the least civilized races
142
HESIOD.
abound with similar moral construction. Almost everywhere, too,
we come across signs of a remote past, as in Hesiod's lament over
the evil days on which he has fallen, a complaint that Homer
frequently uttered, and in the praise of a small family. Even
Hesiod's civilization bore signs of a long past.
While the poet has thus established his thesis that virtue is the best
course, and that man must work, he proceeds to make clear what sort
of work is advisable by giving those directions which were most suited
HAND MILLS.
HORSE MILLS.
to an agricultural people like the Boeotians. He describes the differ-
ent occupations of the year, after the fashion of a Farmers' Almanac,
which also, it will be remembered, inculcates the most approved
moral sentiments. First secure a house, tools, and good servants;
you want a man without a wife, a maid-servant without children.
Then make ready a mill, a mortar, and two plows made out of well-
seasoned oak and elm wood, which you will cut down in the forest in
autumn. Let a trusty man of about forty, who does not care for the
pleasures of youth, draw the furrows with two nine-year-old steers,
after he has eaten eight slices of bread for breakfast. The best time
HOMELY PROVERBS OF HESIOD.
143
for sowing is when the Pleiad has set for six weeks ; then the air is
cool and the earth is softened by the frequent rains. Following the
plow must come a boy with a hoe to spread the earth over the seed
and protect it from the birds. Do not neglect meanwhile to invoke
the subterranean gods, that the seed may swell properly. Thus
arranging everything properly, you will joyously accumulate a store
in your house and never cast envious glances at your neighbor ; he
rather in his misfortune will envy you. But if you sow at the winter
solstice, you will have but a meagre harvest to carry home in your
basket. Still all years are not alike, and he who sows late may get
even with him who sowed earliest, if he will only observe carefully
and sow when the cuckoo first calls from the sprouting oak-leaves and
Zeus sends three days of rain. The winter, too, is put to profit by
the intelligent farmer. He goes swiftly by the warm inn and the
smithy's forge, for the man who idles at the pot-house sinks into
poverty. In good season you must warn the men to build sheds
against the winter when the north-wind dashes up the waves and in
the highlands scatters oaks and pines over the frozen ground. The
cowering animals can not stand the cold ; the frost pierces their hairy
coat and even the wild beasts seek shelter. Then the young maiden
gladly lingers in the comfortable room with her mother. But do you
wrap yourself up in your long cloak and cover your feet with thick hides,
with the hair turned inside, throw a thick cape over your shoulders,
put on your head a fur cap lined with felt to keep your ears from
freezing when the cold north wind blows in the morning and the mist
spreads over the fields. When the days are short and the nights are
long, man and beast will be content with half fare, until the earth
brings forth a new supply. Sixty
days after the winter solstice,
hasten to trim the vine, before the
swallow returns. When the snail,
in fear of the Pleiads, climbs up
the young plants, sharpen your
sickle for the harvest, and arouse
your workmen from their shady
seats and from the morning sleep,
for now you must be busy and
carry the fruit home. The morn-
ing-hour is a third of the day and
shortens the way and the work.
When, the thistle is in bloom,
and the cicala sends forth its shrill
note from the leafy bower, and the heat of the dog-star weakens the
WINE JARS FROM POMPEII.
144
HESIOD.
body, then refresh yourself in the pleasant shade of the rocks with
red wine diluted with water, with goat's-milk and the flesh of cattle
and kids. As soon as Orion has appeared, order your men to thresh
and winnow your corn, and collect your supply in sound vessels. When
you have gathered the harvest, get some sturdy dogs and feed them
well, that they may protect your property from thieves. Now you
may let your men rest and unyoke your steers, until Orion and Sirius
reach the zenith. Then is the time to gather your grapes. When
this task is done, let them lie for ten days in the sun and for
five in the shade, before you press them. . When the autumn rains
have begun to fall, carry wood to the house for your plowshare and
for fuel. Such are the duties of the farm. But if you care to follow
the sea, observe the proper time.
As soon as the Pleiades have set
and the winds have risen, haul
your boat well up on the shore,
and make it fast with stones ; do
not let the rain-water lie in it to
rot its timbers ; carry all the rig-
ging into the house, and hang
the sweeps and the rudder in the
smoke. Toward the end of the
summer, about fifty days after
the nights have begun to grow
long, the air is pleasant and the
sea smooth for a voyage. Then you must make your boat ready,
drawing it down to the water, and carefully arranging its cargo ; but
be sure not to delay your return until the autumn winds and storms
overtake you. The sea is also safe in the spring when the first leaves
are sprouting on the fig. But it is always dangerous to follow the
sea, and farming is preferable : death in the waves is a terrible thing.
Did not men set the love of gain above life itself, no one would
venture on the stormy sea. Consequently do not trust all your
possessions to a boat ; keep the greater part -at home : be moderate in
all things.
After thus giving directions for both sea and shore, the author
returns to the consideration of domestic questions, and notably to the
very important one of the choice of a wife. The husband must be
not much over thirty ; the wife an honorable maiden from the neigh-
borhood, who shall be rather under twenty. A virtuous wife is an
inestimable treasure, but an extravagant one whitens her husband's
hair before its time. Be true and upright to your friend ; never be the
first to quarrel with him, and when you have fallen out with him, be
From Thasos,
From Knidos.
SUPERSTITIONS OF HESIOD'S POEMS. I45
ready to make peace. Hospitality is a duty, but it must be practised
with caution. Do not be prone to fault-finding, and reproach no one
with his poverty. Do not despise the club-feasts ; they are pleasant
and cheap. Then follows a medley of precepts for various incidents
of daily life : that one must utter a propitiatory prayer before fording
a river, that one must not pare his nails at a banquet after a sacrifice,
etc., etc., all this part being a curious collection of folk-lore such as
survives to-day in the prejudice against sitting down thirteen at table,
and against spilling salt. Of the same sort is the list of the unlucky
and lucky days of the month : thus, the eleventh is a good day for
shearing sheep ; the twelfth for reaping corn, and the seventh is another
very lucky day, while the fifth, on the other hand, is a very dark one.
Blessings and curses are thus mingled for very obscure reasons.
Sometimes we see some ground for the difference, as, for example,
the seventeenth is a fortunate date for threshing corn, because, in one
month, that was the feast day of Demeter; but often no reason at all
was given. The whole statement is interesting as a record of the
superstitions that are probably the oldest memorials of human
ingenuity, and are certainly the most widespread. Here at least we
touch a chord that the Greeks had in common with every race.
Everywhere else they were superior ; here the simplest note is
touched, and one has an almost malicious pleasure in finding that
race regarding these old saws and snatches of proverbial wisdom as
little less than inspired truths. This poem became a text-book for
schools among the later Greeks, and was held in high honor for many
generations as an instructor in practical life, and its influence has been
felt in modern times as the progenitor of didactic poetry, a form of
composition that has done much to give literature a bad name as an
artificial thing. Yet, it is only the third-hand didactic poems that are
artificial ; the original was a natural expression of current learning
and wisdom ; its form, the hexameter verse, was the sole instrument
at the author's command.
Its real modern equivalent is to be found in some of Franklin's
Poor Richard writings and in the Old Farmer's Almanacs. Indeed
the resemblance is very striking, because both the old Greek poem
and the more recent books of rustic lore are made up of proverbs.
The extracts below from the Works and Days will make this clear.
Even the modern works of which mention has been made fail to wear
a deeper air of hoary tradition than do the musty, humdrum bits of
wisdom with which Hesiod decks his aged poems. They were sung by
rhapsodists in remote antiquity, and held an exalted position as rivals
of the Homeric lays. They were, in fact, the prose of those early
days. Their main importance we may take to have been, not so much
146 HESIOD.
the utilitarian value of the advice, as the ethical dignity which under-
lies these simple adages. And to us, while the aesthetic delight to be
got from their perusal is small, they are of interest as the earliest utter-
ances of men whose future development can be closely followed in
political and literary history. They are, too, the earliest examples of
the popular poetry of antiquity, as distinguished from the romantic.
Yet this division of popular and romantic, it must be remembered,
is one that is employed only for our convenience ; the poets sung in
the way most suited to their message and their habits, with no conscious
perception of the school to which they have been assigned by later
critics. In Homer we have pictures of an active, warlike society, in
Hesiod the arid representations of a peaceful, hard-working people, in
whose hands poetry acquired all the simplicity of prose, as well as its
more essential qualities. Yet if Hesiod fails to charm the reader who
seeks solely aesthetic delights, he yet makes good this apparent defi-
ciency by the aid he gives to the student of history and sociology from
his records of an early time and people who knew no other adventures
than those of bad weather, droughts and floods, and whose most bitter
enemy was their unlimited superstition.
Another famous poem that is ascribed to Hesiod, and possibly by
its superior importance helped to keep up the authority of the Works
and Days, is the Theogony. It is of moderate length, only 1,022 lines,
but it was as much a sacred book among the Greeks as any that
belongs to their bequest to posterity. Like some of the sacred books
of other nations, it is rather a history of the beginning of the world
and of the gods than an appeal in behalf of the religious sentiment;
and that the history is incomplete and fragmentary only adds to its
likeness to the general class. The poem itself contains not only the
earliest statement that has come down to us, but also the earliest state-
ment known to the Greeks themselves. Just as the Works and Days
condensed into fitting expression the practical experience that had been
slowly amassed by many generations of tillers of the soil, and gave
utterance to the wisdom that long attrition had worn down to proverbs
and adages, so did the Theogony contain current myths of uncertain
antiquity and the religious lore of centuries.
Even in the Odyssey we find religious traditions sung by the bards,
and it was probably from old hymns and shorter legends that the
Theogony was able to draw the tolerably complete collection of stories
that gave it its fame. Hesiod begins with a cosmogony. The begin-
ning of things was chaos, the origin of which is, naturally enough, left
obscure ; then appear the earth, Tartarus, or the nether-world, and
Eros, the principle or god of love. Here at once we have confusion,
in this introduction of the god among these inanimate creations,
HESIOD'S " THEOGONY." 147
and in the fact that no further use is made of him. In the old tradi-
tion Eros is the principle that formed the world, but here he is thrust
into the story and then left inactive, doubtless because Hesiod con-
fused some of the stories that he had heard, which, however, are
repeated by other authorities. Then follows the separation of night
and day; the earth produces the heavens and the seas, earth, seas and
heavens being the three immediate objects that face every human being.
The account of the generation of the gods is much fuller, and we are
told that the heavens and earth produced the Titans, the oldest race
of divine beings, from whom ace descended the younger race of the
sons of Kronos, who attain power only by severe struggles. The
genealogy of the abundant deities, which concludes with a list of the
goddesses who selected human beings for their mates, shows a curious
survival of a very old and barbarous theology, made up of a medley
of lust and cruelty, that gradually lost authority with the Greeks as
their civilization ripened. Possibly it is fair to explain some of the
exclusive devotion of the Greeks to artistic and intellectual matters by
the crudity of their obsolescent religious system, which left them free
to follow the natural tendency of men towards their own individual
development, and finally left them shattered. On the other hand, the
grand religious conceptions of the Hebrew race were found in connec-
tion with an almost entire absence of the qualities that adorned the
Greeks, and has made them a firm unit in the face of every trial. We
see again in the artistic and religious revival that accompanied the
Renaissance how the corruption and meagreness of the religious senti-
ment of the middle ages fell away from the men who were intoxicated
by the discovery of antique culture, and left them free to follow their
literary and artistic tastes, until the Reformation and the Catholic re-
vival nipped the new civilization and greatly modified the direction of
its growth.
Yet these myths held a singular authority among the Greeks, as the
earliest and in most respects the final statement of the groundwork of
their religion. The later versions of the old stories stand very much
under the influence of the Hesiodic theogony ; what differed from it
failed to secure general acceptance and survived only in remote places.
Hesiod, by collecting the abundant material and putting it into an im-
pressive shape, secured for himself a position that corresponded with
that which Homer won by the Iliad and Odyssey. The two names
stand together in the obscure beginning of Greek literature, baffling
the scholars who try to make too positive statements about their work.
Of their great influence, however, proofs abound. Naturally many
writings by different hands drifted to Hesiod, as many miscellaneous
poems had gathered about Homer's name. Thus there is one called
148 HESIOD.
the Shield of Heracles, which bears a strong likeness to the Homeric
description of the Shield of Achilles in the eighteenth book of the
Iliad. It lacks, however, the merit of the original, and is made up of
awkward imitations. Other poems that were ascribed to Hesiod have
been lost. Some of these were probably the work of his followers,
the same men who inserted lines of their own into such part of his
work as came down to us. The later importance of Hesiod is not to
be determined by the poetic quality of his work, but rather by the
abundance of legends which he had collected from the past, and from
his statement of the early traditions that went to the formation of his
explanation of the universe and the story of the gods. Historians,
poets, philosophers, were compelled to go back to him for material
wherewith to work, and for their wants he was without a rival.
HESIOD.
Suffer thy foe thy table ; call thy friend
In chief one near, for if occasion send
Thy household use of neighbours, they undrest
Will haste to thee, where thy allies will rest
Till they be ready. An ill neighbour is
A curse ; a good one is as great a bliss.
He hath a treasure, by his fortune sign'd.
That hath a neighbour of an honest mind.
No loss of ox or horse a man shall bear
Unless a wicked neighbour dwell too near.
Just measure take of neighbours, just repay.
The same receiv'd, and more, if more thou may,
That, after needing, thou may'st after find
Thy wants' supplier of as free a mind.
Take no ill gain ; ill gain brings loss as ill,
Aid quit with aid ; good will pay with good will.
Give him that hath given ; him that hath not, give not ;
Givers men give ; gifts to no givers thrive not ;
Giving is good, rapine is deadly ill ;
Who freely gives, though much, rejoiceth still ;
Who ravins is so wretched, that, though small
His first gift be, he grieves as if 'twere all.
Little to little added, if oft done.
In small time makes a great possession.
Who adds to what is got, needs never fear
That swarth-cheek'd hunger will devour his cheer ; '
Nor will it hurt a man though something more
Than serves mere need he lays at home in store ;
And best at home, it may go less abroad.
If cause call forth, at home provide thy rode.
Enough for all needs, for free spirits die
To want, being absent from their own supply.
Which note, I charge thee. At thy purse's height.
And when it fights low, give thy use his freight ;
When in the midst thou art, then check the blood ;
Frugality at bottom is not good.
Even with thy brother think a witness by,
When thou would'st laugh, or converse liberally ;
Despair hurts none beyond credulity.
149
FROM "WORKS AND DAYS."
Two plows compose, to find the work at home,
One with a share that of itself cloth come
From forth the plow's whole piece, and one set on ;
Since so 'tis better much, for, either gone.
With th' other thou mayest instantly impose
Work on thy oxen. On the laurel grows.
And on the elm, your best plow-handles ever ;
Of oak your draught-tree ; from the maple never
Go for your culter ; for your oxen chuse
Two males of nine years old, for then their use
Is most available, since their strengths are then
Not of the weakest, and the youthful mean
Sticks in their nerves still ; nor will these contend,
With skittish tricks, when they the stitch should end,
To break their plow, and leave their work undone.
These let a youth of forty wait upon.
Whose bread at meals in four good shivers cut.
Eight bits in every shive ; for that man, put
To his fit task, will see it done past talk
With any fellow, nor will ever balk
In any stitch he makes, but give his mind
With care to his labour. And this man no hind
(Though much his younger) shall his better be
At sowing seed, and, shunning skilfully.
Need to go over his whole work again.
Your younger man feeds still a flying vein
From his set task, to hold his equals chat.
And trifles work he should be serious at.
Take notice, then, when thou the crane shalt hear
Aloft out of the clouds her clanges rear,
That then she gives thee signal when to sow,
And Winter's wrathful season doth foreshow.
And then the man that can no oxen get.
Or wants the season's work, his heart doth eat.
Then feed thy oxen in the house with hay ;
Which he that wants with ease enough will say,
" Let me, alike, thy wain and oxen use."
Which 'tis as easy for thee to refuse.
And say thy oxwork then importunes much.
He that is rich in brain will answer such :
" Work up thyself a wagon of thine own ;
For to the foolish borrower is not known
That each wain asks a hundred joints of wood ;
These things ask forecast, and thou shouldst make good
At home before thy need so instant stood."
BOOK II.-THE LYRIC POETRY.
INTRODUCTORY.
The Hexameter as an Expression Adapted to a Feudal Period, when Comparative
Uniformity Prevailed — Changing Circumstances, with Added Complexity of Life,
Saw New Forms of Utterance Introduced into Literature — These, However, had
Already Enjoyed a Long, if Unrecognized, Life among the People : Such were
Liturgical, as well as Popular, in Their Nature, and Run Back to Primeval
Savageness.
WHAT we know of the poetry of Hesiod makes it clear that the hex-
ameter had become the approved form of Hterary expression, even
for verse which differed greatly from the broad flow of the early. epic.
Yet the change in the subject and manner of treatment foreboded a
corresponding change in the manner of utterance, for a race so many-
sided as the Greek could not fail to seek for novelty. Homer and
Hesiod, although probably not contemporary, show us two sides of the
shield, the noble and the democratic ; the later political modifications
are represented in the abundant lyric poetry. Indeed, it may not be
fanciful to see in the rule of the hexameter a reflection of the general
uniformity of the heroic age, just as the monotony of the mediaeval
epics represents the formal society of feudalism, or the sway of the
heroic verse throughout Europe in the last century expresses a notable
harmony in the general direction of thought. Around the heroic age,
as about every period in which an aristocracy is dominant, there gath-
ered a certain amount of conventionality ; and in such conditions
whatever form seems best is universally adopted, because it is part of
a system that carries the authority of the whole into every part. Thus,
the heroic verse in England was used for philosophical poetry, for
humorous verse, for amorous epistles, for religious discussions ; literary
etiquette enforced this one form, as social etiquette enforced the wig,
and among the first signs of literary revolt was the attempt to make
use of other verse. And while every complicated form is of course
made up of numberless crude fragments, we observe that every early
society, all new civilization, is forced to control itself by continual
reference to rigid rules, and that only long practice secures simplicity,
ORIGIN OF GREEK LYRIC POETRY. 151
just as an adult forgets the countless rules that are forever dinned into
children.
In Greece, with the political changes that began in the eighth cen-
tury before Christ, we find, as we have said above, similar changes in
the poetry. Already Hesiod, who yet makes use of the old form,
speaks of himself, recounts his fortunate meeting with the muses, and
speaks of his father and brother as well, while Homer's personality is
as absent from his poems as is Shakspere's from his plays. Yet obvi-
ously it is in the appearance of lyric poetry that the new feeling of
individuality finds its completest expression. The very essence of a
lyric is the personal cry, and when it began to be heard in Greek litera-
ture the epic was sinking into the same state of artificiality that it has
reached in the hands of some modern poets. To seek for the first
lyric song is like seeking for the first sigh. It is obvious that mothers
must have sung lullabies to their children, and that men and women
must have lightened their work by song. One might as well imagine
that the first words of infancy are a discussion of the binomial theorem
as that the first poetic utterance of the Greeks was the smooth hexa-
meter of the Homeric poems. Yet in them we find that none of the
singers have any other subject than the myths belonging to the Tro-
jan circle. Even the Sirens with their melodious voice told Odysseus
that they knew everything that the Argives and Trojans endured in
vast Troy by the will of the gods ; but, after all, this may be only a
proof of another fascinating quality, their tact in choosing the subject
which Odysseus would have been most anxious to hear celebrated, and
possibly they varied their subject for different listeners ; otherwise they
would surely have belied their reputation. Great and widespread as
was the popularity of the hexameter, we must necessarily suppose that
some other compacter style of verse was employed for stilling refrac-
tory children. It is impossible to show that the Greek lyric poetry
grew up from the folk-songs, but it is well to notice that the most
usual subjects of the popular poetry were the lament and the love-song,
as they were of the lyric verse. We do not know the measures to
which the folk-songs were composed. The Linos song, mentioned
above, seems to have been sung at the gathering of the grapes, and to
have been a mournful lay for the death of the summer, which was
personified as a beautiful youth. This form of nature-worship assumed
various appearances in different regions ; it is closely allied with the
lament for Adonis, that for Hyacinthus, and with the Phrygian festival
in memory of Attis, all of which are of Asiatic origin. Homer also
makqs mention of the marriage-song or epithalamion, which appears
to have been sung by two choruses of men and women.
The qualities of these early forms of choral poetry carry us back to
152
THE LYRIC POETRY.
a remote past when bands of kinsmen, who owned all their property
in common, took part together in all the ceremonies of life and reli-
gion, after a fashion that still exists among North American Indians
and other savage races. Many of these old conditions maintained
themselves among the Greeks, and especially among the conservative
Dorians, until a late date, such as the bands of warriors. Their survival
in literature is apparent in their choral poetry, that depended on the
union of song, dance, and music for its full expression ; and it was in
this combination that its main success lay. Throughout, it was the
state, as distinguished from the individual, that was the object of their
enthusiasm ; their festivals were occasions of general rejoicing, combin-
DANCING SATYR AND MAENAD OR PRIESTESS OF DIONYSUS.
ing religious and political significance, in which groups divided by sex,
age, and social condition took part. This tendency, inherited from
conditions familiar to all early civilizations, became part of their liter-
ary triumphs, as in the complicated poems of Stesichorus and his
rivals, while it also showed itself in the rigid and complicated system
of Pythagoras. This, however, leads us far from our present subject,
which is concerned with the remotest antiquity. We must not let the
literary reverence that we feel for the marvellous work of the Greeks
blind us to its probable origin in the survival of old savage rites and
ORIGIN OF THE LYRIC POETRY. '53
festivals. Our notions of literary work, which we inherit from centuries
of artificial composition, naturally tend to persuade us that in the
past, as later, poems took their rise anywhere except from such crude
beginnings, and that the form is as remote as the thought from any of
the qualities of barbarism. There is a desperate feeling that at least
the Greeks created something out of nothing, even if the art is now
lost. Yet the close connection between all the conventionalities, reli-
gious and festive, of wild races, makes it clear that in the union of
song, dance, and music of the perfected Greek choral song, we have
the survival of old solemnities that belonged to all savage races ; that
the famous Pyrrhic dance finds its nearest likeness in a Red Indian
war-dance ; and that the common belief in the exclusiveness of the
classics is not legitimately established, and cannot wholly maintain
itself in the presence of the rapidly accumulating mass of evidence
about uncivilized peoples. The theory of the miraculous powers of
genius is simply a superfluous hypothesis when confronted by such
testimony, which, however, yet fails to explain why the Greeks made
so much out of so little.
Besides these forms, which were almost of a liturgical character, there
were those sung by men and women at various occupations, such as
work in the fields, while tending their herds, pressing wine, grinding
corn, etc., as well as lamentations at funerals, songs at the birth of
infants, lullabies, lays of beggars — the list is endless. One of these last
was the swallow-song, sung by boys in spring as they wandered begging
from house to house, a custom that, we are told, owed its origin to one
Cleobules, when there happened to be need of a general collection for
the benefit of paupers. Another class consisted of scolia, or drinking-
songs, which were sung at feasts. These, however, cannot be said to
have belonged to really popular poetry, fof the privilege of sitting
after meals and listening to songs was one that obviously belonged to
only a few men of leisure. It is easy, however, to suppose that some
of the best of these verses may have found their way to the common
people.
CHAPTER I.— THE EARLIER LYRIC POETS.
I. — The Influence of Religion on the Early Growth of the Lyric Poetry — The Tradi-
tional Origins : Orpheus and Musasus — The Importance of Music — Its Condition
in Early Times — Its Use as an Aid to Poetry — The Traditional Olympus, the
Father of Music. II. — Callinus and the Elegy — Its Use by Archilochus, and
the Growth of Individuality — The Value of the New Forms as Expressions of the
Political Changes Then Appearing. III. — Simonides and His Denunciation of
Women — His Melancholy — The Meagreness of the Lyrical Fragments Impedes
Our Knowledge — The Extent of Our Loss Conjectured.
I.
WHILE the existence of song among the people is thus shown, it
will have been noticed that many of their verses had a religious
significance, and it is probably from the religious songs that this lyric
poetry derived its origin. We may conjecture that at an early period
there was no chasm between profane and religious poetry and that
every observation of nature was the observation of a mysterious divine
force. Throughout civilization we notice the gradual limitation of
religion to spiritual things, and in early Greece with the attainment of
luxury there came the representation of human life after the methods
that had previously been employed for religious purposes. It is easy
to see that the expression of thanksgiving to a god for a victory might
extend to celebrating the bravery of successful warriors, and when
Napoleon said that God was on the side of the heaviest battalions he
uttered what mankind had long known to be true, had known indeed
ever since war had begun. The oldest priestly poet was said to have
been Orpheus, who carries us back to a remote connection between the
Thracians and the Greeks. The Orphic Mysteries were a secret wor-
ship of Dionysus, the god of wine, and they appear to have spread
from Pieria, which lay between Thessaly and Macedonia, to the river
Hebrus in Thrace, and later to have existed in Boeotia and the island
Lesbos. The Thracians were in immemorial time devoted to music
and song, so that Orpheus, the founder of the mysteries, is famous as
a singer. Probably the celebration of the mysteries was accompanied
by vocal and instrumental music. To Epimenides, who lived in the
latter half of the seventh century before Christ, were ascribed various
poems of religious import. Musaeus, on the other hand, and Eumol-
THE RELIGIOUS POEMS— ORIGINS.
155
pus, as was said above, were mythical poets who belong in the chaotic
past and are said to have carried the mysteries into Attica. To both
were ascribed religious poems, and Musaeus bears the same mythical
relation to the Eleusinian Mysteries that Orpheus bears to the Orphic.
In the time of Aristophanes and of Plato these poems were regarded
as genuine memorials of very remote antiquity, but later they lost this
fame. Olen again had the reputation of being the earliest writer of
hymns, which belonged from unknown times to the worship of the
Delian Apollo. But one might as well try to draw a map of the An-
THE DIONYSUS CHILD,
tarctic continent as to make a history of this remote antiquity, where
the most careful erudition of modern scholars can only grope in a
blinding fog. It is a hopeless task to write history without facts. All
that we can know is that religious poetry was in the hands of priests at
a very early period. It is also known that this poetry was accom-
panied by music. At the religious festivals there were dances, songs
and music, games and contests of athletic skill, all being habits which
we shall find surviving in historic times. That this blending of sacred
and profane rites might easily lead to the extension of song and music
156
7'HE EARLIER LYRIC POETS.
is evident. We see a similar occurrence in the growth of the modern
drama from the mediaeval religious mysteries.
It is hard for us to comprehend the importance of music among the
Greeks ; their eager and curious minds found no ancient languages or
history or scientific work awaiting them, and the education of youth
consisted almost entirely of physical training and of mental and moral
instruction under the influence of music. Music was expected to be
a valuable means of forming the character, and not a luxury, as all
artistic appreciation is with us moderns. The passions of the young
were not to be awakened, but controlled, purified, and brought into
complete harmony by this art. All the religious festivals, various as
GODS AND PRIESTS OF THE ELEUSINIAN MYSTERIES.
(From a Relief-Vase froin Cumte at Petersburg.)
they were, were alike in the prominence given to music, which
was either refining or inspiring or exciting. Such at least was the
division made by philosophers. Just what was meant by these words
is obscure ; all we know is that great store was set by the music, but
exactly what the music was is lost in obscurity. With the vocal and
instrumental music the dance was closely connected, as we shall see in
the discussion of the Greek drama. While all this remote history was
obscure even to those Greeks whose works have come down to us,
many of the statements which satisfied them have proved too vague
and evidently inaccurate to suit modern scholars. Yet it is known
GREEK MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS.
157
that the favorite instruments used were the flute, and, for strings, the
lyre, of which last various modifi-
cations are mentioned. The
syrinx, or shepherd's pipe, was the
common property of the whole
Indo-European race. String in-
struments were also familiar in
the same remote antiquity as the
flute, but it was from Phrygia
that there came renewed impulse
to playing the flute, and it grew
at about the time of the first
Olympiad to share much of the
prominence
DOUBLE FLUTES AND SHEPHERD'S PIPES.
^
*4.^
J
of stringed instruments. The singer accom-
panied himself on the guitar, or some instru-
ment of that kind ; only later arose the custom
of playing upon it without song. For obvious
reasons, the flute was always played by another
person than the singer, and those who performed
on it, except in Boeotia, were foreigners ; for the
Greeks were unwilling to play upon the instru-
ment, because the practice compelled some dis-
tortion of the features, and so offended this
people with their keen love of beauty. Often
both the flute and stringed instruments were
employed.
The main use of music was to serve as an aid
FLUTES. ^Q poetry ; thus it was used first in religious
ceremonies, and at an early date it was employed
in connection with profane
verse. The flute accom-
panied the formulas of
prayer, and in time it ac-
companied festive songs ;
later the flute and stringed
instruments were used to-
gether. Music, song, and
dance were combined to
accompany poetry, to
which, however, they flutes.
were always subordinate.
The father of music, as Homer was the father of poetry, was Olym-
.15^ THE EARLIER LYRIC POETS.
pus, a Phrygian, who is said to have lived towards the end of the eighth
century before Christ. This was the season when the Phrygian civili-
zation flowered, and from that country Greece received the most im-
portant elements of its musical culture. We read that Midas, the
Phrygian king, received the reciters of the Homeric poems at his
court, and the Greeks derived what they could get from their neigh-
bors. It was as a composer for the flute that Olympus was famous.
It was under the influence of the Phrygian music that the use of the
flute became prominent in religious ceremonies. Thence it swiftly
spread to profane poetry. The flute was used to accompany the elegy ;
the iambic poetry was sung in connection with stringed instruments;
while the songs employed either or both.
II.
These divisions of the poetry that made their appearance when the
impersonal epic was fading away were not hard and fast divisions, but
were the various forms used almost equally by different writers. The
elegy is simply a poem written in alternate hexameters and pentam-
eters, each pair of which was called a distich. The origin of this form
was long sought for by the Greeks, and they commonly named Cal-
linus, an Ephesian poet who is said to have lived about 720 B.C., as
its inventor. It may at least be agreed that he was the first to use this
measure of whom any mention has come down to us. As we should
naturally expect, in what few fragments of his work have been spared
by time, and in what we are told about him, there are traces of the
surviving influences of the expiring epic to match this variation of the
familiar measure. Thus, in one of his elegies he appears to have
treated a part of the Trojan story, and in the longest bit of his work
that has reached us, a fragment of but twenty-one lines, we are
reminded quite as much of the epic poetry as of the later similar
elegies. Yet it is dangerous to build too much on so uncertain a
foundation, for that Callinus wrote the elegy is open to grave doubt ;
and even if the fragment of the poem attributed to him is genuine, we
lack the earlier steps that led up to the comparatively complete form
in which we find even the earliest elegies.
Almost simultaneous with the date assigned to Callinus is the appear-
ance of Archilochus, who made use of the form already employed and
carried it to a fuller development. While Callinus may have rested on
the earlier epic, Archilochus at least speaks out freely in his own per-
son ; attacking his enemies and by no means sparing his own faults.
We know that he was born in the island of Paros, and was the son of
BEGINNINGS OF LYRIC POETRY— ARCHILOCHUS,
159
Telesiphos, a man of position who was deputed by the Parians to found
a colony in Thasos. Yet Archilochus was driven by poverty to lead-
ing a life of adventure, as a mercenary soldier and as a colonist at
Thasos, without much profit. In Paros he was betrothed to Neobule,
a daughter of Lycambes, who later revoked his assent to the match,
and thus aroused the indignation of the rejected lover, who expressed
his wrath in the most violent manner. His revengeful satires, written
in the iambic metre, are said to have driven both Lycambes and his
daughter to hang themselves. This statement, whether true or not,
at least proves the bitterness of his
attack, which the few fragments
that survive painfully attest. Yet
in antiquity his literary skill was
warmly admired, and he was
frequently placed by the side of
Homer as an early and wonderful
poet, although, on the other hand,
some condemned his asperity.
What the Greeks felt was gratitude
to the man who first spoke out what
was in his soul, thus indicating
the way in which their literature
was to attain its highest triumph.
The change from the vagueness of
the obsolescent epic to the expres-
sion of personal feeling was like
that which men felt at the end of
the last century when the romantic
poets turned their backs on philo-
sophic and didactic verse and gave
utterance to their own emotions,
their hopes and fears. In the few
bits that eluded the timidity of the
monks who were repelled by the
coarseness of Archilochus, we see what was destined to be the great
charm of the lyric poetry of Greece — its absolute directness. The
light came directly from the poet's heart ; in modern times it is
too often refracted by passing through foreign culture. Burns in
Scotland and Giinther in Germany almost alone among modern
poets speak with the classic directness. And as they both were
the perfected representations of forgotten predecessors, it is impossible
for us to believe that Archilochus had not the work of earlier men
behind him, by whom the measures that he used were brought to
ARCHILOCHUS,
i^'O THE EARLIER LYRIC POETS.
something like his vigor. His undoubted coarseness is more like a
survival of original savagery than an invention of his own, if, indeed, a
man ever invents any thing. Certainly this hypothesis is more tenable
than the contrary one, that he devised the various measures which he
handled with such uniform skill. His satires, hymns, none of which
have reached us, elegiacs, etc., show his versatility, and in some of the
fragments we find abundant evidence of the intensity and the appro-
priate expression of his feelings. In the variety and acerbity of his
poems we see reflected the confusion of his times, when a restless spirit
was impelling the Greeks to found new colonies and there was a gen-
eral severing of older ties.
The following translation, with a few extracts given below, will show
what we know of his qualities :
Oh ! heart, my heart, see thou yield not, but bear
Thyself unflinchingly before the foe,
With breast held firm to meet the hostile spear.
Then, if thou conquer, joy not overloud ;
Nor, if thou'rt vanquished, shalt thou seek thy home.
Express thy joy but with a modest voice ;
And sink, o'erwhelmed with grief, upon the ground ;
Nor be unseemly with thy woe o'ercome,
But measure in thy joy and grief be found.
It may, indeed, be asserted that every time of political change is
accompanied by an overhauling of the current literary methods, not
necessarily as a result, but as a simultaneous product of men's altering
opinions and feelings. The equable, placid artistic beauty of the
Homeric poems is as unmistakably an indication of a period of polit-
ical repose as is a wheat-field of the existence of agriculture ; and the
nature of the early civilization of the heroic times may be gathered
from the glory that is cast upon the brave leaders and the insignificance
of common men. We see an aristocracy rejoicing in its best qualities,
and yet undisturbed by popular revolution, quite as distinctly as we
see in Pope's poems the social importance of men of education and
refinement, or the general content that characterized the middle ages
in the epics of that period. At the first dawn of Greek civilization, as
we see it reflected in Homer, the king ruled by divine right, without
question ; this submission, however, gave way to indifference, which
was in time followed by antipathy, and at the period when the posses-
sion of power was sought by an oligarchy or contested by despots we
find the literature expressing, not merely excited political or martial
feeling, but also the new importance of the individual, as we see it
again finding utterance at the beginning of the Renaissance after the
long reign of the middle ages, during which men had drawn types
POLITICAL CONDITIONS REFLECTED IN THE POEMS. i6i
rather than characters in their poetry, as they had done in their painting ;
for portraiture, it will be remembered, only began with the Renaissance.
A similar change occurred with the outbfreak of the Romantic revival
towards the end of the last century, when the representation of man
in the abstract gave way to the more vivid delineation of intenser per-
sonal feeling. And, since politics and letters are but part of human
interest, we may see elsewhere indications of similar change in the
new advance of colonization and the making over of mercantile condi-
tions at both of these important eras, as we see it in the geographical
reconstruction of Greece at the expiration of the heroic age. While
these lie outside of our attention, the changes in the music and mea-
sures that accompanied this development of Grecian life find their
diminished counterpart in modern times. The growth of the elegiac
metre, the use of anapaetic and iambic metres, as well as the musical
variations, all of which came into prominence at this time, were the
natural expression of the general change, and are such as invariably
accompany a period of revolution.
III.
Simonides, the son of Crines, of Samos, who carried a colony to the
island of Amorgos, belongs to this list of early lyric poets. He wrote
two books of elegies treating of Samian archaeology, which have not
come down to us. What we have of his work consists of some
fragments of his iambics in the Ionic dialect, all but two being
mere scraps. One of these, consisting of one hundred and eighteen
lines, treats of the usual subject of the satirist, the faults of women,
after a fashion that recalls Hesiod, very much as Archilochus recalls
Homer.
When the world was created, woman was lacking, but soon she ap-
peared and was endowed with various qualities of animals and inani-
mate things : one has those of the fox ; another of the dog, and never
holds her peace; a third of clay; the next of the sea, and is conse-
quently changeable. One, however, is sprung from the bee, and from
this industrious ancestry inherits a few attractive domestic qualities.
This artificial genealogy bears all the marks of antiquity, and already
Hesiod in the Theogony had compared the idle and pleasure-seeking
women to the drones of the hive. This semi-facetious denunciation of
the female sex was then already classic, and it acquired added charm,
not merely from the new form in which it was expressed, but from its
keener application to the modified society of these later days. In the
heroic age the position of women had been a tolerably exalted one ;
SATIRES UPON WOMEN— MISERY OF THE WORLD. 163
but now they had lost that, and had become subordinate to the men,
and had thereby become exposed to abuse, for no one ever lived who
praised his slaves. They now began to be regarded in some quarters
as the original cause of all misfortune, as necessary evils, and conse-
quently as legitimate objects of satire and malevolence. This opinion
was not universal, however; for although among the lonians the cus-
tom grew, spreading among them, perhaps, from their oriental neigh-
bors, of shutting up the women in their separate quarters, and the
Dorians kept them under somewhat strict control, the ^olians, on the
other hand, allowed them greater freedom, and, as we shall see, some
of the richest gems of lyric verse were composed by women of that
race, as well as of the Doric, while there are no women poets among
the lonians.
The other fragment of Simonides is a melancholy expression of the
misery of the world, another subject almost as trite as the manifold
faults of women. This wail is. uttered in a didactic poem addressed to
his son, in which the worn father tries to convey some of the lessons
of life, and to show the emptiness of all things, that all effort is vain,
and the world is wholly bad. In short, Simonides is far from being
an optimist. What we notice in him is rather the instructive, didactic
tone of his writings, which is very different from the personal feeling
and noteworthy vigor of Archilochus. A few other scattered frag-
ments also convey the same impression. And it must be remembered
in the consideration of all these lyric poets that we have to judge of
nearly all from the smallest amount of testimony, for what is left is
but the meagrest proportion of what existed. For centuries every
feast in every city of Greece and its many colonies was celebrated in
song; and this abundant production was but part; for what we may
call the unoflficial poetry, that which was expressive of the writer's
own feelings and emotions, was quite as great in quantity. Much of
it was naturally of only temporary interest and soon fell out of sight,
especially when the later forms of composition, and especially the
drama, became its successful rival. The lyric poetry may be said to
have enjoyed unbroken popularity until about the beginning of the
Peloponnesian War, and then to have lost ground. Much had been
lost when the Alexandrian critics began to collect and edit the work of
the earlier time, yet the amount that existed was enormous. Seneca
tells us that Cicero said that, if he were to live two lives, he should be
unable to read all the Greek lyric poets. While the Romans read the
lyrics, they preferred the Alexandrian elegies, which have shared the
same fate, and what was once an enormous collection is now scarcely
more than a mass of ruins, and for chance lines we are often indebted
to the wish of some grammarian to show us some rare or noteworthy
164 THE EARLIER LYRIC POETS.
use of some phrase or word. Those who have survived most com-
pletely owe their escape from annihilation to the employment of their
writings as text-books for children or to some lucky chance. Hosts of
names are gone beyond all chance of recovery; only of Theognis and
Pindar have we anything like a full text.
J' s
WOMEN CRUSHING CORN,
CHAPTER II.— THE LYRIC POETS {Continued).
I. — Tyrtasus, and His Patriotic Songs in Behalf of Sparta — In Contrast, the Amorous
Wail of Mimnermus —Solon in Athens, as a Law-giver, and as a Writer of Elegies
Mainly of Political Import. II. — The Melic Poetry, and its Connection with
Music and Dance — The Growth of Music ; the Different Divisions — Alcman,
Alcasus, Sappho, Erinna, Stesichorus, Ibycus — Anacreon, and His Vast Popular-'
ity. III. — The Elegiac Poetry — Phocylides and His Inculcation of Reasrnable-
ness — Xenophanes and His Philosophical Exposition — Theognis and His Polit-
ical Teachings — Simonides, His Longer Poems and His Epigrams — Bacchylides,
Lasus, Myrtis, and the Predecessors of Pindar — Translations of Some Lyrical
Poems.
I.
THE variety of the subjects treated was very great. Ardent patriot-
ism finds utterance in the work of Tyrtaeus, son of Archembrotus,
who flourished in Sparta about 680 B.C. He was by birth an Athenian,
and was invited to Sparta, so the story runs, in accordance with the
command of the Delphian oracle at the time of the second Messenian
war, for in Sparta the arts of refinement were so little cultivated that
the country was obliged to import its poets, just as England and Amer-
ica get their musicians from Germany. Tyrtaeus at once received
the right of citizenship, and devoted his talents to the service of his
adopted home. Before his arrival, the war had been more than uncer-
tain ; the Spartans had suffered many defeats, but Tyrtaeus took
charge of their forces and led them to victory. This was not his only
service ; besides winning fame as a general, he composed elegies and
lyrical war-songs that filled the Spartans with patriotic enthusiasm.
The elegies bore a great likeness to what is ascribed to Callinus,
so much so, indeed, that the later poet has been credited with the long
elegy of his predecessor. They are earnest appeals to the bravery of
the Spartans ; their main subject is a simple one — the glory of death
for one's country. To die in the van fighting for home is the happiest
fate that can befall a brave man. With this, in the first elegy, he com-
pares the wretched existence of the coward who escapes and begs his
bread from door to door, with father, mother, wife, and children. Such
a man knows only misery ; he never receives respect, pity, or honor ;
hence let us fight for our country, our children, our wives ; let us not
fear to die !
X
'^-^
■^;»
1 66 THE LYRIC POETS.
Let no one take flight ! Especially let no young man run away.
Those advanced in years may retreat, but it is disgraceful if an older
man lies dead before a younger one, if the gray-haired veteran breathes
his last in the dust. As Campbell translates it :
" Leave not our sires to stem the unequal fight,
Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might ;
Nor, lagging baci<\vard, let the younger breast
Permit the man of age (a sight unblest)
To welter in the combat's foremost thrust, |
His hoary head dishevelled in the dust.
And ven;>rable bosom bleeding bare.
But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair,
V And beautiful in death the boy appears,
\ The hero boy, that dies in blooming years :
In man's regret he lives, and woman's tears ;
More sacred than in life, and lovelier far.
For having perished in the front of war."
This exaltation of the immortal beauty of the youth dead in battle
is a peculiarly Greek touch, and it had appeared in Homer. Callinus,
too, had already said that a hero, when he died, left the whole people
to mourn him, and, living, is likened to the demigods; but here, for
Campbell's version alters the Greek directness, the youth who, when
living, is admired by men and loved by women, is beautiful even fall-
ing in the foremost line.
In the next elegy, once more the Spartans are urged to bravery, and
the exact method of fighting is described. He mentions, too, the vary-
ing fortunes of the Spartan armies, now victorious, now beaten.
The third elegy celebrates the importance of bravery, and the insig-
nificance of every other form of merit in comparison with it. Strength,
speed, beauty, wealth, power, eloquence, fame of any other kind, are
as nothing if the man have not bravery, if he be not bold in fight, and
dare not look grim death in the eye, and do not aim at the opposing
foe. This is virtue, this is the highest gain for man, an honor for him
and a blessing for the city and all its inhabitants, when a man stands
firm in the foremost rank and thinks not of flight. If he falls, he and
his whole race become famous ; if he survives, he receives every
honor.
Tyrtaeusalso wrote a political elegy, the Eunomia, or Sound Govern-
ment, as we may call it, of which unfortunately only little is left us,
the longest fragment consisting of only ten lines. It seems from these
to have been a historical sketch of the past of the Spartan state, and
to have contained much political instruction for the time at which it
was written, about the 35th Olympiad. The author's aim was to
encourage the firmness of the Spartans by recounting their early
MARTIAL VERSE OF TYRTMUS— LOVE-SONGS OF MIMNERMUS. 167
struggles and glories and the varying fortunes of their war with the
Messenians. It is much to be regretted that we have not the whole
poem, which was perhaps the very first in which historical description
and political reflection found expression in Greek literature. There was
this advantage for Sparta in having no literary past, that Tyrtaeus had
free ground in which to work.
One other form of composition that he employed was that of martial
songs. The Spartans had for a long time charged in battle with the
accompaniment of music ; later they had used songs adapted to these
melodies, and it was songs of this sort that Tyrtaeus wrote. The long-
est fragment ran something like this :
March on, ye soldiers of Sparta,
Ye children of noble fathers,
. On your left arm holding your shields.
Swinging your lances with boldness,
Without regard for your lives.
For such is the custom in Sparta.
Very diflFerent from the patriotic vigor of Tyrtaeus is the pensive,
amorous strain of Mimnermus of Colophon in Ionia, who flourished a
very little later than the Spartan poet. In the Ionic colonies life was
easy and sweet ; they were the home of luxury and refinement, and in
the absence of political independence-for Colophon had fallen under
Lydian control-men's minds naturally turned to the enjoyment of the
present. Mimnermus is said to have been a flute-player, and thus to
have been naturally led to elegiac composition ; his method was
determined by the interests of his surroundings. It is said that the
inspiration of his poetry was his love for the female flute-player
Nanno, and his poems about her were a model for the later writers
of love-songs. He was regarded as the originator of the love-eleg>'',
but too little of his work is left to enable us to decide about the
method of his treatment. In the fragments that remain we find his
constant lamentations over the brevity of youth. He bids his hearers
to gather rosebuds while they may, to make the best use of their
short playing-time, for the gods grant no return of strength and youth.
Certainly no contrast is more vivid than that between Tyrtaeus's com-
mand to the young to die in battle and Mimnermus's soft injunctions
to them to make the most of their tender years and to enjoy all the
pleasures that life can give. What Mimnermus denounces is not cow-
ardice, but simply old age — he must have been well on in years when
he wrote, for youth is sweetest when it is gone ; the young know its
bitterness too well — and he chose his sixtieth year as the age at which
he wished to die. Doubtless he lived to be much older.
Mimnermus did not confine himself to these lighter subjects, how-
1 68 THE LYRIC POETS.
ever ; he wrote also about the estabHshment of the Ionic colonies on
the coast of Asia Minor and of their struggles with their neighbors,
but it was the expression of his own feelings that gave him his name.
Just as the poems of Tyrtaeus make clear to us the affairs of Sparta
at the time of the second Messenian War, and those of Mimnermus
expose the voluptuousness of the Ionic colonies, so do those of their
contemporary, Solon, throw light upon an important part of Athenian
history, and afford us the first example of Athenian literature. While
Sparta was contesting for military supremacy, and colonies in Asia
Minor were declining into oriental luxury, Athens was laying the foun-
dations of its future political and intellectual supremacy. Here, how-
ever, as elsewhere, we regret the meagreness of the material that is
left to us, and while we have of Solon much more than of both the
others, it is true, as Grote has said, that " there is hardly anything more
to be deplored amid the lost treasures of the Grecian mind than the
poems of Solon ; for we see by the remaining fragments that they
contained notices of the public and social phenomena before him,
which he was compelled attentively to study, blended with the touch-
ing expression of his own personal feelings in the post, alike honor-
able and difficult, to which the confidence of his countrymen had
exalted him." Solon was above all things a statesman who conveyed
political instruction through his elegies, and his importance to the
Athenian state is well known ; it was not a matter of indifference to
him who made the laws if he made the songs. He was born at about
the time of the 35th Olympiad, of a good family ; but poverty
fortunately compelled him to travel about on business, and his roving
life brought him into communication with the most celebrated men of
his day. When he returned to Athens, he made himself conspicuous
by his efforts to recover Salamis, for so long as that island remained
in the possession of Megara it was impossible for Athens to develop
into a seaport. Plutarch tells us that the Athenians forbade any
renewal of the proposal to capture Salamis, but that Solon, in his
indignation, pretended to be mad, and, appearing suddenly in the
market-place, recited his elegy on Salamis to a great concourse of the
people ; of this poem but a few lines have been spared, wherein he
bids his fellow-citizens to rise and fight for the lovely isle of Salamis.
The success of this ruse made him conspicuous ; but his fame was
most firmly established when he was made archon, and granted extra-
ordinary powers for the revision of the Athenian constitution. It was
during his lifetime, and in great measure as a result of his intelligent
direction, that the foundations of the future greatness of Athens were
laid. What especially concerns us here is the reflection of his political
wisdom in his poetry, which was the vehicle he chose for the expression
SOLON'S PRINCIPLES— RICHES. 169
of his solicitude for his countrymen. What we notice is his temper-
ate wisdom. Without partisanship he directed the hot poHtical inter-
ests of the Athenians, holding a middle course between the aristocratic
and radical extremes, yet not allying himself with the intermediate
party, and securing the respect of all. He seems, too, to have perceived
the impotence of laws that did not rest upon the deliberate decision
of the people ; and, like the other seven sages, as they were called, he
did his best to establish a gound ethical core in the hearts of his
countrymen. Thus in the longest piece of his work, the only one that
has reached us in a complete form, he begins with the wish that Zeus and
the Muses will hear his prayers, and grant him blessings and happiness
from the gods and reputation among men. Then he goes on to say
that only what is honestly acquired is of benefit, that unholy earnings
remain for but a short time. Even if the divine Nemesis seems to
delay or to overlook wrong-doing, it is sure to overtake the evil-doer at
last, and although he may himself escape, his children or his children's
children will suffer, "Zeus seeth all things, and like a wind scattering
the clouds, which shakes the deep places of the tumultuous sea and
rages over the fertile land, and rises at last to heaven, the home of the
gods, and makes the sky clear, whereupon the sun bursts forth in glory,
and the clouds are gone — such is the vengeance of Zeus." Let no one
then judge from the present alone or indulge in foolish hopes. Yet
such is human nature ; the coward deems himself a hero ; the ill-
favored imagines that he is beautiful. Whatever a man's occupation
— and Solon gives a line or two, to describing the diverse occupations
of his contemporaries : the mariner, the husbandman, the artisan, the
seer, the physician — the issue lies in the hands of the gods ; all our
pains may be of no avail, and our foolish actions may bring us rich
reward. The elegy then concludes with saying that all our efforts are
for wealth, which is often ruinous, and we blindly overlook the perils
with which Zeus has involved its possession.
This lesson, which is as true and as necessary here to-day as it was
in Greece six centuries before Christ, is one that other thoughtful
teachers there, as elsewhere, have never been tired of preaching to men
who have seen in wealth the one great power of the world. In the
case of Solon it had a genuine significance, and was far from being the
wail of a hopelessly impoverished moralist whose denunciation of
riches is mere regret for their absence ; he had modified the constitu-
tion by substituting property for birth as the basis x>f representation,
and thus he recognized and approved the new importance of material
prosperity ; but he sought to control it and to keep it subordinate to
uprightness. There is scarcely one of the sages who does not denounce
ill-gotten gain. Theognis expressed the same sentiments and foretold
1 7° THE LYRIC POETS.
the sure, though possibly delayed, wrath of Zeus. He who acquires
wealth honorably will keep it ; he who grows rich by injustice or
covetousness, though at first it may seem to be of advantage, will
find it turn to ashes. Men are deceived, however, because the gods
do not always punish the crime the moment that it is committed ;
one man pays in person, another leaves misfortune to fall upon his
children, a third escapes justice by death.
This utterance regarding the certainty, of punishment is something
that all mankind has at all times been ready to see, at least with regard
to others' sins ; it is a frequent saying in early Chinese literature ;
among the Asiatics it became the main principle of Buddhism, which
established a rigid debit and credit account of human actions, and is
now among civilized races, under the guise of heredity, receiving
careful scientific examination, such as awaits every human thought
and action. To the more thoughtful Greeks of this time the vicissi-
tudes of life appeared to be the direct acts of jealous and revengeful
deities. Life was above all things uncertain, " No mortal is wholly
happy, all upon whom the sun shines are wretched," Solon said. Yet
although the wicked flourish and the upright suffer, we would not ex-
change with them, or barter virtue for wealth, for virtue is a lasting
possession, and wealth slips from one man to another. Elsewhere he
says that the man with much silver and gold, and who owns large
estates, is no richer than he who has just enough, for no one can take
his superfluous wealth to the grave or buy exemption from death, dis-
ease, or old age. In all of these poems we notice the pensiveness of
a man who sees the complexity of life.
Much of his poetry is devoted to conveying sound political instruc-
tion ; thus in an elegy on Athens, in which he begins by declaring that
city to be under the special charge of the gods, and that Pallas will
never desert it, he goes on to show how the citizens alone can accom-
plish its ruin by their misdeeds, and he ends by warning them to
abandon evil ways and to seek righteousness. Other fragments teach
the same lesson.
In general what we have left of the work of Solon, incomplete as it
is, indicates the turmoil of change and the introduction of new condi-
tions of life. The city of Athens as we see it portrayed in his elegies,
presents a picture of factional disturbance which had to be allayed
and unified by tyranny and foreign war. The strong rule of the
tyrants had its good results in their encouragement of art and letters,
and in Solon's manly utterances we may detect an early indication of
the warlike spirit which was afterwards to do so much for Greece. In
the awkwardness of his execution we may notice the lingering of old
conditions that had been outgrown elsewhere, for literary movements
MELIC POETRY : SPECIFIC CHARACTERISTICS. 171
are as irregular as isothermal lines, and the freedom of the Athenians
protected them from the overripe cultivation that is expressed by
Mimnermus and others.
Indeed, the study of these bits of the early Athenian literature suf-
fices to show that here at least the whole force of the people was some-
thing that awaited a later time to show its full development. Its very
crudity is capable of indicating promise ; the perfect possession of lit-
erary powers might have foretold decay rather than greater perform-
ance.
While the elegy had thus been growing up in various parts of Greece,
especially in the Ionic colonies and in Athens, what was called the
melic poetry had begun and advanced to equal importance among the
Doric races. To define melic poetry as lyric would not be exact, be-
cause it would omit an important component of the melic verse, to
wit, its relation to music. As matters stand, we have but a mere
fragment left from which to construct one of the most important parts
of Greek literature, and it would be exactly as possible to reconstruct a
modern opera from the text as it is for us to form a definite notion of
the melic poetry from the scraps of verse that alone survive. Of
Pindar alone do we possess a tolerably complete collection, but what
we have of his work is far from covering the whole ground, for there
were many developments of this form of composition which he did
not touch. The great variety of the melic poetry expressed countless
individual and local differences, yet, unlike modern lyric poetry, it was
not primarily an expression of personal feeling for which the poet
could choose whatever form of utterance best suited him ; it was not a
modification of popular poetry, as we understand the phrase, but
rather the secularization of forms that were connected with religious
pomp and ceremony, from which poets derived a good part of their
models. The epic modulated itself into the elegy, the descriptive
parts of the earlier verse falling away in favor of the personal utter-
ances, after a fashion which we see going on about us in the modern
epic, the novel, wherein description holds every year a less important
place than the study of character, a change from the general to the
particular which is an inevitable accompaniment of every form of
growth. The iambic verse, as we see it in Archilochus, remained most
completely the favorite method of expression for ridicule or discussion,
and although it was accompanied by music, the author and composer
were different persons. This form, which became the dramatic as dis-
tinguished from the choral part of the plays, never attained among
the Greeks the general importance of the melic poetry. In this form,
the three arts of music, poetry, and dance were combined in an impres-
sive whole. The contests in gymnastics, song, and dance were held
i72 THE LYRIC POETS.
under religious auspices, and maintained their solemnity and impor-
tance by the speedy adaptations of what was already established in
the sacred rites. These ceremonies thus rendered great service to
what speedily became an important part of the literary development.
It is this close connection between the words and the music which is
lost for us. The various festal occasions encouraged the growth of
orchestral dancing in Sparta, where the musical and poetic impulse
was slighter than elsewhere, so that these two aids to the delight of
men were brought in by Terpander of Lesbos, who introduced the
seven-string harp in the place of an inferior instrument. In poetry he
further developed the already existing nomos, or hieratic poem, into a
more complicated form, which he accompanied with music. He had
various successors, Kapion, Clonas, Polymnestus, Sakadas, and
Echembrotus, whose names are about all that we know of them. The
next step was the growth of the paean, which was distinguished from
the nomos by being sung by a chorus instead of a single performer.
The nomos consisted mainly of hexameters, singly or in combination
with the pentameter ; now we find more complex forms. It was in the
hands of Thaletas that this change seems to have taken place. His
date was about the 28th Olympiad, and some of the modifi-
cations which he wrought were already familiar in his home, the island
of Crete. Xenodamus and Xenopritos are the names of two of his
successors. A third was Alcman, of whom alone fragments have
reached us, but what fragments ! They are almost without exception
nothing but the merest scraps that owe their preservation to the fact
that a line here or a line there was quoted by some grammarian in
later times to illustrate some matter of which he happened to be treat-
ing. It was from these widely scattered sources that the industry of
modern editors has rescued many of the most valuable of the gems of
Greek literature. Yet just where we want more we have but a few
words, only fortunate in that anything is spared to us. The bits of
Alcman are marked with extreme simplicity; thus he says: "And
created three seasons, summer, winter and autumn, and the fourth was
spring, when everything blooms, but there is not enough to eat," a
touch that describes the period of the year before the new crops are
gathered with more vividness than do purely picturesque epithets.
Elsewhere, he says that he is contented with simple fare, such as the
common people eat. Indeed, he is fond of talking about himself ; he
boasts that he is no rustic boor, no Thessalian, but that he is sprung from
lofty Sardis. The odd lines that belong to him attest great variety
in the use of metres, which, however, are naturally less complicated
than those of later times. He was the first of what may be called
the classic lyric poets, and for more than two centuries his work
174 THE LYRIC POETS.
lived in the memory of the Greeks ; and even when his fame was
diminished by new candidates for the popular favor he was by no
means forgotten. One of the few fragments of any length may be
read in the following translation:
" Stillness upon the mountain-heads and deep abysses,
The cliffs of ocean and each gloomy cave ;
And quiet reigns throughout the craggy forests,
Where fiercest, wildest beasts are wont to rave I
All living things upon this dark earth nourished,
Even the swarms of busy bees, are still ;
In purple depths of ocean sleep sea-monsters,
And merry winged birds forget to trill."
Certainly one does not associate verse of this sort with ancient
Sparta ; yet even Sparta was a part of Greece, and after its success
in the Messenian War it enjoyed a short breathing-time, in which it
saw that life had other charms than perpetual military drill. But
its flowering time was short, and probably the tender touches of
Alcman soon sank into insignificance by the side of the martial spirit
of Tyrtaeus. Poetry soon sought another home outside of Sparta.
Of Arion we know scarcely more than that our knowledge of him
is very scanty. He is said to have perfected the dithyramb, a song in
honor of Dionysus, but his work, like that of the contemporaries of
Alcman, has long since perished.
While the Dorians had thus been developing the melic poetry, it
has been shown that they derived the impetus from without. Terpan-
der came from Lesbos, and it was in this island that the art now
reached its highest perfection. Mitylene, the principal city of Lesbos,
had attained considerable importance by its commerce, and with wealth
there had come the opportunity for intellectual
growth. It was under these favoring conditions
that the melic poetry of the Lesbians flourished.
The two important names are those of Alcaeus
and Sappho, who were contemporaries of Solon.
In the work of Alcaeus we see reflected the
distracted political condition of the island ; he
was an adherent of the nobles, who were in con-
ALc^us. fljct with the populace, and at first an admirer of
(Lesbian Coin.) •"• • i i
Pittacus, who afterwards seized the rems of gov-
ernment and won the poet's hatred. Alcaeus was banished, but after-
wards, although he took up arms against the tyrant, he was forgiven, and
was permitted to return to Lesbos, where he became reconciled to the
new conditions. Yet he is a complete representative of the older
ALC^US; TRACES OF HIS POETRY IN HORACE— SAPPHO. 175
spirit of chivalry that survived longer among the ^Eolians than else-
where, and he expressed his opinions with distinctness and vigor.
The frequent references of the later writers of antiquity attest this,
and his comparison of the state to a ship soon became, what it has
remained, one of the commonplaces of literary allusion. Yet there is
nothing commonplace in the fragment that contains the comparison.
" I cannot understand the direction of the wind ; waves come rolling
in from all directions ; we are carried amongst them in the dark ship,
struggling with the fierce tempest. The hull is leaking ; the sails are
torn and hanging in shreds ; the anchors are dragging." Thus he
described the civic disturbances, taking an image that was familiar to
the seafaring Lesbians. We know that he served as a soldier, and in
another fragment we have an incomplete account of his equipment ; his
house, he tells us, shimmers with brass ; the whole building is adorned,
in honor of the god of war, with brilliant helmets, from which float
the white horsetails, ornaments for the hedds of warriors ; on hidden
pegs hang shining greaves, a protection against the strong dart ; new
cuirasses of linen and hollow shields are placed about, with Chalcidian
swords and many tunics and jerkins. He sang of hospitality as well
as military life. One fragment is interesting because Horace has trans-
lated it almost word for word in the ninth ode of the first book. '* The
rain is pouring, there is a fierce storm outside ; the streams are frozen,
. . . drive out the winter, heap wood on the fire, mixing a draught of
wine with a generous hand, and wrap your head in soft wool." There
are other traces of the work of Alcaeus in Horace, little as we have of
the poems of the Greek poet, and perhaps it is not fanciful to detect
in both a community of interest in political matters and in the plea-
sures of life. What Alcaeus lacked, from the comparative insignificance
of the civil strife in a small Greek island, is more than made up by his
being first in the field. The strong political interests of the Cohans
rendered them unsusceptible to the formal compositions of the Dorians,
which rested on an established order of things, and the Lesbian luxury
suggested the praise of pleasure. Alcaeus did not neglect this subject ;
but Sappho, his contemporary, far excelled him here. Alcaeus wrote
a number of odes to the gods, and as it were, covered the ground
in various directions ; but Sappho in a single field, the love song,
sounded a note that has ever won the highest praise for grace and
vividness. The ancients entitled her the poetess, as they called
Homer the poet. Aristotle quoted a statement that made her the
equal of Homer and Archilochus, Plato styled her the tenth muse,
and it will be noticed that it is not with other women that she is
compared.
Of Sappho' s life and character various conflicting accounts have
176
THE LYRIC POETS.
come down to us. Her exceptional eminence appears to have made
her the object of an extraordinary amount of abuse in later times
when men had lost their appreciation or comprehension of a civilization
different from their own, and the freedom that women had enjoyed
among the Cohans became synonymous with unbridled license in the
minds of later Attic comedians, who lived in a state of society wherein
women were caged as in the East, Moreover, the impossibility of their
SAPPHO.
(From the bronze 0/ Herculaneum.')
turning current events and prominent contemporaries to ridicule
exposed distinguished persons of the past to every form of contempt.
Such at least is the defense that is offered against the many calumnies,
as they are called, that have gathered about her name. Whatever may
have been her character or her habits, there is no division of opinion
regarding the quality of her writing, for every one who has read the
few lines she has left has fallen under the charm of her wonderful
verse. It is not unmeaning rapture, but mere description, to say of it
that it has the rare stamp of perfection in its compact beauty and vivid
accuracy. It would be a small volume that should hold only the very
best lines ever written, and it would contain many of hers that have
CULTURE REPRESENTED BY SAPPHO. 177
come down to us in pieces, like the extracts in Johnson's Dictionary,
rent from their context, mere scraps and shreds, yet quivering with the
emotion of a sensitive, rich nature. Her works survived until certainly
the third century of our era, and probably much later, and then they
succumbed, not to the ordinary accidents of time or to general indif-
ference, but to the violent hatred of men in authority, who looked on
the songs of Greek lyric poets as the Puritans looked on plays. At
some undetermined time they were burned by official order, and, it is
said, the poems of Gregory Nazianzen were circulated in their stead.
We are not told how even an imperial government enforced this part
of their literary despotism.
The date of Sappho is about 610 B.C. Of her life scarcely anything
authoritative is known beyond the fact that she was a native of Lesbos.
In the islands of the ^gean, Greek culture, or, more exactly, the
^olian culture, flourished for a brief season with a greater fervency
than it did anywhere at the time on the mainland. Possibly the prob-
lems of the swiftly growing civilization were more readily solved in
the comparative isolation of these insular towns, with their handful of
inhabitants, than where the numbers were greater and more perplexed
by various aims and feelings. At any rate the lyric passion that in-
spired the songs of the .^olians burned with greater brilliancy and
keener personal fervor than in other parts of Greece, where it was util-
ized for the furtherance of patriotism or social virtue. With them it
was pure song, while among the Dorians, their only rivals, one sees the
traces of the spirit that was helping to form a great state. In both,
however, the melic poetry was the direct expression of an important
period, one of change between the heroic age and that of the greatest
brilliancy of Greece, after the Persian wars ; and then the melic poetry
was lost in the glory of the drama, which was built up on its variety
and earnestness. The difference between the two sorts of poetry will
be noticed as well as the points of likeness; the drama belonged to the
whole people, but the melic poetry was the possession of men who
had not yet attained what we may call national ideas. Especially, as
has been said, is this true of the ^Eolians.
In the bits of Sappho's work that are left us we feel most intensely
the nature of the poet. The translations, however careful and exact,
are pallid by the side of the unequalled original ; yet even in them we
may find a trace of the original charm. Thus :
" Evening, thou bringest all that light-bringing morning hath scat-
tered ; thou bringest the sheep, thou bringest the goat, thou bringest
the child to the mother."
This fragment, it will be remembered, was imitated and enlarged
by Byron in one of the stanzas (CVII.) at the end of the third canto
178 THE LYRIC POETS.
of Don Juan, where he, as it were, tries to show how many stops he
has to his flute. This is his rendering :
" O Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things —
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer.
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ;
Thou brings't the child, too, to the mother's breast."
No better example of the difference between the best work of the
ancients and the common quaHties of the moderns could be found than
this. Sappho says what she has to say with absolute directness and
simplicity, without a superfluous word, with no trace of artifice; and
Byron lets the two lines of the original grow into eight, in which
rhyme and a long complicated stanza enforce the statement, which is
already burthened by such additional statements as that the steer
was o'erlabored. Moreover, the two lines,
" Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,"
are exactly in the line of modern workmanship ; we have no house-
hold gods, and only know them as literary creations; yet we should
be wretched without them ; poetry without conventionalities would
be very baffling and strange.
What appears in these two lines of Sappho is the constant mint-
mark, as here again :
" As the sweet-apple blushes on the end of the bough, the very end of the
bough, which the gatherers overlooked, nay, overlooked not, but could not
reach."
And this :
" As on the hills the shepherds trample the hyacinth under foot and the
purple flower [is pressed] to earth."
These two bits were welded together by D. G. Rossetti in this
version :
I.
" Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough,
A-top on the topmost twig, — which the pluckers forgot somehow, —
Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now.
II.
" Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found.
Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and wound.
Until the purple blossom is trodden into the ground."
SA PPHO — TRA NSLA TIONS.
179
The English version next given offers but a faint description rather
than a representation of the Greek :
" The moon has set, and the Pleiades ; if is midnight, the time is going
by, and I sleep alone."
Elsewhere what in the original is a cry, is turned into a mere
statement by translation, as here :
" Men I think will remember us even hereafter."
And here :
" And round about the cool [water] gurgles through apple-boughs, and
slumber streams from quivering leaves,"
when possibly breeze should be read rather than water, for often even
the fragments come to us in fragments.
Only two of her poems reach us complete or in any length. One
of them is thus admirably rendered by Thomas Wentworth Hlgginson :
APHRODITE IN
CHARIOT.
" Beautiful-throned, immortal Aphrodite,
Daughter of Zeus, beguiler, I implore thee,
Weigh me not down with weariness and anguish,
O thou most holy !
Come to me now, if ever thou in kindness
Hearkenedst my words, — and often hast thou hearkened-
Heeding, and coming from the mansions golden
Of thy great Father,
Yoking thy chariot, borne by thy most lovely
Consecrated birds, with dusky-tinted pinions,
Waving swift wings from utmost height of heaven
Through the mid-ether ;
Swiftly they vanished, leaving thee, O goddess,
Smiling with face immortal in its beauty.
Asking why I grieved, and why in utter longing
I had dared call thee ;
Asking what I sought, thus hopeless in desiring,
Wildered in brain, and spreading net of passion —
Alas, for whom } and saidst thou, ' Who has harmed thee i
' O my poor Sappho !
' Though now he flies, erelong he shall pursue thee ;
' Fearing thy gifts, he too in turn shall bring them ;
' Loveless to-day, to-morrow he shall woo thee,
'Though thou shouldst spurn him.'
Thus seek me now, O holy Aphrodite !
Save me from anguish ; give me all I ask for ;
Gifts at thy hand ; and thine shall be the glory,
Sacred Protector ! "
l8o THE LYRIC POETS.
The other has not come to us in a complete state, but more fully
than the rest ; here is a literal translation :
" That man seems to me peer of the gods, who sits in thy presence, and
hears close to him thy sweet speech and lovely laughter ; that indeed makes
my heart flutter in my bosom. For when I see thee but a little, I have no
utterance left, my tongue is broken down, and straightway a subtle fire has
run under my skin, with my eyes I have no sight, my ears ring, sweat bathes
me, and a trembling seizes all my body ; I am paler than grass, and seem in
my madness little better than one dead. But I must dare all, since one so
poor "
The measures that she used were various ; the most common, and
the one that bears her name, the Sapphic, may be seen in Mr. Higgin-
son's rendering above. While the amount that we have of her work
is so little, it is more than probable that much of it is translated in
Catullus's poems. So much at least may be said of the epithalamia
or wedding-songs, yet many other kinds are spoken of with admiration
by the ancients, such as epigrams, elegies, iambics, monodies, and
hymns. Of odes she is said to have composed nine books, and some
of these are thought to have been directly translated by Horace.
While Sappho was thus readily first among the women who com-
posed poetry at this time, it is known that she had many compan-
ions and rivals in this art and the accompanying music, although none
of these attained anything at all comparable with her eminence. Yet,
of the other women, one whose name has survived is Erinna, not an
.^olian, but an inhabitant of the Dorian island of Telos. The state-
ment that she was one of the circle that surrounded Sappho seems to
rest on but faint authority. We are told of her that she composed a
poem of moderate length in hexameters, combining the new grace of
Sappho with the long-established qualities of the epic writers. A few
of her poems have been gathered into the Anthology. Her date is
extremely uncertain.
Another famous name is that of Stesichorus of Himera, who
flourished between 630 and 550 B.C. His family is said to have come
from a Locrian colony in Sicily. One tradition indeed asserted that
he was a son of Hesiod, which may also be interpreted as meaning
that he had some close relation with the Hesiodic school of poetry.
Yet the meagre crumbs that are left of the twenty-six books of his
poetry do not give us the means to form a definite opinion concerning
his work, and there is little left for us to do except to record the ver-
dict of antiquity. This especially praised the Homeric quality to be
found in his lyrical treatment of the old myths. It appears that he
took his material from many varied sources ; he treated the story of
THE CYCLIC POETS; THE TROJAN MYTH IN THEIR HANDS. iSi
the Argonaut, and the Theban and Trojan myths, following Hesiod
and the cyclic poets, or other authorities, as seemed best. There are
some indications that in a poem on the destruction of Troy he men-
tioned the Italiote tradition of ^neas's 'wanderings. With what a
free hand he treated the old myths we can see from the three opening
lines of his ode on Helen, which run thus : " That story is not true ;
you did not sail away in the well-oared ship ; you did not go to the
Trojan town." The tradition runs that he had composed a poem in
which he had spoken slightingly of the heroine, who revenged herself
by making him blind ; she was, however, mollified by this recantation
THE FLIGHT OF yENEAS.
{From a Black Vase painting^
and freed him of his affliction. A similar story, it is curious to note,
is told of an Icelandic Skald, who, in a spirit of mistaken economy, sent
the same complimentary song to two different girls. The conception
of an unreal Helen is ascribed to Hesiod ; and the whole disposition
to alter the myths is a proof that they had lost some of their original
authority, or at least that there were varying authorities for the same
story that came to the light in the general growth of Greek civiliza-
tion. What was yet more novel, for we have no means of deciding
the extent to which the cyclic poets modified the Homeric myths, was
the complicated form which he gave to his lyric exposition of epic
subjects. Recitation was, as we have seen, succeeded by musical ren-
dering, and to the strophe and antistrophe he added the epode, thus
bringing the lyrical form to the perfection in which it was used by
Pindar and the tragedians.
1 82 THE LYRIC POETS.
Ibycus, a native of Rhegium, who flourished a trifle later than
Stesichorus, passed his life at the court of Polycrates of Samos. An
important part of his work seems to have been a treatment of mythical
subjects like that of Stesichorus, and some pieces have been assigned
to both at different times ; the greater part, however, was love-poetry,
in which he followed the famous ^Eolian lyric writers. We have too
little of his verse left to judge of his merit, but in antiquity his repu-
tation was high.
These fragments may perhaps illustrate some of his traits :
Oh ! cherished darHng of the bright-haired graces,
Euryalus, sweet, blue-eyed youth !
Both gentle-eyed Persuasion 'mid the roses,
And Venus nurtured you in truth.
Once more do Love's dark eyes gaze into mine.
With melting glances, and he me beguiles
To Aphrodite's net, with charming wiles ;
Yet at his coming doth my heart repine.
As an old race-horse trembles, drawing near
The course where erst he won the victory dear,
And weak with age the contest would decline.
Anacreon was another poet who also lived at the court of Polycrates,
and apparently at the same time with Ibycus, although we have no
information on which to base an opinion. Anacreon was born in the
Ionian city of Teos. His life was one of vicissitude. Teos was con-
quered by the Persians at the beginning of their advance ; its inhabi-
tants abandoned their old home and betook themselves to Abdera in
Thrace, whence Anacreon went to Samos in compliance with an invi-
tation of Polycrates, Just how many years he remained with his
powerful friend is not known, but it was probably soon after the fall of
the tyrant that he went to Athens. This city was already a home of
refinement, and doubtless afforded him sympathetic society. Indeed
Hipparchus of Athens is said to have sent a ship to bring the poet
to his new home, which was vying with other places in tempting men
of genius to reside within its walls. What became of him after the
murder of Hipparchus is not known, and is for us unimportant. The
story of his life is valuable as showing the growing interest and jealous
rivalry of different cities in behalf of literary cultivation. Naturally
enough, men who are much sought after soon adapt themselves to
what they readily think are very proper conditions, and Anacreon sang
the praises of love and wine as readily in one court as in another.
This facility is remarkable, but the reader is more struck with his lit-
erary skill than by more genuine qualities. Where Sappho, for instance,
ANACREON: HIS LITERARY EXCELLENCE— COLDNESS. 183
appears sincere, Anacreon seems accomplished ; he is the master of
many forms ; he lent literary refinement to the old popular poetry of
the lonians, and became a model for future singers. His very smooth-
ness leaves us untouched. His conviviality was cold and deliberate ;
■
^1
^H
^
3v^B
^^v
.t^K
^m--.^
^V
"-M^
^K|l
■r
kn&.^ifefV'
0|[p9
^E
s^^^^r^
1?";;^^
^^KT
\
"^^J^H
^^^^pf .
1
I
^^P^^^m
^
■i
ilj
^K^
J
5
^^B
^p^l^^
!^^|
HKj f f ^^^^H
"^^
H
j^^fPH
'^^j^g
P'
^i/-vl# ^^
teai«8ESS^!^^IJ
ggs^g
>-
- ' ' ' 'mml^^^m
ANACREON.
with five parts of wine he tells us that he was accustomed to take ten
parts of water, and this dilution afTects his poetry. Prudence, how-
ever commendable, does not inspire poetical enthusiasm, and a man
whose bitterest grief is that gray hairs will render him unlovely
i«4 THE LYRIC POETS.
can scarcely awaken profound sympathy. Anacreon sang such subjects
with untiring grace, but without passion, and without mention of what
was serious in his Hfe.
It was this literary excellence which inspired admiration and imita-
tion in later times, for real feeling eludes the skill of the copyist, who
may yet learn any verbal trick ; and while the best men defy artificial
rivalry, those whose main charm is technical skill are sure to be com-
plimented by others who try to do the same thing more cleverly.
Anacreon early received this attention, and many Anacreontic songs,
since lost, were written at an early day. Others, composed in the
fourth century of our era, for a time aroused great admiration among
the moderns ; it was these that Thomas Moore translated, and it is
this fictitious Anacreon who stood for a representative Greek lyric
poet at the revival of Greek studies towards the end of the last
century. Men are always ready to prefer third-rate work to what
is really excellent, and it is only gradually that the best part of Greek
literature, as of other literatures, has attained its proper place.
III.
While the melic poetry had been growing, the elegiac poetry, with
its lessons of wisdom, had not been neglected. Phocylidesof Miletus
was one who chose this measure and wrote a number of proverbial
sayings, a few of which have come down to us. He appears to have
flourished about the 6oth Olympiad, or 540 B.C. The fragments
indicate very moderate poetic ability ; indeed, their quality almost
compelled the speedy introduction of prose, for the contrast between
the melic verse with its marvellous charm, and the arid severity of
many of the elegiacs, is most striking. The prosaic quality called
for congenial prose. In one piece that survives, he repeats
the old legend that one woman is descended from the dog,
another from the bee, others from the pig and the horse. Elsewhere,
he asks of what use is nobility unaccompanied by kindness in
heart or deed. Again, he urges that young men be accustomed to
honorable things. His lessons are true, but they do not lack obvious-
ness. The recommendation that men first seek a competence and then
virtue, outdoes Franklin at his worst, but violent condemnation of it,
without knowing the context, would be unwise. One thing is certain,
the ancients much admired Phocylides, and Aristotle quotes with
admiration his statement that the middle classes are in many respects
the best off, and that he should like to be in the middle rank in a
state. He also said : " A small city, built upon a rock, and well gov-
erned, is better than Nineveh in its madness," which is a clear expres-
XENOPHANES— DECRIES ATHLETIC GAMES.
185
sion of the Greek interest
in separate small cities,
and of their noncompre-
hension of federal union.
All that they demanded
was moderate size and
sound government.
Xenophanes, a native
of Colophon, who is better
known as the founder of
the Eleatic school of
philosophy, has left some
verses that present a dif-
ferent view of life from
that of Phocylides. In-
stead of practical wisdom,
he praises the intellectual
simplicity of the Ionic
race, endeavoring to show
its superiority to the culti-
vation of physical qualities
that were made so much
of by the rest of the
Greeks. Thus he says that
whoever wins in a foot-
race, boxing, wrestling, or
chariot race, receives all
kinds of honors, prece-
dence at festivals, a purse
of money, and public sup-
port. This is his reward,
even if the horses have
done it. "Yet he is of
less value than I ; my
wisdom is better than the
strength of horses or men.
All this is foolish, it is
not proper to prefer
strength to wisdom. Of
what use is all this physical
skill? It secures no better
government. The delight
of winning a contest is a
^
si
S
i86
THE LYRIC POETS.
brief one, and in no way helps to fill the granaries of a city." In
another elegy he describes the proper conditions of what seems remote
when we call it a banquet, but is familiar to us as a dinner — flowers,
agreeable perfumes, wine, and fresh waters, brown bread, cheese, and
honey, await the guests, who begin the meal with song and prayer and
the wish to attain justice. They shall not drink to excess, but shall
converse about virtue and honor, not about the fights of the Titans
and giants, and the Centaurs, the fancies of former generations, which
are of no use, while it is always well to have respect for the good that
the gods have done.
Not only is this poem interesting as a statement of the moderation
and intellectual interest of a cultivated Greek ; it also serves to illustrate
one side of the poet which is otherwise only known to us by tradition,
namely, his incredulity concerning the antiquated mythology of the
Greeks. He wrote a long poem, of a philosophical nature, in which
he is said — for the poem has not come down to us — to have expressed
his belief in a single god, and a trace of his thought appears in this
elegy. Certainly, the Greek mind at this time was far from slumber-
ing in inaction when statesmen, soldiers, philosophers, and courtiers
rivalled one another in the composition of verse. The philosophical
poems of Xenophanes, it may be added, had long-lived influence ; his
success in treating the subject in verse made that an authorized con-
ventional form for the expression of philosophic speculation for both
Greek and Latin writers, and from them it descended to modern men,
who continued the habit, with varying success, or rather with unvary-
ing ill-success, until the end of the last century. Yet the mention of
interest in philosophy brings us dangerously near the beginnings of
prose, and it is necessary first to treat of some of the great poets who
have not yet been mentioned.
One of these is Theognis, a contemporary of Phocylides, and like
him a writer of elegies. There is this important difference, however,
that while we have but a few lines of Phocylides, there remain very
nearly fourteen hundred verses of Theognis. The fullness of this
collection is doubtless due in good measure to the value placed upon
these poems as a means of instruction for youth. The compilation of
moral saws includes, however, more than the poems of Theognis.
References may be found to events too widely distant to be included
in one man's life, and poems of Solon, Tyrtaeus, and others are in the
collection, sometimes as separate pieces, sometimes detached lines are
imbedded in one of Theognis's pieces. From the collection various
attempts have been made to write the author's life, and some indus-
trious critics have built up a record of his actions which rivals in com-
pleteness the recent biographical accumulation that has grown up about
THEOGNIS— POLITICAL PRECEPTS— MORALS. 187
Goethe. Other, more industrious, critics decline to accept these
minute statements which are built upon scanty references that are
found here and there in the poems. It at least appears that Theognis
was a native of Megara in Greece, that he belonged to the old aristo-
cratic party which had held power for a long time. But the contrast
between the wealth of the few and the poverty of the many excited
revolt ; the populace rose successfully, banished the aristocracy, and
confiscated their estates. Theognis suffered with the nobles and
shared their exile, being welcomed in Euboea, Sicily, and Sparta by
those who agreed with his political sentiments. At length he returned
to Megara, where he lived in poverty, trying to reconcile himself to the
change in affairs.
The poems that incontestably belong to Theognis were addressed
to a young friend, Kyrnus, whom he endeavored to instruct in politi-
cal matters. The relation between the two appears to have been almost
that of teacher and pupil, for Theognis built up nearly a complete
system of political advice in which the elder draws many lessons from
his varied experience. He continually called the nobles the good, and
ordinary citizens the bad, with which we may compare the later use of
great and vulgar, employing these terms not merely as vague defini-
tions, but with a distinct sense of their accuracy. The poems were
written after the author's return to Megara, and he cannot conceal his
surprise at the altered condition of affairs ; the rustics who in old times
scarcely ventured into the city are now in control, and the aristocracy
have no scruples against marrying a rich girl of the lower classes ;
money has acquired a power which has distinguished it in other lands at
later times, and Theognis is not without admiration of it, for he is
never tired of lamenting his own poverty. Yet his political precepts
do not breathe a revengeful spirit ; he advises the safe middle course
and condemns wanton action. He preferred the safety of the city to
the narrower benefit of party success.
The collection as it stands contains many other elegies on the gen-
eral conduct of life, in which the familiar lessons of experience are
told in a neat form. In fact they compose a tolerably complete manual
of the view of the world current at the time ; it is an admirable expres-
sion of popular social wisdom. This quality gave it great popularity ;
Theognis said what discreet men thought and listened to with sympa-
thetic comprehension. His method is commendable ; he lacks, to be
sure, the higher poetic qualities, but he is no less valuable as an ex-
ponent of the ethical standard of his. day. His excellence brought
him great fame, and in Athens he enjoyed especial popularity. Eurip-
ides and Sophocles made much use of him, and he was admired and
quoted by Socrates, Xenophon, Plato and Aristotle. The compilation
1 88 THE LYRIC POETS.
had the good fortune to be used as a school-book during the Byzantine
period, and so escaped the fate that befell the elegies of most of the
other writers.
This use of the poems was very different from that for which they
were originally intended. Theognis composed at least the lyric lines
to be sung at club-dinners, where a number of companions met, and
after feasting admitted flute-players, to whose music, or with the
accompaniment of the lyre, short songs were sung. These brief lays
repeated the incessant lament over the uncertainty and mutability of
life, the universal subject of the minor poetry of all nations. Even
Theognis relaxes his severer mood to affirm that the best thing
for man would be never to have been born.
Yet it was not here that the poetry of this time found its ultimate
expression, but rather in the richer melic verse that was far aloof from
any relation with prose in subject and treatment, and indeed remote
from the expression of merely personal feeling. Simonides of Ceos
is probably the completest master of this form. He was born 556 B.C.,
the year in which Stesichorus died. His birthplace, Ceos, one of
the Cyclades, is near Attica, so that he was early exposed to the in-
fluence of Athens, whither he betook himself after a short visit to
Italy and Sicily. In this new home he enjoyed the friendship of the
sons of the tyrant Peisistratos, and after their overthrow he found a
welcome in Thessaly. When the Persian wars broke out Simonides
returned to Athens and sang the successes of the Greeks against the
invaders, his elegy about Marathon winning a prize over one composed
by ^schylus, the tragedian. The second Persian war inspired him
anew, and he wrote various poems in commemoration of the Greek
triumphs. At this period he stood at the height of his fame ; he was
intimate with the most eminent citizens of Athens, and well known
throughout the Greek-speaking world. When about eighty years old
he accepted an invitation to the court of Hiero, the tyrant of Syracuse,
a famous patron of letters, who gathered about him the most eminent
poets of his time. Pindar and ^schylus also partook of his hospital-
ity. Here Simonides died 466 B.C.
We are told on good authority that he was avaricious, and the posi-
tion of a poet at this time certainly laid the way open for the accusa-
tion, even if it were not corroborated by direct evidence. In order to
succeed, the poet was dependent on a patron, who could be most surely
pleased by flattery. Despots are certainly averse to the frank utter-
ance of political sentiments, and possibly indifferent to the expression
of a poet's personal feelings ; their own importance, however, seldom
becomes wearisome to them. Consequently, at the courts of the des-
pots of this period, the melic poetry, shunning politics and personal
SIMONIDES—A MASTER OF PATHOS. 189
sentiment, sought safety in celebrating public events, very much as in
Italy and England masques were composed to convey flattery and
glory to rulers who took a heavy toll from the literature they patron-
ized. The love poems of the M.d\\z school were not repeated ; they
were as dead as ballad poetry at the court of Elizabeth ; the whole
movement was in the direction of a sort of abstract splendor and
grace. Fortunately for Simonides, however, he enjoyed the inspira-
tion of the great Greek uprising against the Persian invaders ; indeed,
his excellence shows how much was at stake, in literature alone, in
this momentous struggle between Europe and Asia. The epigrams of
Simonides attest his skill and eloquent power. It was, however, in
the more complicated paeans, hyperchemes, which were poems accom-
panied with song and dance, with an attempt to give a dramatic rep-
resentation of the subject, so that the resemblance to masques becomes
at once clear, that he is said to have excelled even himself, but unfor-
tunately very little of this part of his work has come down to us. Of
a choral song on the victory at Artemisium we have a few lines in
which we may see the quality that antiquity with one consent ascribed
to Simonides, namely, emphasis by means of simplicity. The com-
pact beauty of the Greek eludes successful translation, but something
of its value may be found in this rendering :
Thermopylae ! when there your heroes fell,
Giving them death, you also glory gave ;
Your soil shall be their altar and their grave ;
Of their fair death your name shall ever tell,
Such dying should to praise, not tears, impel
E'en those who loved them, and their deeds still save
From all-destroying time their memory brave.
This grave their home and monument as well.
And let Leonidas himself attest
Their courage, who with them finds glorious rest.
The whole of this poem, if it could by any chance be recovered,
would make much clear that is now obscure in the history of Greek
melic poetry. The scanty lines that alone remain of these long,
majestic poems serve but to tease us like vanishing memories which
continually elude our attention. Yet what we have shows us some of
the qualities of his style, the way in which he worked with simple
means rather than by adventurous experiment. We see too that he
was a master of pathos, Catullus attests the reputation that Simon-
ides enjoyed for the possession of this quality when he says "Moestius
lacrymis Simonideis" — sadder than the tears of Simonides — and we have
a beautiful example of its power in the famous lament of Danae.
Acrisius, the father of Danae, had enclosed her and her boy Perseus in
a carved chest and set them adrift on the sea in a dark night :
190
THE LYRIC POETS.
While now about that casket rich the storm
Rose raging, and the whirling, foaming sea
Tossed her, all fearing, with tear-drenched cheek ;
About her Perseus wound the tender arms.
And murmured, " Oh ! my child, what grief is mine.
And yet thy baby heart can sleep and find
Repose in this brass-bound and joyless house,
Whose cruel darkness scarce a ray can pierce.
Yet art thou undisturbed by the waves' crash,
ACRISIUS PUTS DANAE AND PERSEUS IN THE CHEST.
(Frotn a vase painting.)
And storm winds shriek above thy curly head,
While thou liest sleeping with thy lovely face
Upon thy crimson mantle pillowed soft.
But if this terror breaks in through thy dreams,
If aught thou hearest, hear thy mother's voice
Bid thee to slumber ! Slumber, ocean, too !
And oh ! unending grief, slumber awhile !
Put from thee cruel counsels. Father Zeus,
And if too bold my speech strike on thy ear.
Forgive it to the mother of my child ! "
In the epigram, too, the simplicity of Simonides found full expres-
sion. This is one :
Gorgo, thine arm about thy mother lay ;
Our tender speech, it was the last, was thine ;
Weeping thou spak'st, " Stay with my father, stay
And bear him other children, mother mine !
Happier in this than she who dies to-day,
That they may live to soothe thy life's decay."
SIMONIDES— LITERATURE AFFECTED BY ENVIRONMENT. 191
Here is another:
Pythonax and his sister, side by side,
Here lie at rest within the grave's embrace.
While yet their lovely youth is unfulfilled ;
Wherefore their father, Megaritos, willed
A consecrated stone should in this place
Mark his undying thanks for those who died.
An epigram, it must be understood, did not have the same meaning
to the Greeks that it has in modern times. We understand by the
word scarcely mqre than a rhymed joke, marked by causticity, or at
least pertness. But the Greeks regarded it as above all things an
occasional poem, and it was Simonides who first gave them real im-
portance. His predecessors wrote very few epigrams, all reports of
what they did resting on meagre foundations, and none of his contem-
poraries were at all equal to him. The circumstances in which he
lived inspired him, as they did the whole Greek nation; and his marked
literary skill, the product of many years of practice on the part of the
Greeks, gave expression to the spirit that was animating his fellow-
countrymen in their struggle for freedom. His commemoration of the
many deeds of heroism was especially welcome to the Athenians
among whom he was living, and wherever a monument was built to
the slain heroes, Simonides, as the first of living poets, was called on
for an inscription. The two extracts just given show the reasonable-
ness of their request. Simonides was the master of what art last at-
tains, simplicity; and the novel employment of his genius on vivid
subjects of general interest indicated the awakening of the Greek
mind to the contemplation of more momentous things than the muta-
bility of life, the brief duration of youth and beauty, all, to be sure,
undeniable truths, but truths that are of the nature of luxuries for
idle people. It is only in periods of inaction that these half mournful
melodies find utterance. It is generally the useless man who is most
afraid of death, and it is when life is empty that poets are busiest in
pointing out its sadness. All literary history teaches us that in differ-
ent countries similar conditions produce similar work: in Persia a
condition of apathy and ease was the accompaniment of abundant
pathetic lyric song, in which the picturesque sadness of human life
was abundantly treated ; in Japan a period of courtly luxury heard
the same note sounded ; in Italy, Spain and England, the detachment
of national interest from the national life, the seclusion of literature
behind luxury, saw men occupied with the production of literary
gems. It was to work of this kind that Simonides gave new vigor,
and the subsequent predominance of the epigram attests its novelty.
The other forms that he employed bore the perfection of completed
192 THE LYRIC POETS.
work ; their task was done, the dithyrambic measures, as we shall
see, even transformed into the drama. The others were sterile. Yet
of Simonides we must judge mainly by report, and this places him
high among the world's poets. We see, too, by the number of his
victories, both the general poetic interest and his preeminence. The
winning of a prize, as he did, over .^schylus, is a proof of this.
Among the imitators of Simonides was his nephew, Bacchylides,
who possessed much literary skill, which was devoted, however, mainly
to singing the joys of life and the pleasures of society. Simonides
was a national poet, and so one of those who address the whole civi-
lized world; Bacchylides was in comparison a local poet of temporary
significance. His work only confirms the opinion that we should
naturally form of the ripeness and complexity of the Greek civiliza-
tion at this time; alongside of the patriotism was abundant luxury,
and this Bacchylides fully expressed. Certainly all of this sentiment
may be found in Simonides, but the older poet combined with it a
loftiness which the circumstances of his career demanded. An excel-
lent example of the manner of the nephew is thus translated by Mr.
J. A. Symonds:
To mortal men peace giveth these good things :
Wealth, and the flowers of honey-throated song ;
The flame that springs
On carven altars from fat sheep and kine,
Slain to the gods in heaven ; and all day long
Games for glad youths, and flutes and wreaths and circling wine.
Then in the steely shield swart spiders weave
Their web and dusky woof ;
Rust to the pointed spear and sword doth cleave ;
The brazen trump sounds no alarms ;
Nor is sleep harried from our eyes aloof.
But with sweet rest my bosom warms ;
The streets are thronged with lovely men and young,
And hymns in praise of boys like flames to heaven are flung.
A little earlier than Simonides was Lasus of Hermione. He lived
in Athens at the court of Hipparchus ; there he introduced modifica-
tions — just what they were, is not clear — in thecompositions of dithy-
rambs, and contested, sometimes successfully, with Simonides. We
have but the merest bit of his work, which probably disappeared before
the greater merit of Simonides and Pindar. Melanippides the elder has
likewise fallen into some obscurity. Apollodorus of Athens is known
only as a teacher of Pindar. Tynnichus of Chalcis, Lamprokles, and
Kydias are but names to us.
Meanwhile we find a number of women composing lyric verse, and
often with marked success. Among them was Myrtis, who is also said
to have been a teacher of Pindar, although this statement has been
SAPPHO'S CONTEMPORARIES. 193
doubted. Another was Corinna, who for her part, and probably with
more accuracy, has been styled a pupil of Myrtis. Remains of her
verses, of which only very few have reached us, are a mere dying echo
of the original. It is known, however, that she was frequently suc-
cessful in poetical contests, once indeed winning the prize over Pindar.
What is interesting to us is the proof that women still devoted them-
selves to verse. Generally, however, they appear in outlying regions.
Corinna won her fame in Boeotia. Telesilla of Argos, if tradition
is to be believed, handled a sword as well as a pen, for when the
Spartan Cleomenes had beaten the Argives, she placed herself at the
head of a band of women and drove back the enemy. More fortunate
than Myrtis, two lines of her work remain. Praxilla, a possible contem-
porary, and a native of Sicyon, showed another side of a manly spirit
in composing songs for feasts, generally of an instructive kind. Thus :
" Under every stone, my friend, hides a scorpion ; take care lest he sting
you ! There is danger in everything that is hidden."
Another curious fragment, apparently from a sort of narrative poem,
is the answer of Adonis to one who asked him in the shades what it
was that he most missed. He said: "The most beautiful thing I
have left is the sunlight, next the bright stars and the face of the
moon, ripe melons, apples, and pears." The remark is certainly in
character.
The following are taken from Bland's " Collections from the Greek
Anthology," edited by Merivale :
FROM AN ELEGY ON A SHIPWRECK, BY ARCHILOCHUS.
Loud are our griefs, my friend ; and vain is he
Would steep the sense in mirth and revelry.
O'er those we mourn the hoarse-resounding wave
Hath clos'd, and whelm'd them in their ocean grave.
Deep sorrow swells each breast. But heaven bestows
One healing med'cine for severest woes,
— Resolv'd endurance— for affliction pours
To all by turns, — to-day the cup is ours.
Bear bravely, then, the common trial sent,
And cast away your womanish lament !
*****
Ah ! had it been the will of Heav'n to save
His honor'd reliques from a nameless grave \
Had we but seen th' accustom'd flames aspire,
And wrap his corse in purifying fire !
*****
Yet what avails it to lament the dead ?
Say, will it profit aught to shroud our head.
And wear away in grief the fleeting hours.
Rather than 'mid bright nymphs in rosy bowers }
194 THE LYRIC POETS.
ON A PORTRAIT. — ERINNA.
I am the tomb of Ida, hapless bride !
Unto this pillar, traveler, turn aside ;
Turn to this tear-worn monument, and say,
' O envious Death, to charm this life away ! "
These mystic emblems all too plainly show
The bitter fate of her who sleeps below.
The very torch that laughing Hymen bore
To light the virgin to the bridegroom's door,
With that same torch the bridegroom lights the fire
That dimly glimmers on her funeral pyre.
Thou, too, O Hymen ! bidst the nuptial lay
In elegiac meanings die away.
ALC^US.
Jove descends in sleet and snow,
Howls the vex'd and angry deep ;
Every stream forgets to flow,
Bound in winter's icy sleep.
Ocean wave and forest hoar
To the blast responsive roar.
Drive the tempest from your door.
Blaze on blaze your hearthstone piling.
And unmeasur'd goblets pour
Brimful high with nectar smiling.
Then beneath your Poet's head
Be a downy pillow spread.
THE SPOILS OF WAR. — ALCiEUS.
Glitters with brass my mansion wide ;
The roof is decked on every side
In martial pride,
With helmets rang'd in order bright
And plumes of horse hair nodding white,
A gallant sight —
Fit ornament for warrior's brow —
And round the walls, in goodly row.
Refulgent glow
Stout greaves of brass like burnished gold,
And corselets there, in many a fold
Of linen roll'd ;
And shields that in the battle fray
The routed losers of the day
Have cast away ;
Euboean faulchions too are seen,
Wiih rich embroider'd belts between
Of dazzling sheen :
And gaudy surcoats pil'd around,
The spoils of chiefs in war renown 'd,
May there be found.
These, and all else that here you see.
Are fruits of glorious victory
Achieved by me.
SAPPHO'S CONTEMPORARIES. 195
THE RETURN OF SPRING. — IBYCUS.
What time soft zephyrs fan the trees
In the blest gardens of th' Hesperides,
Where those bright golden apples glow,
Fed by the fruitful streams that round them flow,
And new-born clusters teem with wine
Beneath the shadowy foliage of the vine ;
To me the joyous season brings
But added torture on his sunny wings.
Then Love, the tyrant of my breast.
Impetuous ravisher of joy and rest.
Bursts, furious, from his mother's arms,
And fills my trembling soul with new alarms ;
Like Boreas from his Thracian plains,
Cloth'd in fierce lightnings, in my bosom reigns.
And rages still, the madd'ning power —
His parching flames my wither'd heart devour :
Wild Phrensy comes my senses o'er.
Sweet Peace is fled, and Reason rules no more,
SIMONIDES.
Long, long and dreary is the night
That waits us in the silent grave :
Few, and of rapid flight.
The years from Death we save.
Short — ah, how short — that fleeting space ;
And when man's little race
Is run, and Death's grim portals o'er him close.
How lasting his repose !
SIMONIDES.
Who would add an hour
To the narrow span
That concludes the life of man }
Who would envy kings their power.
Or gods their endless day.
If pleasure were away ?
BACCHYLIDES.
Happy, to whom the gods have given a share
Of what is good and fair ;
A life that's free
From dire mischance and ruthless poverty.
To live exempt from care.
Is not for mortal man, how blest soe'er he be.
CHAPTER III.— PINDAR.
The General Condition of the Lyric Poetry. I. — Its Flowering in Pindar. — His Life
— His Relations with the Sicilian Tyrants. — A Comparison between Him and Mil-
ton. — The Abundance of his Work, and its Various Divisions. II. — The
Epinicion, or Song in Praise of a Victor at the Public Games. — The Games, and
their Significance to the Greeks. — The Adulation which Pindar Gave to the Vic-
tors ; the Serious Nature of his Work ; Its Relation to Religious Thought ; Its
Ethical Importance, All being Qualities that were Outgrowing the Bonds of
Mere Lyric Verse. III. — Illustrative Extracts.
THIS brief sketch of the Greek lyric poetry brings us at last to its
best known representative, Pindar. He is the crown of the whole
movement, and it may be well to observe the course already taken by
this form of verse. In the one hundred and eighty years between
580 and 400 B.C., the most characteristic features were the simple
.^olic lyric and the Dorian choral lyric. Both of these spread over
the whole of Greece, the latter advancing through Argos to the Ionic
islands, and from them back to the mainland, while the ^olic lyric
forms first prevailed among the islands, and thence moved westward.
They reached Athens at about the same time, at the end of the period
of the Pisistratidae, but the more complicated and magnificent choral
lyric found a welcome which was denied its humble rival. With the
crystallization of Greek power into a single mass under the Persian
attack, the political relations of the different nations acquired im-
portance, and in the development of national interests the expression
of individual feelings sank out of sight. The elegy decayed under
the rivalry of prose, and the choral lyric exactly suited the pompous
ceremonies and the new luxury of Athens. Yet some of its forms
languished at an early date. The seclusion in which the women of
that city were accustomed to live forbade the employment of choruses
of maidens, and the encomion, which was introduced by Lasos of
Hermione and by Simonides of Ceos, found no following. The dithy-
ramb faded away before the development of the worship of Dionysus
that accompanied the rise of the drama.
I.
Yet before the decay of lyrical poetry came its full flowering time
in the hands of Pindar. This writer was regarded by the Greeks as
the greatest of the lyric poets, and fortunately a good part of his
FLOWERING OF LYRIC POETRY. 197
work has come down to us, enough to enable us to see what it was
that the Greeks admired. We shall notice, too, that he was the last
product of a long period. It is only then that perfection is reached
when continued practice has decided on the most desirable form, after
rejecting what is unsatisfactory, and after a vocabulary and habit of
thought have grown up that aid both the poets and their audience.
The whole historical civilization of Greece was reflected in its brilliant
lyric poetry, with its abundant divisions that had commemorated all
I9« PINDAR.
subjects from a lover's languishing despair to the sumptuous ceremonial
of great religious festivals. That its growth had been towards com-
plexity was only natural, in view of its close relation with the swiftly
ripening civilization, and of the inevitable tendency of even sim-
plicity, which is itself attained only by effort, to become artificial.
Pindar was a Boeotian, and was born at Cynoscephalae, near Thebes,
522 B.C. It is to be remembered that the Dorian style had already
made its way throughout Greece, and that from its original use for
religious meetings and festal choruses it had grown to fill the place
formerly held by the great epics. The accession of wealth that fol-
lowed the defeat of the Persians enabled rulers and citizens to pay
generously for the panegyrics of the poets. Simonides had been de-
nounced for writing for hire, a charge which was very obnoxious to
the Greeks, and, as we shall see, Pindar lent his services to the
highest bidder. The new national feeling that began to appear in
Greece gave additional importance to the athletic contests, which were
the meeting-place for men from every region, and the victors were
willing to pay large sums to win the immortality that song could give
them. Pindar was born at the very time that the Pythian sports were
held. Of his infancy we have the tradition that the future sweetness
of his song was prophesied by a swarm of bees that settled on his lips
while he was sleeping. The same thing was told, towards the end of
their life, of several other Grecian poets, and with the advance of
Hellenic culture in Italy the same phenomenon began to make its ap-
pearance there, as notably in the case of Virgil, while the doves cov-
ered the infant Horace with leaves when he was sleeping in the woods.
These incidents seem to show how carefully either \.\\.q. fauna of Italy
or its poets had read Greek.
His early education was carefully provided for ; mention has already
been made of some of his teachers, Lasos of Hermione, Myrtis and
Corinna. Besides these, an early visit to Athens brought him under
the charge of Agathocles and Apollodorus ; possibly it was then that
he was taught by Lasos. At any rate, although ill-feeling grew up
between Athens and Thebes, Pindar long preserved a warm affection
for the city that was in fact his intellectual home. When but twenty
years of age he composed an ode, the loth Pythian, for the victory of
a Thessalian youth, and very soon he was employed by Kings Arcesi-
laus of Cyrene and Amyntas of Macedonia, as well as by the free
Grecian cities. Yet it is not to be imagined that he held a dishonor-
able position before these rulers ; to be sure he accepted rewards from
them for his poems, as writers in the last century accepted gifts from
their patrons, but without a sense of degradation. Undoubtedly the
influence of patrons was at times evil ; writers did their best to make
PINDAR AND MILTON. I99
themselves acceptable, just as now there are men who humor the pub-
lic against their own better judgment, but it was the only means by
which literature could be supported. In Pindar's case we find that he
expressed his own convictions. Hiero of Syracuse heard many words
of good advice, as did the Cyrenean ruler Arcesilaus IV. Evidently
Pindar was not a needy parasite who sought to conciliate the great by
flattery, but rather a serious defender of existing institutions, who yet
saw and tried to provide against the dangers that threatened them.
He was by birth and education an aristocrat, and he maintained an
admiration for Doric principles ; yet his vision was wide, and after
overcoming his temporary prejudice against Athens he was able to
praise what that city had done in behalf of national freedom as well
as the energy of the Spartans against the Persians, and of the Syracus-
ans against the Carthaginians. This breadth is the more remarkable,
because at the beginning Thebes, misled by jealousy of Athens, allied
itself with the invader. Above all things, Pindar was honest, and
honesty he regarded as the foundation of virtue. In this respect he
stands with his friend .^schylus, the great tragedian. In his rigid ad-
herence to a lofty moral code and his adoption of the older form of
lyric rather than the new dramatic poetry — a choice which was doubt-
less in great measure determined by the remoteness of conservative
Boeotia from the most modern developments of literature — he bears a
strong likeness to Milton. For as Pindar was the complete master of
a long-lived method that, after the perfection which he gave to it, was
about to disappear, so Milton was the last representative in England
of the learned culture of the Renaissance, of the ripest literary devel-
opment of awakening Europe. Then, too, in both we see the choice
of complicated models, and a masterly use of difficult, recondite
language and allusion which require for their full comprehension care-
ful study. Both too have won admiration, but often an admiration
not unmingled with awe, that has secured for both respect rather than
popularity. Pindar is certainly hard reading. He kept himself of set
purpose in the clouds, and his exalted flight presented obstacles even
to the ancients — how much more to us who must painfully decipher
his difficult language and grope our way confusedly through his vast
accumulations of mythical lore !
Pindar was a fertile writer. For more than forty years he was busily
producing poems of various kinds ; hymns, paeans, dithyrambs, prosodia,
parthenia, hyperchemes, encomia, scolia, threni, and epinicia, or
hymns of victory, which form the bulk of what is left to us of his
work,. While these various forms were all admired, we are told that
the epinicia were the most popular — perhaps the most nearly popu-
lar would be the more exact expression, although Pindar was honored
200 PINDAR.
throughout Greece. The Athenians put up a statue in his memory ;
one of his hymns was inscribed on a slab in the temple of Jupiter
Ammon in Thebes. The fact that we have only fragments of other
poems than the epinicia compels us to take on trust much of the
praise that was given to him, but we have enough of these to see
what it was that antiquity admired.
II.
The epinicion was a song in praise of a victor at the public games.
These games, known as the Olympian, Pythian, Nemean, and Isthmian,
were the most important festivals of the Greeks. The Olympian
games were held at Elis once in four years, in summer, and their
importance can scarcely be overestimated. They were held in honor
of Zeus, whose golden and ivory statue, the work of Phidias, was
the masterpiece of Greek art. It was placed in the temple, and
REWARD OF VICTORY.
{From a vase painting.)
represented the god, seated, as he is described by Homer, shaking his
locks, whereat Olympus shakes. We have the unqualified testimony
of Greeks and Romans to the magnificence of this colossal statue — it
was forty feet high — which consecrated the place where the games
were held. Contestants came from all parts of Greece, and there were
numberless spectators assembled, for the occasion was like a great
national fair at which there met, not traders, but men who exchanged
intellectual novelties. There philosophers debated, poems were read,
painters showed their work ; it was at this great festival that Herod-
otus read his history to the assembled multitudes, and it was- before
this brilliant collection of spectators that races were run, and the vie-
THE GREEK GAMES.
20I
tors attained widespread fame The apparent prize
was a wreath of wild olive. The Pythian games
took place in the spring, once in four years ; the
prizes were a wreath of laurel and a palm. The
Nemean games were held in the Nemean groves,
near Cleonae, in Argolis, every three years, and the
successful contestant received a wreath of parsley.
The Isthmian games were held at Corinth, at the
same intervals ; the prize was a wreath of pine.
These modest rewards were, however, but certificates
of brilliant success over many and sturdy rivals.
CROWNING A VICTOR.
(Front a bo-ivl in the Luy ties collection^
Contestants appeared, not only from all Greece,
but from remote regions where Hellenic colonies
had been founded, from Sicily and even from Africa,
These distant tyrants and the free cities and noble
families vied with one another in magnificence and
liberality, the chariot races especially inspiring osten-
tatious emulation. In one race, Pindar tells us,
forty chariots were upset; one may judge from that
incident of the abundance of competitors. The
winners were little short of heroes. Plutarch tells
us that one town removed a part of its walls to
admit a victor as if he were a conquering general.
Cicero scarcely exaggerated when he said that to a
Greek an Olympic victory was dearer than a
triumph to a Roman. Consequently the odes of
the greatest poets were properly employed in help-
202 PINDAR.
ing the fortunate winners to secure immortality. There was no
festival, one might almost say no incident of public life that lacked
its lyrical praise ; naturally enough Simonides or Pindar was solicited
to lend additional luster to these great solemnities, and to celebrate
with song such important victories. We see from what we have of
Pindar's work that he brought to the accomplishment of this task all
the complicated machinery of the lyric verse. This form had already
abandoned the personal note of the ^olic writers, and with the
aid of music and dance had become an artificial method of expression.
Its main inspiration was the religious sense, for to the Greek mind
religion was everywhere. The remote feeling of an uncivilized
race that the hand of a god was directly present in every circum-
stance of life survived among the people of this race, together with
the numerous gods who shared the duties of supervision over all
phenomena. It was in their praise that the lyric poetry found its
busiest employment. This was extended to the celebration of the
various victories. Pindar praised not so much the individual contes-
tant as the deity who had aided him to secure the victory, or in whose
honor the sports were held. Then, too, the deities of the city and of
the family had to receive their due praise. The success of the winner
was far from being the sole possession of one man ; it was a glory
shared by all his kin, by the men of his city and race, by his ancestors,
by all who were in any way connected with him. Hence the odes ad-
dressed a larger audience than they would have done if they had
simply celebrated one man's prowess ; they sang the great event rather
than an individual. It is this religious bearing that makes the poems
hard for us to read. They are the full product of a long-growing sys-
tem whereof our knowledge is most scanty, and they are rich with
references to a mass of mythological lore that bound the living Greeks
to a fabulous past, and made their religion a very part of their being.
The myths underlay history, politics, morals, everywhere presenting an
ideal image of human life to the poet and the artist. It was as if the
gods had stepped down from Olympus to share the work of men and
to aid them with brilliant and inspiring example. Consequently the
lyric poet was never tired of celebrating the myths that were connected
with the subjects of his song. He was free to employ mere local
legends ; he could even invent myths in honor of victors, as in
modern times fictitious genealogies have lent additional luster to
famous heroes.
The long life of the lyric poetry had formed certain rigid rules that
no one was at liberty to break. Thus the poet was expected not
to utter his own personal sentiments, but to observe the laws govern-
ing the various forms of composition. He was to praise noble actions.
PINDAR'S CONCEPTION OF HEAVEN. 203
not to blame. The license that Archilochus, for instance, had enjoyed
was wholly denied him. His hands were bound, as much as are now
the hands of a man who composes religious music, and he was com-
pelled to magnify the glory of the gods. The way in which Pindar
did this shows the extent of the changes in Greek thought. In Hesiod
the gods are crude beings ; in Pindar's time the swiftly growing civiliz-
ation has made over man's whole relation to the universe ; the intellect-
ual travail of centuries has refined the morality and found a new mean-
ing in the old stories. These are not denied or derided ; they are held
to contain a deeper meaning than was once apparent.
All these things become clear in what Pindar has to say concerning
human destiny, for it is about this subject that all serious thought re-
volves. Ancestor worship had been handed down in a weakened form
from remote times, and Pindar asserts the interest that the dead take
in the glorious deeds of their descendants. Thus in the fifth Pythian he
says that all the sacred kings beneath their monuments, from the
bosom of the earth that now encloses them, hear the great virtue of
their descendant refreshed by soft dew of flattering hymns ; and else-
where he afifirms that the dead take part in the noble actions of their
descendants ; the dust of the tomb does not rob them of the brilliant
honor of their race. More important are his expressions of the future
world. In this region the righteous are separated from the wicked,
and their abode is a charming region where the sun forever shines,
fresh breezes blow, and lovely trees, fruits, and flowers abound, — a
scene, it will be noticed, not unlike that depicted by the early painters
of the New Jerusalem. The after-world of which we are told in the
Odyssey is a pallid shadow -of this world, filled with an awful gloom,
worse, to be sure, for sinners, but kindly to none. In Pindar, however,
we find the righteous enjoying pleasures, for
" There some please
Themselves with feats of horseback exercise,
And some with draughts and others with the lute,
And every sort of happiness
Blooms in luxuriance there :
Whilst a sweet odor lies
For aye above that land so fair,
From them that mingle victims numberless
With fire, whose radiance shines
Afar upon the gods' well-tended shrines."
The wicked, on the other hand, undergo cruel torments ; their souls
hasten down a steep path to the gulf of Erebus, where the slowly
crawling streams of black night exhale noxious miasms. The souls of
the accursed, he also says, forever wander about the earth in dreadful
torment, in eternal bonds of agony, while the blessed dwell in heaven.
204 PINDAR.
singing hymns of praise to the great God. To be sure, Pindar puts
the abode of the blessed at one time in the regions under the earth and
at another on Olympus, but one will not have to seek long for similar
trifling inconsistencies. What is better worth studying is Pindar's
mention of metempsychosis, with yet another indication of the future
abode of the sinless. On them, he says, the sunlight falls by night
and day, and theirs is a life void of toil ; they do not need to till the
earth or to sail the sea, but these favorites of the gods, who have fol-
lowed virtue, pass tearless days. Whoever has been able, here and in
that abode, thrice to keep his soul from stain of sin, passes to the
happy isles, where the breezes from the sea whisper about them, and
where on land and water grow odorous golden flowers of which the
blessed make wreaths to bind their heads and arms. Again, he says
the souls of those from whom Persephone has received expiation for
their sins she lets return again in the ninth year to the sunlight ; from
these spring illustrious kings, men invincible in their strength and ad-
mirable in their wisdom ; after their death posterity honors them as
heroes.
All of these statements show the greater complications of religious
thought in later days, and naturally the view of life on this side of the
Styx had become more intricate. To be sure, we find even among
the least civilized races frequent expression of the uncertainty and
mutability of human existence. They are bewailed by savages as well
as by riper peoples ; this part of the lesson of life is soon learned, or,
at least, soon stated. Pindar is never tired of repeating it. " Ephem-
eral creatures, what are we ? what are we not ? Man is but the dream
of a shadow ; when the gods turn upon him a ray from heaven, a bright
light surrounds him and his life is sweet." This is his continual re-
frain ; even in the triumphal odes, in his songs of victory, he sounds
his lament for the inevitable tragedy of life. All good lies in the
hands of the gods, or of the fate above the gods, who may dispense
or withhold it, as to them seems good. " In a moment the inconstant
breath of fortune turns from pole to pole." "When a man, without
too much pains, has obtained some advantage, he seems skillful, and
we call others foolish by his side ; he appears to have secured his life
by the wisdom of his plans. But this is not in man's power, God alone
can grant it, who raises to-day one man and holds another beneath his
mighty hand." But there would be no limit to the extracts from Pin-
dar that might establish the proof of his lofty melancholy. Yet, with
this, he knows how to celebrate the glowing joy of life in these
young conquerors; he sings youth, beauty, strength, and love, and all
with a firm vigor far removed from effeminacy. His note is that of
a trumpet; he is Miltonic in the lofty air with which he treats his
COMPARATIVE QUALITIES OF THE LYRIC POETS. 205
subjects as in his vivid language. He chants the praises of glory
with wonderful fervor, as if the winning of the prizes at these games
atoned for the greater part of human ill. Success in these and in
war formed the highest gratification for men.
With regard to man's duties he sounds as lofty a note as in his
praise of the gods. In his religious utterance he at times rivalled
even the Hebrew prophets, as when in the ninth Pythian ode he
said: "Thou knowest the fixed end of all things and all their
ways ; thou knowest the number of the leaves the earth puts forth
in spring, and hast counted the sands in the sea and in the rivers,
as they are moved by the waves and by the sweep of the winds ;
thou knowest what will come and whence it will rise." In morals
his constant lesson was the one already familiar to the Greeks,
according to which moderation was strongly counselled. While he
saw the sadness of life he escaped depressing melancholy, for every
thing lay in the hands of the gods, and this faith made duty simple,
even if austere, and at times puzzling. We have seen that many of
the Greeks lamented a long life ; it was their constant wail that those
whom the gods loved died young. But Pindar's faith preserved him
from this sadness ; he is always serene in his lofty majesty. If we
compare him with what we know of the other lyric poets of Greece,
we shall find that they all possessed in common a certain tone, although
they are to be distinguished by separate qualities. The three leading
names are those of Alcman, Stesichorus, and Simonides. Alcman
lived in the seventh century ; Stesichorus at the beginning of the sixth ;
Simonides at the end of the sixth and the beginning of the fifth, B.C.
Of the first-named we have but very little left, and this is marked by
an air of simplicity that is very unlike what is to be found in Pindar.
Stesichorus kept closer to the epic style, borrowing from those long
poems the subjects of his songs. His style too appears to have
possessed an abundance and facile eloquence very unlike the qualities
of Pindar. In Simonides again we find grace and soft emotions very
different from Pindar's remote majesty. Pindar is not pathetic ; we
notice in him rather an intellectual massiveness than an attractive and
sympathetic treatment of the feelings. He is remote from general
interest, and his loneliness is only intensified by his liberal use of myths
that are as strange to us as the continual references to Latin civiliz-
ation would be to one absolutely ignorant of the classics. It is not too
much to say that a great deal of Pindar's work cannot be understood
by us as it was by the Greeks ; it is a sealed book to the moderns. For
one thing, their relation to Greek music is something that we cannot
understand. That this was intimate and important is well known, yet
this is lost to us. Even Cicero said that when Pindar's lines were
2o6 PINDAR.
separated from the music for which they were written they lacked al-
most every appreciable trace of rhythm ; how then can we detect it ? Of
the merits of his style, too, we can catch only a small part, yet enough
is left to give us a deep impression of a great man. A bold imagina-
ation and an unfettered vocabulary always present problems to read-
ers, and these odes which formed the principal literary expression of a
comparatively unknown civilization are no exception to the rule. Yet,
remote as are some of the qualities of his verse, there is a core which
cannot fail to delight readers, a lofty tone which cannot fail to impress
itself upon every one who will read him. It is to be remembered, how-
ever, that in the multitude and fulness of his allusions his style is like
modern music, which abounds in melodies and suggestions that escape
separate analysis, and combine together to leave a general impression.
The fourteenth Olympiad, a very short ode, may illustrate this side of
Pindar's manner. It is given in a prose translation :
" Ye dwellers in a settlement that enjoys the blessings of Cephisus' waters,
a land of beautiful steeds, queens of fertile Orchomenus famed in song,
ye Graces, guardians of the ancient race of the Minyae, hear me, for to you
I pray ; since it is by your favor that all which is pleasant and sweet comes
to mortals, if any man is a poet, or handsome, or has gained glory by vic-
tory. Nay, the gods themselves preside not at the dance or the banquet
without the revered Graces ; but they are the directors of all that is done in
heaven, and setting their seats by the side of the Pythian Apollo with the
golden bow, they worship the eternal majesty of the Olympian Father. O
venerable Aglaia, and thou, song-loving Euphrosyne, daughters of the mighti-
est of the gods, lend me your ears, and thou also, tuneful Thalia, and
regard this Comus, advancing with sprightly foot under favoring fortune.
I have come to sing of Asopichus in the Lydian air, and with the strains of
the lute, because the land of the Minyae hath won at Olympia through thee.
Go now. Echo, to the dark-walled abode of Persephone, and convey to his
father the glorious news that when you see Cleodamus you may tell him
about his son, that she hath crowned his youthful locks, by the vales of the
renowned Pisa, with wreaths from the chivalrous contests."
In this brief poem Pindar has made mention of many things : he
has praised the victor, a boy who has won the boys' foot-race, B.C.
476; he has referred to his dead father; he has eulogized his country
and its principal deities, all the essentials of the ode, and with the glow
of adoration and praise there is combined a pensive melancholy which
raises the poem above a mere set congratulation. This one is simple
enough ; however, many of the others are more complex. Such, for
instance, is the first Pythian.
The absolute ripeness of form is readily perceptible,even through
the translation, in these extracts from Pindar, and the mastery of music
and metres, the possession of abundant material, the facility with which
complexity is treated, all betoken the completed method of utterance
PREPARATORY STAGE OF GREEK LITERATURE.
207
that awaits a fuller development. The almost cloying perfection of
the lyric verse was beating the air when it celebrated subjects of such
comparative unimportance as these athletic victories ; but when the
time came that Greece awoke from its internecine wars and pleasant
peace to find its existence endangered, and was victorious over a
mighty foe, all the practice that had been acquired in these remote
centuries had prepared a new form of expression, which in its dignity
THE GRACES.
and beauty matched the amazing political and military enthusiasm
that must have astounded the Greeks themselves as much as it did the
Persians. It is with justice that some writers speak of the period in
Greek history before the Persian wars as the middle ages ; it was a time
when the whole country was ripening and making ready for its full
life, for its brief period of wonderful achievement ; and this not merely
in literature, but in its politics as well, for both are only different forms
208
PINDAR.
of expression for the same men. And it is well to observe how full of
seriousness the Greeks had packed the forms which still survived from
a time of savageness. These races, for instance, and all the games, had
such an origin, but that was forgotten in the rich and sudden develop-
ment of ethical and religious treatment of important questions.
A striking characteristic of the lyric verse had been brevity and com-
pactness, — in a word, extreme grace of form, — a quality which appealed
especially to cultivated readers or hearers. It was distinctly an aristo-
cratic luxury, not a means of popular expression. This remoteness
from the current of life secured for the poetry all that luxury and ease
can give, and when it was the Greeks to whom they were given the
result was a lyrical literature of the most amazing fulness and beauty.
Its limitations, its narrow range of subjects, and what with all its
charm remains a conventional mode of expression, marked it as the
possession of a few persons of refinement, and thus ill adapted to ex-
press the new and vastly wider emotions of the greater days. Yet, of
course, its influence remained ; the new literature which succeeded it
did not break with the old traditions, but grew from them in a larger
and richer field ; while the lyric verse flourished without a rival, it was
continually helping to establish the authority of a literary form in
which precision as well as grace should exercise great authority. For
centuries these formed the poetical ideal, and they affected the subse-
quent development of great poetry which never lost its original charm
and exactness of expression. In the drama this acquired a special
form under the influence of the intenser and broader subjects with
which it dealt, and of the religious solemnity of the dramatic festivals ;
but these qualities still remained.
TO MEGAKLES OF ATHENS.
Imperial Athens ! with thy name I best may 'gin
To build the basement of my lofty song,
That laud's Alkmaion's sturdy kin
For horsemanship. What country or what house
More glorious
Could poet name amid this earth's unceasing din
To thrill Hellenic tongue }
For wheresoe'er the town be, 'tis a household word,
The honor of Erectheus' populace.
Who have thy holy shrine restored
In sacred Pytho beautiful to see,
Apollo. Me
Thy conquests and thy fathers' — five on Isthmus' sward,
One in Olympia's race.
ODES TO MELISSUS AND HIERO. 209
Surpassing, Zeus conferred, and two
At Kirrha — lead to hymn thee — Megakles,
And much thy new success doth please
Me ; still I rue
That envy will not all thy merit spare
To cross. But, so they say.
Such steadfast, flourishing success alway
Must good and evil bear.
TO MELISSUS OF THEBES.
If any man, by glorious feats of strength,
Or store of honest gold, have got him fame,
Yet curbs within his soul besetting insolence.
He well deserves that on his name
His countrymen should heap their praises. Excellence,
O Zeus, to mortals comes of thee ;
And reverential folk prosperity
Have more enduring than their neighborhood ;
While crooked hearts their seeming good.
Though flourishing awhile, will leave alone at length.
For noble deeds beholders it behoves
To recompense the brave with noble song.
And kindly him to laud who leads the gay parade.
Now to Melissus here belong
Twin crown for conquests twain ; the one in Isthmus' glade
By favorable Fate was sent
To turn his heart to jocund merriment ;
The other gathered in the hollow glen
Of the deep-chested lion, when
He bade them shout the name of Thebes, the Thebes he loves.
Where rival chariots ran, victorious.
Nor does he put to shame
Th' hereditary courage of his kin.
Ye well have known how oft Kleonymus
The honors of the chariot race would win ;
And so his mother's folk, who trace to Labdakus
Their pedigree,
Gat wealth by four-in-hands. But rollingly
Time plays a changing game.
The sons of gods from hurt are free alone.
TO HIERO OF SYRACUSE.
My golden cittern, whom
Apollo keeps
In common with the raven-tressM Muses, thee,
Beginner of the revelry.
The dancers' step awaits ; the minstrel choir,
When thy sweet strings' melodious quivering
The prelude wake, thy signs inspire
The hymn that ushers in the festival to sing.
Zeus' pointed bolt of fire eternal thou in gloom
Canst shroud ; the eagle on his sceptre sleeps.
And lets his wide
Pinions so swift of flight droop down on either side ;
PINDAR.
Of all the feathered kind
Though he be lord.
About his beaked head a cloud of sable night
Thou sheddest ; o'er his orbs of sight,
Spelled by thy sweep of song, his eyelids close
In pleasant slumber ; softly to and fro
He sways his back in deep repose ;
Nay, headstrong Ares' self has oftentimes let go
His lance's cruel point with sleep to glad his mind.
To souls of gods thy missiles calm afford,
With skill endued
By Phoibos and the Muses' full-clad sisterhood,
But whosoe'er
Of Zeus' love have never had a share
Are sore distressed
To hear the cry of the Pierides
On land or midst the dark resistless seas.
Like him who lies in baleful Tartarus,
Typhoeus of the hundred heads, the deadly foe
Of all the gods, whom erst
Kilikia's famous cavern nursed ;
But now the sea-beat cliffs precipitous
That frown o'er Cumag hold him down.
And all Sikelia weighs upon his shaggy chest ;
And Etna's pillar-peak that pierces air,
With ice bestrown.
The yearlong nurse of nipping snow ;
From whose recesses jets
The awesome flood
Of fire that none may near ; and while the daylight beams
A cataract of smoke that gleams
With lurid lights her torrents pour, but when
The dusk of even falls, her blaze blood-red
Rolls boulders huge each ragged glen
Adown, to splash and sink in ocean's level bed.
'Tis yonder reptile born to lame Hephaistus lets
These fountains forth. To all the neighborhood
A prodigy
Of fear and wonder full he is to hear and see ;
And how the plain between
And Etna's crest
Of dark-leaved forest he is chained, and all his back
The torments of his bedding rack
Laid out at length. O Zeus, I pray thee grant
That I may find acceptance in thine eye,
Who lov'st this mountain-top to haunt,
A fruitful country's front, whose namesake city nigh
Her famous founder has bedecked with glory's sheen ;
Since Pytho's herald on the course confessed
Her honors thro'
The chariot-race's crown adjudged to Hiero.
By those who sail
Across the seas 'tis deemed of prime avail,
When they begin
A trip, to quit the port with breezes fair ;
For thus 'tis like that they will home repair
With better luck ; so in my song of praise
For this success I fain would find an augury
ODE TO HIERO.
That many a future year,
For steeds' victorious career,
And crowns and feasts and hymns that minstrels raise,
Renown on Etna may attend.
Oh ! Lykian Phoibos, Delos' king, delighting in
Kastalia's fount in steep Parnassus' vale,
Do thou befriend
This noble land, and hear my plea.
For human excellence
From heaven derives
All means of growth, and none, unless the gods assent,
Is wise or strong or eloquent.
And Hiero to laud is my intent ;
So hope I that my missile may not fall
Without the lists, as javelin sent
From whirling hand with cheek of brass, but distance all
Opponents by its cast. Would heaven the afifluence
And gifts of wealth's increase wherein he lives
May ne'er be less ;
While time of anguish past affords forgetfulness ;
Or brings to mind instead
The memory
How boldly in the stress of fight he held his own ;
When at the hands of gods a throne
They got, an honor such as Hellene ne'er
May reap, the diadem of majesty
And unexampled wealth to wear.
And now forsooth in Philokteta's fashion he
Has gone to war, and one that held a haughty head
Has found it need his flatterer to be.
They say of yore
The godlike heroes came from Lemnos' lonely shore.
The archer-son
Of Poias, by his ulcer nigh undone,
To fetch away ;
Who wasted Priam's city, and at length
The Danaeans' labors ended, poor of strength
Although he went, for thus it was decreed.
So may the healing god vouchsafe to Hiero
In coming time to be,
Granting him opportunity
To gain whate'er his heart of hearts may need.
Before Deinomones upraise,
Sweet Muse, the pasan of the four-in-hands, I pray ;
For children share the joy by fathers won ;
Then bid our lays
For Etna's sovereign friendly flow ;
Since Hiero for him
Resolved to rear
That town in freedom 'neath the laws of Hyllus' rule.
For in Aigimius' Doric school
The sons of Pamphilus and Herakles —
Who 'neath the slopes of wild Taygetus
Are settled, dweUing at their ease —
PINDAR.
Have ever wished to bide. With fortune prosperous
They quitted Pindus' clefts in ages distance-dim,
Amyklce gained, and dwelt in glory near
The snowy steeds
Of Leda's twins, abloom with fame of warlike deeds.
Grant, Zeus who hearest prayer,
In years to come
That kings and citizens by Amenanus' burn
May truth from falsehood aye discern.
Let Hiero a guiding-star arise
His son to lead, his folk in honor hold.
And both in quiet harmonize.
I pray thee, Kronos' son, their war-cry overbold
Let not Phoinikian nor Tyrrhenian foemen dare
To shout again, but keep them still at home.
And ponder well
The lamentable loss that all their fleet befell
At Cumas when,
By Syracuse's lord subdued, their men
He bade to throw
Forth from their speedy ships into the sea ;
And from their heavy bonds of slavery
All Hellas freed. From Salamis the fame
Of Athens I will chant for meed ; the deadly fight
At Sparta sing, that nigh
Kithairon's heights was fought, whereby
The Persian host of bent-bowed archers came
To ruin ; while to laud the kin
Of great Deinomenes my hymn of praise shall flow
Of deeds in Himera's well-watered glen
Achieved, wherein
Their enemies were put to flight.
If at the season meet
One lift his voice,
Twisting his many threads to one diminished strand,
Less hard will be man's critic-brand
Of blame ; for evermore satiety
Tarnishes eager hopes : a townsman's ears
Do ne'er so much in secrecy
Weigh down his soui, as when a friend's success he hears.
Yet pass not honors by, for envy is more sweet
Than pity. Guide with honest helm the choice
Of yonder throng :
On Truth's good anvil forge the arrows of thy tongue.
For if a syllable
Of folly fall
Out of thy mouth, 'tis deemed of moment, being thine :
Thy every good or evil sign
A host of trusty witnesses observe :
Of many people thou hast stewardship.
Thy native bloom of heart preserve ;
And if thou lovest to have thy praise on every lip
Shrink not from spending : loose the sail that breezes swell.
Like wary skipper. Be not snared withal
By cozening cheats.
'Tis posthumous renown that tongue to tongue repeats.
ODE TO WINNERS IN ATHLETIC GAMES. 213
Alone may show,
Dear friend, the life of mortals hence who go,
By minstrelsy
And story-tellers' faithful histories.
The kindly worth of Kroisus never dies ;
And Phalaris, of the burning brazen bull
And cruel mind, has earned an infamous renown
Wide as the world, and ne'er
Do tuneful citterns let him share
Their joyance when the banquet hall is full
Of carols of the gentle train
Of boys. The first of prizes is prosperity,
The second good repute ; but he, below
Who both may gain
And keep, has won the highest crown.
FOR ARISTOMENES OF AIGINA.
WINNER OF THE WRESTLING-MATCH. PYTH. VIII.
WRESTLING-MATCH.
(Florentine Group.')
O kindly Peace, daughter of Righteousness, thou that makest cities great,
and boldest the supreme keys of counsels and of wars, welcome thou this
honour to Aristomenes, won in the Pythian games.
Thou knowest how alike to give and take gentleness in due season ; thou
also, if any have moved thy heart unto relentless wrath, dost terribly con-
front the enemy's might, and sinkest insolence in the sea.
Thus did Porphyrion provoke thee unaware. Now precious is the gain
that one beareth away from the house of a willing giver. But violence shall
ruin a man at the last, boast he never so loudly. He of Kilikia, Typhon of
the hundred heads, escaped not this, neither yet the king of giants ; but by
the thunderbolt they fell and by the bow of Apollo, who with kind intent
hath welcomed Xenarches home from Kirrha, crowned with Parnassian
wreaths and Dorian song.
Not far from the Graces' ken falleth the lot of this righteous island-corn-
2 14 PINDAR.
monwealth, that hath attained unto the glorious deeds of the sons of Aiakos ;
from the beginning is her fame perfect, for she is sung of as the muse of
heroes, foremost in many games and in violent fights ; and in her mortal
men also is she pre-eminent.
But my time faileth me to offer her all I might tell at length, by lute and
softer voice of man, so that satiety vex not.
So let that which lieth in my path, my debt to thee, O boy, the youngest
of thy country's glories, run on apace, winged by my art.
For in wrestlings thou art following the footsteps of thy uncles, and
shamest neither Theognetos at Olympia, nor the victory that at Isthmus was
won by Kleitomachos' stalwart limbs.
And in that thou makest great the clan of the Midylidai thou attainest
unto the very praise which on a time the son of Oikleus spake in a riddle,
when he saw at seven-gated Thebes the sons of the seven standing to their
spears, what time from Argos came the second race on their new enterprise.
Thus spake he while they fought : " By nature, son, the noble temper of thy
sires shineth forth in thee. I see clearly the speckled dragon that Alkmaion
weareth on his bright shield, foremost at the Kadmean gates.
" And he who in the former fight fared ill, hero Adrastos, is now endowed
with tidings of a better omen. Yet in his own house his fortune shall be
contrariwise ; for he alone of all the Danaan host, after that he shall have
gathered up the bones of his dead son, shall by favor of the gods come
back with unharmed folk to the wide streets of Abas."
On this wise spake Amphiaraos. Yea, and with joy I too myself throw
garlands on Alkmaion's grave, and shower it withal with songs, for that
being my neighbor and guardian of my possessions he met me as I went
up to the earth's centre-stone, renowned in song, and showed forth the gift
of prophecy which belongeth unto his house.
But thou, far-darter, ruler of the glorious temple whereto all men go up,
amid the glens of Pytho didst there grant this the greatest of joys ; and at
home before didst thou bring to him at the season of thy feast the keen-
sought prize of the pentathlon. My king, with willing heart I make avowal
that through thee is harmony before mine eyes in all that I sing of every
conqueror.
By the side of our sweet-voiced song of triumph hath Righteousness
taken her stand, and I pray, O Xenarches, that the favor of God be unfail-
ing toward the fortune of thee and thine. For if one hath good things to
his lot without long toil, to many he seemeth therefore to be wise among
fools and to be crowning his life by right desiring of the means. But these
things lie not with men : it is God that ordereth them, who setteth up one
and putteth down another, so that he is bound beneath the hands of the
adversary.
Now at Megara also hast thou won a prize, and in secluded Marathon, and
in the games of Hera in thine own land, three times, Aristomenes, hast thou
overcome. And now on the bodies of four others hast thou hurled thyself
with fierce intent, to whom the Pythian feast might not award, as unto thee,
the glad return, nor the sweet smile that welcometh thee to thy mother's
side ; nay, but by secret ways they shrink from meeting their enemies,
stricken down by their evil hap.
Now he that hath lately won glory in the time of his sweet youth is lifted
on the wings of his strong hope and soaring valor, for his thoughts are
above riches. In a little moment groweth up the delight of men ; yea, and
in like sort faileth it to the ground, when a doom adverse hath shaken it.
THE NEMEAN GAMES. 215
Things of a day — what are we, and what not ? Man is a dream of
shadows.
Nevertheless, when a glory from God hath shined on them, a clear light
abideth upon men, and serene life.
Aigina, mother dear, this city in her march among the free, with Zeus and
lordly Aiakos, with Peleus and valiant Telamon, and with Achilles, guard
thou well.
FOR ARISTOKLEIDES OF AIGINA,
WINNER IN THE PANKRATION.
O divine Muse, our mother, I pray thee come unto this Dorian isle Aigina
stranger-thronged, for the sacred festival of the Nemean Games : for by the
waters of Asopos young men await thee, skilled to sing sweet songs of tri-
umph, and desiring to hear thy call.
For various recompense are various acts athirst ; but victory in the games
above all loveth song, of crowns and valiant deeds the fittest follower.
Thereof grant us large store for our skill, and to the king of heaven with its
thronging clouds do thou who art his daughter begin a noble lay ; and I will
marry the same to the voices of singers and to the lyre.
A pleasant labor shall be mine in glorifying this land where of old the
Myrmidons dwelt, whose ancient meeting-place Aristokleides through thy
favour hath not sullied with reproach by any softness in the forceful strife
of the pankration ; but a healing remedy of wearying blows he hath won at
least in this fair victory in the deep-lying plain of Nemea.
Now if this son of Aristophanes, being fair of form and achieving deeds
as fair, hath thus attained unto the height of manly excellence, no further is
it possible for him to sail untraversed sea beyond the pillars of Herakles,
which the hero-god set to be wide-famed witnesses of the end of voyaging :
for he had overcome enormous wild beasts on the seas, and tracked the
streams through marshes to where he came to the goal that turned him to
go back homeward, and there did he mark out the ends of the earth.
But to what headland of a strange shore, O my soul, art thou carrying aside
the course of my ship ? To Aiakos and to his race I charge thee bring the
Muse. Herein is perfect justice, to speak the praise of good men : neither
are desires for things alien the best for men to cherish : search first at home :
a fitting glory for thy sweet song hast thou gotten there in deeds of ancient
valour.
Glad was King Peleus when he cut him his gigantic spear, he who took
lolkos by his single arm without help of any host, he who held firm in the
struggle Thetis the daughter of the sea.
Also the city of Laomedon did mighty Telamon sack, when he fought
with lolaos by his side, and again to the war of the Amazons with brazen
bows he followed him ; neither at any time did man-subduing terror abate
the vigour of his soul.
By inborn worth doth one prevail mightily ; but whoso hath but precepts
is a vain man and is fain now for this thing and now again for that, but a
sure step planteth he not at any time, but handleth countless enterprises
with a purpose that achieveth naught.
Now Achilles of the yellow hair, while he dwelt in the house of Philyra,
being yet a child made mighty deeds his play ; and brandishing many a time
his little javelin in his hands, swift as the wind he dealt death to wild lions
2l6 PINDAR.
in the fight, and boars he slew also and dragged their heaving bodies to the
Kentaur, son of Kronos, a six years' child when he began, and thenceforward
continually. And Artemis marvelled at him, and brave Athene, when he
slew deer without dogs or device of nets ; for by fleetness of foot he over-
came them.
This story also of the men of old have I heard : how within his cavern of
stone did deep-counselled Cheiron rear Jason, and next Asklepios, whom he
taught to apportion healing drugs with gentle hand : after this it was that
he saw the espousals of Nereus' daughter of the shining wrists, and fondling
nursed her son, strongest of men, rearing his soul in a life of harmony ;
until by blowing of sea winds wafted to Troy he should await the war-cry of
the Lykians and of the Phrygians and of the Dardanians, cried to the clash-
ing of spears ; and joining in battle with the lancer Ethiops hand to hand
should fix this purpose in his .soul, that their chieftain Memnon, Helenos'
fiery cousin, should go back again to his home no more.
Thenceforward burneth ever a far-shining light for the house of Aiakos ;
for thine,0 Zeus, is their blood, even as thine also are the games whereat my
song is aimed, by the voice of the young men of the land proclaiming aloud
her joy. For victorious Aristokleides hath well earned a cheer, in that he
hath brought new renown to this island, and to the Theoroi of the Pythian
god, by striving for glory in the games.
By trial is the issue manifest, wherein may one be more excellent than his
fellows, whether among boys a boy, as among men a man, or in the third
age among elders, according to the nature of our mortal race. Four virtues
doth a long life bring, and biddeth one fit his thought to the things about
him.* From such virtues this man is not far.
Friend, fare thee well : I send to thee this honey mingled with white milk,
and the dew of the mixing hangeth round about it, to be a drink of min-
strelsy distilled in breathings of Aiolian flutes ; albeit it come full late.
Swift is the eagle among the birds of the air, who seizeth presently with
his feet his speckled prey, seeking it from afar off ; but in low places dwell
the chattering daws. To thee at least, by the will of throned Kleio, for
sake of thy zeal in the games, from Nemea and from Epidauros and from
Megara hath a great light shined.
* This is very obscure : Bockh said that the longer he considered it the more obscure it
became to him. Donaldson is inclined to think that Pindar is speaking with reference to the
Pythagorean division of virtue into four species, and that he assigns one virtue to each of the
four ages of human life (on the same principle as that which Shakspere has followed in his
description of the seven ages) namely temperance as the virtue of youth, courage of early
manhood, justice of mature age, and prudence of old age. — E. Myers' Transl. of Pindar.
BOOK III.— THE GREEK TRAGEDY.
CHAPTER I.— ITS GROWTH AND HISTORY.
I. — The Prominence of Athens after the Wars with Persia — The Qualities of the
Athenians ; Their Intellectual Vivacity ; the Aristocratic Conditions of Their
Society — The Little Influence of Women and Books — Their Political Training —
Their Literary Enthusiasm. II. — The Drama a Growth, not a Special Crea-
tion — The Early Condition of Dramatic Performances — The Celebration of
Festivals; the Dithyramb; the Rudimentary Dialogues; the Worship of
Dionysus — The Drama Before ^schylus, and the Resemblance between its
Growth and that of Modern Times. III. — The Mechanical Conditions — The
Theatres; the Actors and their Equipment — The Stage — The Masks — The
Absence of Minute Detail, and Unlikeness to Modern Drama — The Chorus ;
its Composition and its Share in the Performance at Different Times. IV. —
The Author's Relation to his Play — The Tetralogy and its Obscurities — Fur-
ther Obscurities Besetting the Subject, such as the Symmetry of the Plays —
The Plays that Survive — The General Development of the Drama and its De-
pendence on the Life of the Time.
I.
THE lyric poetry then flourished in different parts of Greece, passing
through various stages of development from the expression of
personal feeling to its appearance as a magnificent formal mode of utter-
ance, reaching at last a completeness, in the hands of Simonides and
Pindar, that foreboded a change ; for the perfection of any literary
method, once attained, marks its swift decay. The change that was
about to appear had other causes. Greece, by its victory over the Per-
sians, had acquired a comparative unity and an absolute consciousness of
strength that altered the whole condition of the country. One result
of the victories was the prominence that was given to Athens, a promi-
nence that, however, inspired the enmity of Sparta. The glory that
Athens had acquired by its part in the war was undeniable. The power
of Persia had twice shattered itself against its stubborn defence, and
thus not only were its citizens filled with pride, but even its neighbors
had to confess the proved military prowess of the defender of Greece.
In Attica, too, the best qualities of the Greeks found their fullest devel-
opment. In no other country did the ideals of this race come near
2l8
GREEK TRAGEDY— GROWTH AND HISTORY.
the height that was here almost attained. The Athenians possessed
in full measure the Ionic vivacity and flexibility, standing in this re-
spect in marked contrast to the crude and rigid conservatism of the
Spartans; their literature and art survive to show what the human
intelligence has been able to accomplish under favorable conditions.
MELPOMENE.
( The Muse of Tragedy.)
Yet it would be unfair to ascribe all the merit of Greek work to their
circumstances; their intellectual activity lay behind this, the same
quality that underlay and inspired all their work. The Athenians al-
ready possessed certain elements of civilization to a greater extent
than any of their neighbors ; they were humaner and they weie better
educated than the other Greeks, and were thus freed from some of the
INTELLECTUAL SOCIABILITY OF THE GREEKS. 219
provincialisms that clogged the growth of the more conservative
peoples.
What especially distinguished the lonians and the Athenians notice-
ably even among them, was what may be called their intellectual
sociability. This was furthered by many circumstances. The city was
of moderate size ; its population may have been a little more than
half a million, but the number of adult freemen bearing arms was only
about twenty-five thousand. For every freeman we must count four
or five slaves, slavery having existed among the Greeks from time im-
memorial; and these were often, though not always, not to be distin'-
guished from their masters by difference of race or color ; they were, if
FAMILY SCENE.
(From a Relief.)
not Greeks, generally at least Aryans, although some, to be sure, were
Arabians, Egyptians, and Negroes, and were far from forming a sepa-
rate and hostile caste. There were in Attica about four hundred thou-
sand of these, on whom there fell the duty of performing all the work,
while their masters enjoyed leisure. This aristocratic class, it must be
remembered, did not live in a period when money-making was the
chief end of man ; they were free to live, not compelled to devote
themselves to securing the means of living. Mere subsistence was
simple in a mild climate, and in a society devoid of extravagant tastes.
Their houses were mere sleeping-places where the wife stayed and
supervised the children and domestic occupations. The considerable
commerce in which Athens was engaged was far less complex than
220 GREEK TRAGEDY— GROWTH AND HISTORY.
modern business, and the freemen were thus possessed of leisure to
devote themselves to intellectual interests.
The Athenian society, to be sure, missed the influence of women.
The wife was distinctly scarcely more than a household drudge,
the mother of children. The importance of women in the old times
as we see it reflected in the Homeric poems had disappeared, and
society suffered, as was inevitable, from the decay of family life. The
association with hetairai brought degradation, and even apart from
this it is easy to see that the insignificance of women left its mark in
literature ; for in ^schylus the women hold an inferior position, and
in Sophocles the women have distinctly masculine qualities. In Euri-
pides to be sure, they become more important, but on the whole a
WOMEN AT TOILET,
{From a vase painting.)
great difference between the Greek and modern literature is in the
position that women occupy. The heroines of the Greek plays all be-
long to heroic times.
Another difference is the way in which modern men derive their
opinions from books. When in Athens men were near life ; the stu-
dent with us is remote from life, buried in volumes of greater or less
value. Their knowledge was more strictly immediate ; ours is neces-
sarily in great measure attained at second-hand. The Athenians too
had direct control of political matters ; all were directly concerned
in the making and administration of laws ; they governed without
the intervention of deputies. It lay with them to declare and wage
wars. In consequence they received continuous political training, of
a sort, too, that encouraged their natural disposition to eloquence and
ATHENS— THE LITERARY CAPITAL— THE DRAMA. 221
their amenability to reason. It was in conditions like these that
Athens became the intellectual leader of Greece. Earlier it had known
rivals; Syracuse, for instance, in Sicily, was for a time a main centre of
intellectual inspiration. Philosophy found encouragement there, and
men of letters were summoned from every quarter. In the colonies on
the coast of Asia Minor literature received a start on the termination of
the Persian wars, but the most distinguished men of that region became
well known in foreign parts. In Greece itself we have seen Sparta
offering hospitality to poets ; but from this moment it retired within
itself and had no part in the intellectual advance, which it had only
encouraged by patronage, not by production. In Thebes there was
Pindar, but his main encouragement came from Athens ; but beyond
this there was no movement to be at all compared with this which has
made that city immortal.
It has already been mentioned that Simonides was a favorite at
Athens, and that Pindar studied there and preserved for that city a
peculiar affection which was warmly returned ; and from these facts we
perceive the growing importance in literature of the Attic capital. It
was now about to begin its own work in literature, which was of a
kind that Greece had never before seen.
II.
Like everything else in literature, the Greek drama was not a special
creation, but a gradual development out of older conditions. We find
a dramatic element prominent in the Greek, as for that matter in all
religious rites. Imitative dances, like the Pyrrhic, had existed since
a remote antiquity, and in the various festivals we find men personat-
ing a god, who were clad was dramatically repre-
in some conventional at- /^^I^IiiSrv sented, and similar crude
tire that at once made A^IaI t ^^ performances were found
them known. Scenes from / h^u^ ' !©^ ' everywhere in Greece. It
some religious story were I wJlai^y ^^^' however, in the fes-
represented with appro- \^«f"»«.^^ tivals attendant on the
priate action. In Delphi, ^^*— — ^ harvest that the religious
for example, the incident apollo slaying rites had their fullest
^ ' THE DRAGON.
of the conflict between (FromaCotn.) expression; for besides
Apollo and the dragon the formal celebration
with song and dance, these occasions were famous for the privileges
the populace enjoyed of almost absolute freedom of speech. For a
moment license was the rule; every one enjoyed the fullest liberty of
jesting, as now in certain countries in the carnival, itself a survival of
remote nature-worship. Besides this hold upon the populace, the bar-
222 GREEK DRAMA— GROWTH AND HISTORY.
vest was closely connected with the worship of Dionysus, the god of
the vine, and so one of the most prominent of the deities who every
year won a victory over the antagonistic forces of nature. The vine
was this god's gift to mankind, and it was from the rural festivals in
his honor that the Greek drama took its rise. The merry-making on
these occasions was unbridled, and the complicated myths that had
grown up about Dionysus, the miracles that he had performed, presented
abundant material for dramatic imitation. Both tragedy and comedy
arose from the twofold worship of this god.
It was in both autumn and in spring that he was honored by public
feasts. In the autumn there reigned complete joviality; in the spring,
when the birth of the god was celebrated, and the new wine was first
tasted, more reserve prevailed. On both occasions a song of praise to
the god was sung, and from this grew both divisions of the drama. At
DIONYSUS AND THE SEASONS.
the harvest time, when fertility and increase were acknowledged with
gratitude, and the symbols of reproduction were carried in a proces-
sion with solemn song, ribald jest and ridicule accompanied these rites;
this was the origin of the comedy. Tragedy sprung from the dithy-
ramb that was sung in the less jocund celebration of the rites in the
spring time. On this occasion the various adventures of the god lent
themselves to imitation and gradually to the fuller exercise of the
dramatic art.
The dithyramb had for some time been the favorite form of lyric
poetry among the Athenians, and it was the one best adapted for the
growth which time made necessary in this form of literary expression.
It was a complicated form, and it gradually acquired many modifica-
tions, both in regard to its rhythmical and its musical components.
Lasos of Hermione, Pindar's teacher, had especially developed it, and
with such success that his fame quite overshadowed that of Arion, its
THE BIRTH-PLACE OF THE DRAMA. 223
inventor. In its improved and richer state it attracted the attention
of wealthy citizens, and its performance was encouraged with lavish
generosity. In fact it embodied all the qualities of the various lyrical
forms and acquired new ones under the skilful hands of Pindar and
Simonides. The new complexity of Greek life overflowed the old ves-
sels, just as the Renaissance compelled the introduction of newer and
larger forms while yet making use of the literary methods of medi-
sevalism.
The evolution of the drama was very gradual ; so far we have found
scarcely more than the soil from which the drama was to grow. The
first step towards independent existence seems to have been this, that
the leader of the chorus became, as it were, independent of his fellows
and was able to carry on a dialogue with them. It was among the
Dorians that imitative representations began, and that tragic and comic
choruses first appeared ; the fuller development of both, however, be-
longed to Attica, and the little village of Icaria bears the reputation of
being the birthplace of both tragedy and comedy. Yet this statement,
even if true, helps us but little. Amid all this uncertainty we only
begin to touch solid ground when we come to Thespis, an Icarian who
carried the tragic chorus from his home to Athens, where it speedily
took root and flourished. It appears that he gave the leader of the
dithyrambic dance a part as an actor who should recite mythical
stories without connection with the song in praise of Dionysus. These
stories were recited with some mimetic action. Narration such as we
find in the epics was admitted, the lyric choruses continued, and thus
in Athens the tragedy was evolved from the dithyrambs. Of none of
these, unfortunately, have we more than fragments, and in some of the
tragic choruses we have doubtless the. survival of its older form, so
given that we may best judge what it was in earlier times. This re-
cital of old myths which Thespis introduced we may conceive to have
developed into the play, while the choruses hand down the religious
song. Yet just by what steps the drama was developed is only to be
conjectured. Phrynichus (511-476 B.C.) held an important position in
the change, but the fact that we know but little more than the titles
of his plays renders his services obscure. These show that he chose
for writing very diverse legends ; thus. The Phoenician women. The
Persians, The capture of Miletus, Actaeon, Alcestis, Andromeda, Tan-
talus, etc., indicate a wide principle of selection. We are told that he
was the first to introduce a female character, an innovation of con-
siderable importance.
Such then is the dim picture of the Athenian stage when ^schylus
appeared. The festival in honor of Dionysus was celebrated in the
spring time, a goat being sacrificed to the god, and choruses perform-
224
GREEK DRAMA— GROWTH AND HISTORY.
ing their dances about the altar and the victim. Later, the goat was
awarded as a prize to the successful leader of the chorus. The name
tragedy (from the Gx&€k rfjayoq, a goat) came from the fact that the
singers appeared wearing the masks of satyrs and clad in goats' skins.
With time the inappropriate masks ceased to be used, but the name
remained.
The resemblance between the evolution of the Greek drama and
PAN MASKS.
that of modern times is very distinct ; both owed their origin to reli-
gious rites, for the unfolding of mysteries and miracle plays from eccle-
siastical ceremonies has been clearly shown, and thus both the ancient
and modern stage secured an important element of popularity. To be
sure the modern drama paid dearly for belonging to posterity by being
overborne by the work of the classic stage, while that of Greece en-
joyed full independence of literary models; but where this shadow was
less obscure, as in England, the development was normal and fertile.
Yet there are reli-
gions and religions,
and the marked dif-
ference between me-
diaeval Christianity
and the early wor-
ship of Dionysus is
so great that the
PANTOMIME MASKS.
acknowledged simi-
larity of the origins
of ancient and mod-
ern drama is almost
hidden beneath the
mass of divergencies.
Behind ' one was a
past that had tri-
umphed successfully overthe barbarism which left its rites, so to speak,
as the raw material to be worked by art and enthusiasm into a thousand
charming forms. The savage survivals were like the physical geog-
raphy of the land, tamed, smoothed, cultivated, made inhabitable,
modified, not destroyed ; and in the other we have a drama growing up
MECHANICAL CONSTRUCTION- OF THE GREEK THEATRE. 225
out of the ruins of past civilizations, obscured by contemporary
barbarism, if the term is not too severe. And two things more
unlike than the worship of Dionysus and the Christianity of the
middle ages it would not be easy to imagine, one rejoicing in life, the
other animated by hatred of what was the chief inspiration of the
early Greek stage. Still the resemblance shines through the difference
of conditions, and is no less apparent in the ripening than in the
budding of the two dramas.
III.
Before discussing what was done in the flowering time of Greek
tragedy, it will be well to consider the mechanical conditions that
attended the productions of the plays. The ancient theatres of Greece
were large stone structures, built to contain the whole adult free popu-
lation of a Greek city. They were generally devoid of architectural
beauty, possibly because their size baffled the men who above all
things loved moderation and proportion. They perhaps despaired of
treating the vast bulk of the theatres with success, and, abandoning all
architectural effect, contented themselves with making them safe and
convenient. It was only in later years and in remote regions, in the
Peloponnesus and the colonies, for example in Syracuse, that they
were built with an eye to architectural beauty. The Athenians began
to build their stone theatre about 500 B.C., after the press of people
had broken down the old wooden seats, and it was hurriedly completed ;
it was without a roof, open to the sky, and the plays were always given
in the daytime. If a shower fell the spectators would seek shelter in
the passage-ways that ran behind the seats, or they could endure it
without interrupting what was really a solemn religious rite. To have
shut in the theatre with a roof would have seemed to the Greeks
an objectionable thing ; the tragedies had a ceremonial significance
that demanded this performance in the open air under the very eyes
of the gods, and the climate made such protection unnecessary. The
spectators' seats were arranged in a semicircle about what in a modern
theatre we call the parterre, or, like the Greeks, the orchestra, rising
gradually towards the back. The actors wore masks with contrivances
for carrying the voice, and with larger faces, so that those even at a
great distance could see and hear ; moreover, the cothurnus augmented
^he height of the performers. The use of masks, moreover, obviously
prevented what would have seemed to the Greeks the distraction of
seeing the varying expressions of the actors* faces. The development
of the actor's personal suitability to a part is something of purely
modern growth, and far removed from the • Greek conception of the
2 26 THE GREEK STAGE APPOINTMENTS.
drama as a piece of ritual in which the various performers were as
unindividual as at all times are the priests who conduct any purely
religious ceremony. Besides, there is always something statuesque
about every form of Greek art, which was far removed from modern
feelings.
The stage formed the diameter of the orchestra, and was a long,
comparatively narrow space, in the centre of which the actors stood.
Just back of this centre was an open space, called the proscenium.
The front wall towards the orchestra was adorned with small columns
or similar decorations, the whole stage resting on boards supported by
a stone foundation. The scenery was cleverly arranged according to a
conventional model. On the left was a representation of a city, which
included a palace, temple, or whatever the play might demand ; on the
right were open fields or mountains, or the sea-shore, and the side
scenes were composed of upright triangles, movable on an axis so that
the scene could be changed without difficulty. At the back there were
probably many things actually in position that are only painted on
modern scenery. If a temple was represented, an altar stood in the
proscenium for sacrifices, etc. In the back wall there were one main
entrance in the centre and two side entrances ; the first for the use of
the leading characters, the others for the inferior ones. Besides these,
which faced the spectators, and appeared as doors in architectural
scenery, there were four side entrances, two on the stage at the inner
corners of the proscenium, and two more at the opposite ends of the
orchestra. These last were intended for the chorus, but were occasion-
ally used by the actors, who then ascended the steps leading from the
orchestra to the middle of the stage. Beneath the seats of the spec-
tators ran a passage-way, through which spirits from the lower regions
advanced to the staircase that carried them to the stage. The machinery
to support the gods that should appear in the air or to carry away mor-
tals was kept out of sight of the spectators behind the walls on both
sides of the stage. Arrangements also existed by which actors could
sink into the earth, or houses could be shattered or burned. A tower
could easily be set in the back of the stage ; in short, the mechanical
contrivances were most convenient. When, for example, it was neces-
sary to reproduce the interior of a house, a machine behind the mid-
dle entrance projected a roof over the centre of the stage. The cur-
tain rolled down, instead of up as with us. The chorus had its
entrances below, in the orchestra, where it remained for the greater
part of the time, and where it performed the customary dances. In
the orchestra, opposite the middle of the stage, stood an altar-like
elevation, of the same height as the stage, called the thymele, the
survival of the ancient stone slab on which a victim was sacrificed to
s,^
3 .2
SB -1
228
GREEK DRAMA— ITS GROWTH AND HISTORY.
Dionysus. It was around this that the chorus gathered when not
taking part in the action of the play, but simply observing the course
of events. The
leader of the chorus
stood on the level
surface of the thy-
mele, where the first
actor of tragedy had
stood, to have a clear
view of what was
taking place on the
stage and to converse,
with the actors. The
thymele, it is well to
remember, was in the
centre of the whole
building; from it the
semicircles of seats
were described just
as, in the days when
the drama was com-
ing into existence,
the space where the
chorus alternately
stood and danced
was surrounded by a
circle of spectators.
The-* only connec-
tion between the
drama and the wor-
ship of Dionysus con-
tinually appeared in
the performances as
we have already seen
TRAGIC ACTOR.
{Front an ivory figure in the Fillon
Collections^
of the theatre. The
dress of the tragic
actors, for instance,
was not the simple
attire which we find
exhibited in most of
the Greek works of
art, but was rather
one modelled after
the requirements of
the Dionysiac festi-
val. Almost all the
actors wore long
robes reaching nearly
to the ground, and
over these were flung
vestments of crimson
or other striking col-
ors, with trimmings
of various hues
and golden jewels,
such as were usually
worn on the days of
the Dionysiac festi-
val. While the
chorus, who always
represented, as it
were, idealized spec-
tators, and took but
a subordinate part in
the play, were not
distinguishable by
their dress from the
part of a god or a
it in the construction
ordinary citizens, the actor who took the
hero wore this conventional and solemn attire. Moreover, the
cothurnus, of which mention has been already made, rendered
him some inches taller than he would naturally have been.
The mask that he wore was larger than life, and to preserve the proper
proportions his clothes were stuffed out to heroic size. The mobile
Greeks had brought to perfection the art of gesture, and probably the
skill of the actors in their movements modified somewhat their artifi-
THE TRAGIC MASKS— THEIR REMOTE ORIGIiV.
229
cial appearance in padding and masks. The tragic masks were not
wholly unattractive ; they were not caricatures, like those of the comic
actors ; the mouth was open, the eye-holes were large and the general
impression was one of solemn dignity. Moreover, it is easier for us to
reconcile the unchangeableness of expression with the characters of
an ancient play than it would be to endure it in a modern one, and
especially in one of Shakspere's. In the Greek plays we often find a
character expressing but one emotion from the beginning to the end,
as the Medea of Euripides or the Ajax of Sophocles ; in the King
CEdipus of Sophocles, the altered mood might perhaps have been ex-
pressed by a change of masks, and so with others.
The origin of this use of masks has long been the subject of discus-
sion. In ancient times their invention was ascribed by various
TRAGIC MASKS.
(From wall paintings.')
authorities to different persons, although Aristotle expressed himself
unable to form any definite opinion in regard to the matter. A good
reason for his hesitation readily suggests itself, namely, that no one of
the early tragedians, to whom the merit was commonly ascribed, did
in fact invent the masks, but that these existed as survivals of the
paraphernalia of the Greek rites from remote and uncivilized times,
such as we now find employed by other savage races, as the American
Indians and the Esquimaux. Indeed, the use of masks is widespread
among uncivilized peoples ; it begins apparently with a dim notion of
terrifying or deceiving demons, and soon becomes a formula of wor-
ship. It was from this state that the custom appears to have entered
the Greek drama. In the ceremonies of the Dionysiac festivals it was
usual to stain and disguise the face, and for this purpose first leaves
and later linen masks were employed at a very early date. Some of
the masks represented animals, as afterwards in the Birds and Frogs of
Aristophanes, in the same way that we now find similar disguises ex-
isting in different parts of the world. While the mask is common
among nearly all savage races, we may find it surviving in the dramatic
230
n^S GROWTH AND HISTORY.
performances of the Chinese and Japanese, and doubtless after going
through a very similar experience. The Roman mask appears to have
had the same origin, and to have maintained itself down to the present
day. In the masques of the Elizabethan playwrights, which were
composed after Italian models, we have an undoubted survival of the
old custom, which still lingers in the masked ball.
Whatever their origin, the use of masks helped to secure the vivacity
of the comedy by furnishing a conventional disguise for its satire, and
to preserve the solemnity of the tragedy by maintaining the traditions
of the ancient rites ; and they were particularly well suited to make
more marked the uniformity of purpose that we generally find ex-
pressed in a Greek play. In the modern drama the conditions are
very different, and we find more stress laid upon individuality and a
far greater variety of action. Thus,
in the tragedies of Shakspere —
where met the very different
streams of mediaevalism and the
Renaissance, there was no lack of
various moods ; the conflict was
perpetual between gloom and
jollity, despair and hope. In the
French classic drama, on the other
hand, there prevailed a compara-
tive uniformity, and the majesty
of its spirit was long in giving
ground before modern changes. Its superiority to external details,
to the minor matters which are of the greatest importance in the
realistic drama, only concentrated the spectators' attention on its real
merits, on the intellectual conflict, so to speak, which the dramatist
proposed to set forth. Every thing else was of as little importance
as is local color in an oratorio ; there was an almost complete disregard
of anachronisms; Roman heroes wore modern wigs, coats, and boots,
and these apparent inconsistencies were reckoned as but part of the
inevitable inaccuracy of all scenic representations. The drama always
requires some conventions, and the only controlling law is the assent
of the audience ; in this case it was freely given, and the classic French
plays moved after a generally recognized and tolerably uniform fashion
that well represented the artificial and somewhat complicated social
system of the time, just as modern plays, with their greater attention
to minute details and precise verisimilitude, express our interest in
facts that may be directly observed.
In its remoteness from minute accuracy the French tragedy bore a
noteworthy correspondence to the impersonal quality that the masks
MASKS.
{From a relief in Naples.)
JilSE OF THE DRAMA FROM RELIGIOUS CEREMONIES. 231
and customary conventionality gave to that of the Greeks ; but what
in France was an indication of merely the enforcement of certain
social and political conditions, was in Greece primarily an expression
of religious feeling, which naturally concerned itself but little with
what would have seemed the trivial minutiae of everyday life. Yet
the Greek tragedy continually yielded to the modern spirit ; and while
it began under the inspiration of awe and reverence, and throughout
retained its original form, we yet see the influence of the immediate
business of life making itself more and more forcibly felt. In ^schylus
it is remote ; in Euripides it is near, and in Sophocles we may see the
two inspirations almost equally balanced. Themain thing to be noticed
at this point, however, is the rise of the drama from religious cere-
monial, and the survival of the form then assumed, not merely through-
out the Greek tragedies, but even in those of modern times. The
Greek tragedy was primarily a magnificent ritual, which, like all rituals,
petrified into a lasting form the existing customs of the day where it
first took shape ; and since these consisted of invocation and lofty lan-
guage, the dithyramb became the fountain from which the most im-
portant currents of later poetry took their rise. Later we shall see its
equal influence on the almost contemporary formation of prose.
From the first the actors were not so much individuals as personifi-
cations of great contesting principles, abstract representations of
familiar conditions ; and the absence of their individuality was aug-
mented and preserved from what would have seemed a concession to
pettiness by the disguise of a mask. But what was lost in the direc-
tion in which the modern mind has worked was gained in impressive
dignity; and the importance of the tragedy was maintained by its
alliance with the most solemn and baffling questions of mythology.
Besides the actors there was the chorus. This consisted originally
of fifty, later of twelve, and finally of fifteen men, who were under the
direction of a leader. This leader was at times of service as a sort of
fourth actor, when he appeared as a representative of the whole chorus,
and discussed matters with one or more of the actors. The whole
band, too, lessened the barrenness of the scene. The sense of national
property in the drama was encouraged by the fact that all the mem-
bers of the chorus were private citizens who volunteered their services,
practised the songs and dances, in short performed their part in the
play from a feeling of civic duty. The position of leader of the
chorus fell by turns to different prominent citizens, very much as, at
the present time, the calmer duty of heading a subscription list falls
on a comparatively small number of rich men. He it was who was
deputed to instruct and maintain the chorus, to provide meals for the
different members, and to furnish a tripod as a reward for the success-
232
GREEK DRAMA— ITS GROWTH AND HISTORY.
ful tragedian. The chorus was the representative of the body of
citizens; its members took no direct part in the action of the play,
they were a band of men who sympathized, warned, praised, or con-
demned, as seemed most fitting. Their songs were accompanied by
the music of the flute, and less often of the lyre, and they uttered
them either when gathered about the thymele, or when, arranged in
two semi-choruses they descended into the orchestra, and advancing
or retreating, or forming graceful groups, they chanted their comments
on the deeds of the play. These lyric outbursts, with their formal
dances, were something like the interludes between the acts of a play.
Then the actions of the various characters were judged, and the tragic
feeling, intensified by these solemn interruptions, was supported until
the thread of the play was taken up, and it proceeded to its end.
Often, too, it the choral song
fell to the chorus -^^^^^ r^->3r^"-\ and dance. This
to take part in y^ /tva (^^ CV ^^^\ ^^^ their most
the dialogue; in / <^/^^^!^^^^\^r^''^^ r~~\ important func-
that case the / J^^/^m''^ /''^iXOM^ \ tion, to be sure ;
appointed lead- Jit^ LyQi^Mj' ^ ^^ v// P? 1 ^"^ ^^ ^^ ^° ^^
er spoke alone \%%A-\/\\tL^ \ j borne in mind
in the name of \^^^
ELECTRA WITH THE FUNERAL URN OF ORESTES. 315
Against this extreme of wanton insolence and unnatural cruelty, the
poet sets the agony of Electra, who feels that every hope is gone.
Her lamentations, however, are interrupted by her sister, who comes
running in with the tidings that she has just found on the tomb the
offering that, it will be remembered, Orestes had placed there, and that
she felt sure that they had been laid there by him. Electra, who
meanwhile has heard of the death of Orestes, pays no attention to
these facts, which seem of no importance, but entreats her sister's aid
in murdering .^gisthus. Naturally Chrysothemis refuses to further
this bold plan.
In the next scene Orestes and Pylades appear with an attendant
who carries a funeral urn ; Electra takes this urn in her hands, and
utters the most pathetic lament. This speech and the scene of recog-
nition between her and Orestes will be found just below. The reader
will notice how much Sophocles has altered the story as it is told by
yEschylus, and how much these changes add to the pathos of the play.
The steady accumulation of misery exalts her desire for vengeance,
and brings out more clearly her hopeless loneliness, with her mother
cruel, her sister timid and indifferent, her brother, as she believes,
dead.
The slaying of Clytemnestra follows quickly, and, by a wise modifi-
cation, she is the first to fall, while Orestes is hot with wrath, rather
than from the determination to fulfill the commands of the gods, as in
the Choephorae. ^gisthus then enters, and on approaching to see the
body of Orestes the veil is removed, and he sees Clytemnestra dead
before him. The rest is done in a moment, and the play ends with
iEgisthus killed.
Elec. [Taking the urn in her /lands.] O sole memorial of his life whom
most
Of all alive I loved ! Orestes mine,
With other thoughts I sent thee forth than these
With which I now receive thee. Now, I bear
In these my hands what is but nothingness ;
But sent thee forth, dear boy, in bloom of youth.
Ah, would that I long since had ceased to live
Before I sent thee to a distant shore.
With these my hands, and saved thee then from death !
So had'st thou perished on that self-same day,
And had a share in that thy father's tomb.
But now from home, an exile in a land
That was not thine, without thy sister near,
So did'st thou die, and I, alas, poor me !
Did neither lay thee out with lustral rites
And loving hands, nor bear thee, as was meet.
Sad burden, from the blazing funeral pyre ;
But thou, poor sufferer, tended by the hands
Of strangers, comest, in this paltry urn,
In paltry bulk. Ah ! miserable me !
V
ELECTRA WITH THE FUNERAL URN OF ORESTES. 3^7
For all the nurture, now so profitless,
Which I was wont with sweetest toil to give
For thee, my brother. Never did she love.
Thy mother, as I loved thee ; nor did they
Who dwell within there nurse thee, but 'twas I,
And I was ever called thy sister true ;
But now all this has vanished in a day
In this thy death ; for, like a whirlwincl, thou
Hast passed, and swept off all. My father falls ;
I perish ; thou thyself hast gone from sight ;
Our foes exult. Thy mother, wrongly named.
For mother she is none, is mad with joy.
Of whom thou oft did'st sent word secretly
That thou would'st come, and one day show thyself
A true avenger. But thine evil fate,
Thine and mine also, hath bereaved me of thee,
And now hath sent, instead of that dear form,
This dust, this shadow, vain and profitless.
Woe, woe is me !
piteous, piteous corpse !
Thou dearest, who did'st tread
(Woe, woe is me !)
Paths full of dread and fear.
How hast thou brought me low.
Yea, brought me very low, thou dearest one !
Therefore receive thou me to this thine home.
Ashes to ashes, that with thee below
1 may from henceforth dwell. When thou wast here
I shared with thee an equal lot, and now
I crave in dying not to miss thy tomb ;
For those that die I see are freed of grief.
Chor. Thou, O Electra, take good heed, wast born
Of mortal father, mortal, too, Orestes ;
Yield not too much to grief. To suffer thus
Is common lot of all.
Ores. [Trembling.'] Ah, woe is me !
What shall I say? Ah, whither find my way
In words confused ? I fail to rule my speech.
Elec. What grief disturbs thee? Wherefore speak'st thou thus?
Ores. Is this Electra's noble form I see?
Elec. That self-same form, and sad enough its state.
Ores. Alas, alas, for this sad lot of thine !
Elec. Surely thou dost not wail, O friend, for me?
Ores. O form most basely, godlessly misused !
Elec. Thy words ill-omened fall on none but me.
Ores. Alas, for this thy life of lonely woe !
Elec. Why, in thy care for me, friend, groanest thou?
Ores. How little knew I of my fortune's ills !
Elec. What have I said to throw such light on them ?
Ores. Now that I see thee clad with many woes.
Elec. And yet thou see'st but few of all mine ills.
Ores. What could be sadder than all this to see ?
Elec. This, that I sit at meat with murderers.
Ores. With whose? What evil dost thou mean by this?
Elec. My father's; next, I'm forced to be their slave.
Ores. And who constrains thee to this loathed task ?
Elec. My mother she is called, no mother like.
Ores. How so ? By blows, or life with hardships full ?
Elec. Both blows and hardships, and all forms of ill.
Ores. And is there none to help, not one to check ?
3l8 SOPHOCLES.
Elec. No, none. Who was . . . thou bringest him as dust.
Ores. O sad one ! Long I pitied as I gazed !
Elec. Know, then, that thou alone dost pity me.
Ores. For I alone come suffering woes like thine.
Elec. What } Can it be thou art of kin to us }
Ores. If these are friendly, I could tell thee more.
Elec. Friendly are they ; thou'lt speak to faithful ones.
Ores. Put by that urn, that thou may'st hear the whole.
Elec. Ah, by the gods, O stranger, ask not that.
Ores. Do what I bid thee, and thou shalt not err.
Elec. Nay, by thy beard, of that prize rob me not.
Ores. I may not have it so.
Elec. Ah me, Orestes,
How wretched I, bereaved of this thy tomb !
Ores. Hush, hush such words ; thou hast no cause for wailing.
Elec. Have I no cause, who mourn a brother's death }
Ores. Thou hast no call to utter speech like this.
Elec. Am I then deemed unworthy of the dead .''
Ores. Of none unworthy. This is nought to thee.
Elec. Yet if I hold Orestes' body here.
Ores. 'Tis not Orestes' save in show of speech.
Elec. Where, then, is that poor exile's sepulchre.''
Ores. Nay, of the living there's no sepulchre.
Elec. What say'st thou, boy }
Ores. No falsehood what I say.
Elec. And does he live ?
Ores. He lives, if I have life.
Elec. What ? Art thou he }
Ores. Look thou upon this seal,
My father's once, and learn if I speak truth.
Elec. O blessed light !
Ores. Most blessed, I too own.
Elec. O voice ! And art thou come .'*
Ores. No longer learn
Thy news from others.
Elec. And I have thee here,
Here in my grasp ?
Ores. So may'st thou always have me !
Elec. O dearest friends, my fellow-citizens,
Look here on this Orestes, dead indeed
In feigned craft, and by that feigning saved.
Chor. We see it, daughter, and at what has chanced
A tear of gladness trickles from our eyes.
Elec. O offspring, offspring of a form most dear.
Ye came, ye came at last.
Ye found us, yea, ye came.
Ye saw whom ye desired.
Ores. Yes, we are come. Yet wait and hold thy peace.
Elec. What now ?
Ores. Silence is best, lest some one hear within.
Elec. Nay, nay. By Artemis,
The ever-virgin One,
I shall not deign to dread
Those women there within,
With worthless burden still
Cumbering the ground.
Ores. See to it, for in women too there lives
The strength of battle. Thou hast proved it well.
Elec. [sobbing] Ah, ah ! Ah me !
ORESTES AND ELECTRA.
(^Known as the Menelaus Group.)
320
SOPHOCLES.
There thou hast touched upon a woe unveiled,
That knows no heahng, no
Nor ever may be hid.
Ores. I know it well. But, when occasion bids.
Then should we call those deeds to memory,
Elec. All time for me is fit,
Yea, all, to speak of this
With wrath as it deserves ;
Till now I had scant liberty of speech.
Ores. There we are one. Preserve, then, what thou
hast.
Elec. And what, then, shall I do }
Ores. When time serves not,
Speak not o'ermuch.
Elec. And who then worthily.
Now thou art come, would choose
Silence instead of speech }
For lo ! I see thee now unlooked, unhoped for.
Ores. Then thou did'st see me here.
When the gods urged my coming.
Elec. Thou hast said
What mounts yet higher than thy former boon.
If God has sent thee forth
To this our home, I deem
The work as heaven's own deed.
Ores. Loth am I to restrain thee in thy joy,
And yet I fear delight o'ermasters thee.
Elec. O thou who after many a weary year
At last has deigned to come
(Oh, coming of great joy !)
Do not, thus seeing me
Involved in many woes ....
Ores. What is it that thou ask'st me not to do }
Elec. Deprive me not, nor force me to forego
The joy supreme of looking on thy face.
Ores. I should be wroth with others who would force
thee.
Elec. Dost thou consent, then ?
Ores. How act otherwise }
Elec. Ah, friends, I heard a voice
Which never had I dreamt would come to me ;
Then I kept in my dumb and passionate mood,
Nor cried I, as I heard :
But now I have thee ; thou hast come to me
With face most precious, dear to look upon.
Which e'en in sorrow I can ne'er forget.
Ores. All needless words pass over. Tell me not
My mother's shame, nor how ^gisthos drains
My father's wealth, much wastes, and scatters much ;
Much speech might lose occasion's golden hour ;
But what fits in to this our present need,
That tell me, where, appeanng or concealed.
We best shall check our boasting enemies,
In this our enterprise ; so when we twain
Go to the palace, look to it, that she note not.
Thy mother, by thy blither face, our coming,
But mourn as for that sorrow falsely told.
When we have prospered, then shalt thou have leave
Freely to smile, and joy exultingly.
COMPARISON OF EURIPIDES, ^SCHYLUS AND SOPHOCLES. 2>2l
Elec. Yes, brother clear ! Whatever pleaseth thee,
That shall be my choice also, since my joy
I had not of mine own, but gained from thee,
Nor would I cause thee e'en a moment's pain.
Myself to reap much profit. I should fail.
So doing-, to work His will who favors us.
What meets us next, thou knowest, dost thou not ?
.^gisthos, as thou hearest, gone from home ;
Thy mother there within, of whom fear not
Lest she should see my face look blithe with joy ;
For my old hatred eats into my soul,
And, since I've seen thee, I shall never cease
To weep for very joy. How could I cease.
Who in this one short visit looked on thee
Dead, and alive again ? Strange things to-day
Hast thou wrought out, so strange that should there come
My father, in full life, I should not deem
'Twas a mere marvel, but believe I saw him.
But, since thou com'st on such an enterprise.
Rule thou as pleases thee. Were I alone,
I had not failed of two alternatives.
Or nobly had I saved myself, or else
Had nobly perished.
Ores. Silence now is best :
I hear the steps of some one from within.
As if approaching.
From this account of the Electra the reader may judge of the dif-
ference between the art of Sophocles and that of ^schylus, and
since Euripides also wrote a play on the same subject we shall be able
later to make a comparison of the three masters of tragedy. Yet, as
will be seen, a hasty generalization will have to be avoided, because
the Electra of Euripides does that poet less credit than some of his
other plays. The Electra of Sophocles, though not his greatest piece,
contains a good share of what is best in his work, pathos, for example,
eloquence, ingenious construction, and, above all, the seriousness which
is so marked a characteristic of the great Greek tragedians as it is of
Shakspere. This is shown in the way that all the diverse merits are
subordinated to the utterance of the profoundest truths regarding
human life. In the earlier lyric poety of Greece, literary excellence
of a rare sort was to be found, but it had one of the qualities that ac-
crue to complete art finding expression in an artificial, conventional,
and above all in so compact form, namely, that it lacks life, whatever
other qualities it may possess, just as a witticism generally lacks the
highest wisdom. The Greeks when writing lyrics were cutting gems,
and that is an occupation which possesses a certain insignificance by
the side of sculpture, and their tragedies possess a fullness of life, an
abundance of suggestion and implication, such as only the highest art
can convey. Every detached statement is but partly true ; it is only an
accumulation of them that can really throw light on life, and while the
32 2 SOPHOCLES.
brilliant flashes of the lyrics delight us, tease us with vivid, brief frag-
ments of truth, it is from the great, glowing mass of the tragedy, with
its wholeness of vision,, that we get the feeling of great aid, or of the
vast solemnity of human existence.
III.
In the Antigone we find, as it were, a distinct resemblance to the
Electra that may justify its examination in this place. It is known
that it was the thirty-second play in the order of composition, and was
thus written when the art of Sophocles had reached its highest per-
fection. The qualities of the play would alone prove this. In antiq-
uity it received especial admiration, and although the plot depends
on conditions that do not forcibly appeal to us this fact does not lessen
the enthusiasm of modern readers ; the skill, the grace, the pathos of
the poet yet and ever exercise their charm. The reader will remem-
ber that at the end of the Seven against Thebes the body of Poly-
neices, slain in his attack on the city, was ordered to be left unburied,
and that Antigone avowed her determination to inter it, in spite of
this direct command. This is the whole subject of the Antigone,
though whether it was from vEschylus, or from some one else who
added to the play, is a debated question. Whoever wrote it, this is
the plot of the play of Sophocles.
As in the Electra, we have two sisters holding different views ; Antig-
one urges Ismene to join her in the plan she has formed of burying
their brother, but is met by timidity and reluctance. In the first scene
not only the action of the play, but the character of Antigone and the
opposition that she is to meet with, are clearly indicated with the
swiftness and vividness that mark a master's hand. Antigone has all
the determination, but not violence, that is required for the deliberate
violation of a king's command, and it is the firmness and unswerving
courage of her character that is enforced throughout. Naturally
enough these traits cannot be brought out without the sacrifice of the
opposite qualities; hence there adheres to Antigone a flavor of harsh-
ness which can scarcely fail to strike modern readers, whose womanly
ideal for centuries has been a docile and yielding being without a will
or, one may say, a mind of her own. The prudent and timid Ismene
is much more nearly a modern heroine than is her sister, who, single
handed, fights in defense of piety against despotic law.
After Creon has pronounced his edict that no one shall pay any
honors to the corpse of Polyneices, a guard enters, and with all the
clumsiness that in our novels and plays is put in the mouth of an Irish
or Scotch peasant informs the king that some one has paid honors to
GREEK TRAGEDY NOT ARTIFICIAL. 323
the dead soldier ; soon the guilty Antigone is brought in before
Creon, who asks if it was she who dared to disobey his laws.
" Yes," she answers, " for it was not Zeus that gave them forth,
Nor Justice, dwelling with the gods below,
Who traced these laws for all the sons of men ;
Nor did I deem thy edicts strong enough,
That thou, a mortal man, should'st over-pass
The unwritten laws of God that know not change.
They are not of to-day nor yesterday.
But live forever, nor can man assign
When first they sprang to being. Not through fear
Of any man's resolve was I prepared
Before the gods to bear the penalty
Of sinning against these. That I should die
I know, (how should I not Y) though thy decree
Had never spoken. And, before my time
If I shall die, I reckon this a gain ;
For whoso lives, as I, in many woes.
How can it be but he shall gain by death ?
And so for me to bear this doom of thine
Has nothing painful. But, if I had left
My mother's son unburied on his death.
In that I should have suffered ; but in this
I suffer not. And should I seem to thee
To do a foolish deed, 'tis simply this, —
I bear the charge of folly from a fool."
Here we have a complete statement of Antigone's ground of action,
and in the last fling we have a vigorous disproof of the error that has
become a part of the conception of Greek tragedy as a cold and arti-
ficial thing.
Just before, the half-amusing thick-wittedness of the soldier has
shown that not in modern times alone have writers been able to enrich
their work with little touches of nature, such as one is unaccustomed
to expect in Greek tragedies ; for these have been spoken of as remote
and inaccessible storehouses of difficult figures of speech, icy meta-
phors, and fantastic feeling. Yet the more they are examined the
richer are they found in human sympathies. It is not easy for us to
form a satisfactory conception of the extent to which this very play
would appeal to all Greeks with their vivid feeling of the necessity of
conferring funeral rites upon their dead ; but through this crust of ob-
solete ceremonial there breathes the human soul in trouble, and that
is enough. In the speech just given of Antigone it is not lack of
sympathy that we feel ; we see the earnest sense of duty that animates
the heroine, her wrath, and the engaging candor of her tongue. She
is preparing her own fate, just as truly as, on the other hand, we may
see in Creon the personification of rigid laws obstinately deaf to all
the surrounding influences that gradually place themselves in oppo-
sition to his cruelty.
324
SOPHOCLES.
Ismene is accused by him of aiding Antigone in her opposition to
his commands, and wishes to share her sister's punishment, but her
generosity only serves as a foil to Antigone's cruel isolation. Ismene
further entreats Creon to pardon Antigone, who is betrothed to his son
Haemon, and the chorus add their prayers, but the tyrant is obstinate.
Haemon himself urges his father to clemency, pointing out the king's
advantage rather than his own personal wishes, but in vain. Creon
orders Antigone to be immured in a cave to die alone. Every interfer-
ence is fruitless, and Antigone is borne to her living tomb, mourning
her untimely fate, but not shaken in her consciousness of right-doing.
The chorus sympathize with her, and it is interesting to notice how
certainly, if slowly, sympathy is aroused in behalf of the doomed
heroine. Their pity, too, is made to appear more valuable by her
rigidity and harshness. Had she
shown an appealing gentleness or
grace, she would have never lacked
defenders, but without them she
finally won the sincerest pity.
After Creon's orders have been
carried out, the old seer Teiresias
appears and foretells all manner of
woe to Creon, who finally consents
to yield. But it is too late. The
messenger enters with tidings of
Haemon's death by his own hands,
after a vain effort to kill his father, by
the side of Antigone, who had
lianged herself. Eurydice, Creon's
wife, hears this news with horror and
disappears ; soon another messen-
ger comes in to announce that she
too has slain herself, and Creon's cup
of unhappiness is full, his spirit is
broken. The tragic conflict has at
least not been complicated by sym.-
pathy with him. Indeed, there is a
repellant quality in both Creon
and Antigone which gives them
a similitude rather to abstract personifications than to living beings,.-
and when we remember how frequently this play was translated at the
time of the Renaissance we may perhaps conjecture that some of the
coldness of the early imitations of the classical plays was inspired by
the willful copying of this fault, which seemed to have all the authority
TEIRESIAS.
REALITIES OF LIFE THE SUBJECTS OF SOPHOCLES. 325
of Greece behind it. It is not at first clear how much fanaticism Hke
that which possessed Antigone fills the heart to the exclusion of other
qualities, and the time had not yet come when poets had learned that
bitterness and determination might be found in combination with
softness and gentleness, and Antigone is a legendary heroine, not a
modern Nihilist.
Yet while the play moves in a remote region, there is scarcely any
other work of Sophocles in which the lyrical part sounds a higher
note, where the especial dramatic interest so thoroughly combines with
the universal, lasting truth. Here we have Sophocles at his best, as
in the first stasimon. The reader will notice at once the fact that the
poet has chosen for his subject the realities of life, and is far removed
from the consideration of the remote questions that agitated the soul
of ^schylus. It is a modern who is speaking.
STROPH. I.
Chor. Many the forms of life,
Wondrous and strange to see,
But nought than man appears
More wondrous and more strange.
He, with the wintry gales.
O'er the the white foaming sea,
'Mid wild waves surging round,
Wendeth his way across :
Earth, of all Gods, from ancient days the first,
Unworn and undecayed.
He, with his ploughs that travel o'er and o'er,
Furrowing with horse and mule.
Wears ever year by year.
ANTISTROPH. I.
The thoughtless tribe of birds.
The beasts that roam the fields.
The brood in sea-depths born,
He takes them all in nets
Knotted in snaring mesh,
Man, wonderful in skill.
And by his subtle arts
He holds in sway the beasts
That roam the fields, or tread the mountain's height,
And brings the binding yoke
Upon the neck of horse with shaggy mane.
Or bull on mountain crest.
Untamable in strength.
STROPH. II.
And speech, and thought as swift as wind,
And tempered mood for higher life of states.
These he has learnt, and how to flee
Or the clear cold of frost unkind,
Or darts of storm and shower,
326 SOPHOCLES.
Man all-providing. Unprovided, he
Meeteth no chance the coming days may bring ;
Only from Hades, still
He fails to find escape,
Though skill of art may teach him how to flee
From depths of fell disease incurable.
ANTISTROPH. II.
So, gifted with a wondrous might,
Above all fancy's dreams, with skill to plan,
Now unto evil, now to good.
He turns. While holding fast the laws.
His country's sacred rights.
That rest upon the oath of Gods on high,
High in the State : an outlaw from the State,
When loving, in his pride,
The thing that is not good ;
Ne'er may he share my hearth, nor yet my thoughts,
Who worketh deeds of evil like to this.
Even more impressive is the second stasimon, given below, although
in both of these extracts it is impossible not to observe how much the
author seems to be sitting outside of his work, and to be commenting
upon it, in a most impressive and beautiful way, to be sure, but yet
with a different conception of the quality of the choral performance
from that which we saw in .^schylus. In other words, the drama was
undergoing its normal development, in which action becomes more
prominent, and the lyric part is still a graceful accompaniment,
but distinctly an accompaniment ; its further modification will
be seen in the work of Euripides. It is not an actor in the
play who indulges in these reflections on human life, but the
author, who takes advantage of the pause in the action to accen-
tuate the mood into which he wishes to throw his hearers. The
whole conception of the drama is in process of change — he would be
a bold man who would say whether for the better or the worse, for
in the whole modification something is lost for everything that is
gained ; it remains for us to notice the course of events, and, by
understanding it, to be able to appreciate what was done. Such con-
duct has at least one swift and sure reward : comprehension of dif-
ferent conditions can not fail to bring an enlargement of the capacity
of enjoyment. A botanist, for example, will love all flowers.
STROPH. I.
Chor. Blessed a.re those whose life no woe doth taste !
For unto those whose house
The Gods have shaken, nothing fails of curse
Or woe, that creeps to generations far.
E'en thus a wave, (when spreads.
With blasts from Thrakian coasts.
EXTRACT FROM ''ANTIGONE:' 3^7
The darkness of the deep,)
Up from the sea's abyss
Hither and thither rolls the black sand on,
And every jutting peak,
Swept by the storm-wind's strength,
Lashed by the fierce wild waves.
Re-echoes with the far-resounding roar.
ANTISTROPH. I.
I see the woes that smote, in ancient days.
The seed of Labdacos,
Who perished long ago, with grief on grief
Still falling, nor does this age rescue that ;
Some god still smites it down.
Nor have they any end :
For now there rose a gleam.
Over the last weak shoots.
That sprang from out the race of CEdipus ;
Yet this the blood-stained scythe
Of those that reign below
Cuts off relentlessly.
And maddened speech, and frenzied rage of heart.
STROPH. II.
Thy power, O Zeus, what haughtiness of man,
Yea, what can hold in check ?
Which neither sleep, that maketh all things old,
Nor the long months of Gods that never fail.
Can for a moment seize.
But still as Lord supreme.
Waxing not old with time.
Thou dwellest in Thy sheen of radiancy
On far Olympos' height.
Through future near or far as through the past.
One law holds ever good.
Naught comes to life of man unscathed throughout by woe.
ANTISTROPH. II.
For hope to many comes in wanderings wild,
A solace and support ;
To many as a cheat of fond desires.
And creepeth still on him who knows it not,
Until he burn his foot
Within the scorching" flame.
Full well spake one of old,
That evil ever seems to be as good
To those whose thoughts of heart
God leadeth unto woe,
And without woe, he spends but shortest space of time.
IV.
It is to these choruses as well as to the vigor with which the char-
acter of Antigone is drawn that the play owes its long-lived reputation.
Yet while a trace of coldness adheres to this play, against the King
>^
v^
{v ^ ^S * without questioning, and even in the play, as we read it, the fault by
which CEdipus falls is made to coincide with a defect in his character,
and the vast impression of sympathy with the wretched hero dulls our
desire to determine his strict accountability. Misery is misery, how-
ever caused ; and we do not always have a case submitted to legal
adjudication before granting our pity.
At the beginning of the play, CEdipus, King of Thebes, appears
among the populace, who are praying at the altar for divine aid against
the pestilence that is afflicting them. An aged priest, in answer to his
questions, asks him, who had long been their chief supporter, to find
some succor for them. He makes reply that he had already sent
Creon, his kinsman, to Delphi to learn what was to be done to save
the state, and just then Creon returns with the order that the city
purge itself of guilt by expelling from within its walls the murderers
of Laius, a former king. CEdipus is at once anxious to obey the
behest of the oracle, and promises all the assistance in his power, and
to carry out his purpose he consults Teiresias, the blind seer, for such
revelations as he may be able to make. Teiresias, however, declines
to give any satisfactory information, on the ground that by so doing he
will inflict pain on CEdipus. This answer makes the king furious,
and he charges Teiresias with being an accomplice of the murderers
of Laius. Thereupon the seer asserts that it is CEdipus who is
the defiler of the land, that he is the murderer whom they seek, and
that he lives in shame with his nearest kin, and he foretells his
speedy downfall. These utterances CEdipus mistakes for mere angry
denunciation, and he suspects that they are part of Creon's work,
and when Creon appears he accuses him of treachery. CEdipus is
full of wrath and distraught with pain at the discovery that he im-
agines that he has made, while Creon is calm and reasonable. At the
"^ height of the quarrel, when the king has threatened Creon with death
and Creon has refused to submit, Jocasta, the wife of CEdipus, the sis-
ter of Creon, appears and tries to pacify her husband. She urges him
to renew his trust in Creon, and as to Teiresias, she says tha:t his
pretended knowledge is mere pretension, for long since he told Laius
4
CEDIPUS AND THE SEER. 329
that the gods had said he was to die by his son's hand, whereas he was
slain by robbers, and as to their son, they pierced his ankles and cast
him forth on a lonely hill when but three days old. How then could
he have been his father's murderer ? The truth then unrolls itself
before CEdipus ; he remembers how he slew a stranger on the highway,
and the worst fears threaten him lest he should be proved the mur-
derer of Laius. But he does not yet suspect that Laius was his
father ; he only fears lest, expelled from Thebes, he shall be a wan-
derer on the face of the earth, unable to visit his parents from dread
of the curse that awaits him, that he shall slay his father and marry
his mother. He sends for the servant who brought the news of the
murder of Laius ; meanwhile news is brought to Jocasta of the death
of Polybus of Corinth, who was thought to be the father of QEdipus,
and the inaccuracy of the oracle appears to be certain, for the hands of
CEdipus were not stained with his father's blood. The queen rejoices
at this news, but her husband's anxiety is not wholly allayed ; the
other peril, incestuous union with his mother, appears still to threaten
him. The messenger, however, is able to assure him that he is not in
fact the son of Polybus and Merope, but a foundling whom he him-
self gave to Merope, and that she brought him up as her own son.
This statement unfolds the whole terrible truth to Jocasta, who en-
treats her husband to push his questioning no further, but he, on the
track of his origin, can not pause, and when the shepherd appears who
had been commissioned to make way with him but had spared his
life out of pity, CEdipus plies him with eager inquiry. The whole
horror then comes out ; Jocasta was his mother, and had plotted her
son's death to evade the oracle, which had been completely fulfilled.
CEdipus in horror leaves the stage. After a lyric interlude of the
chorus, a messenger enters who tells how Jocasta had hanged herself
and CEdipus had blinded himself; scarcely has he finished when the
doors of the palace are thrown open, and CEdipus comes forward over-
whelmed with misery. Creon, on whom the government has fallen,
relieves the fierce strain of unhappiness that marks this scene by his
generosity. CEdipus asks that he may go into banishment, and that
his two daughters, Antigone and Ismene, may be kindly cared for.
He begs, too, to have them brought in :
" Could I but touch them with my hands, I feel
Still I should have them mine, as when I saw."
The children appear, and the whole black night of tragedy is at
once condensed into a form of pathos that appeals to every reader
who can place himself in the position of a spectator of the acted
330
SOPHOCLES.
play. The groping hands of the guilty king and the unconscious
innocence of the children present a contrast that needs no comment.
It is a touch that melts the heart heavy with the slow accumulation
of guilt, as some tender memorial of lost happiness brings tears to the
eyes of those who are petrified with inexpressible grief.
When the father is bidden to part from them, the play ends, and the
chorus utters its last injunction to call no one happy until his death.
BLINDING OF CEDIPUS.
This tragedy certainly enforces the lesson of the vicissitudes of life,
and, as it stands, it is a worthy memorial of the perfection of the Greek
tragic art. Not only is the story impressive, but the way in which the
incidents are accumulated and the interest is advanced from point to
point is most noteworthy. The action does not move in one steady
course, like the slow rising of a tide which gradually submerges the
characters, but they are rather overwhelmed by successive waves.
After CEdipus is charged with the murder of Laius, alarm fills the
soul, but the worst dread of the fate the oracle foretells is dispelled for
a moment by hearing of the death of Polybus ; his fear of committing
incest with his mother is temporarily removed by learning that he is
not the son of Merope ; only by successive steps does the truth appear,
and it is in these gradations that we see the successive complications
of the plot and their close interweaving.
That the ancients regarded the play as a masterpiece of skill is
evident from Aristotle's many references to it as a model play, and
the admiration of moderns is no less genuine. When it was brought
MODERN REPRESENTATIONS OF THE GREEK PLAYS. 331
out is uncertain, but it was apparently after the Antigone and before
the CEdipus at Colonus, that is to say, between 439 and 412 B.C.
Those who saw this play acted at Harvard College in the spring
of 1881, or those who have seen any of the not infrequent represen-
tations of Greek plays, such as the Antigone and the Agamemnon,
have learned what reading in the closet can scarcely teach, how won-
derfully adapted for the stage are these pieces. Only by such means
can one understand their vivacity and action, as well as the inaccuracy
of the literary notion that they are cold and statuesque. Far from it ;
they abound with life and are in no way scholastic accumulations of
declamatory dialogue, as they have been sometimes regarded when
spelled out from a lexicon. It is to this weariness of the dictionary
that is in part due the artificial solemnity of the modern imitations
of Greek plays, for the difference is very great between the freedom
enjoyed by men who are making literary models and the heavy bonds
worn by the men who are imitating them in cold blood.
V.
The CEdipus at Colonus, which had for its subject the last days of
the unhappy king, is not the second part of a trilogy which is con-
cluded by the Antigone. Sophocles did not present a coherent se-
quence of plays in that form, but rather a series of wholly discon-
nected tragedies. Moreover, there are discrepancies in the treatment
of the legend, and varieties in the drawing of the characters, which
would have been impossible had the interdependence of the separate
members been designed. Thus, at the end of King CEdipus, that
monarch moves away into exile from all human society, but in the
play that is now before us we learn that he has dwelt for some time in
Thebes, and is indignant with Creon and his own sons when he is sent
into banishment. In the Antigone, again, we are told that CEdipus
died immediately after blinding himself, and in all these plays there
are great differences in the character of Creon, all of which diver-
gences from a single design go to prove the separate intention of
each of the three plays. Yet the CEdipus at Colonus Avas doubtless
written with the intention of furnishing some pacifying solution to
the stormy career of that unhappy hero who held so important a
place in the imaginations of the Greeks ; and in the plot of this play
we find Sophocles making use of his own invention rather than of the
current form of the legend. Yet he had authority for the turn that he
gave the story in a local tradition, according to which the last days of
CEdipus were spent within the boundaries of Attica. There he was ,
said to have found a refuge, and to lie buried, in return for which kind- \
332 SOPHOCLES.
ness he became a protecting deity of that country. Action is lent to
this meager outline by representing the king as sought for in Thebes
by Creon and also by Polyneices, his son. Creon makes use first of
craft and then of force ; Polyneices is a humble suppliant for the favors
which the oracles have promised shall attend his father's presence.
/ Creon, indeed, goes so far as to have Antigone and Ismene seized to be
I carried away from the helpless old man, but Theseus of Athens is at
' hand and puts a stop to such frowardness. The play gives even in
this form but a small chance for dramatic action, which, moreover, is
rendered inappropriate by the hero's age and condition, so that the
whole interest centers in the art with which the comparatively placid
story unfolds itself.
The play is said to have been one of the last that Sophocles wrote,
and the general impression that the reader receives from it corrobo-
rates this view ; the languor that pervades it, the general compre-
hension of old age, distinguish it from the more vivid and glowing
pictures of life with which his other work is filled. Tradition says,
too' as has been remarked above, that the author recited one of the
choruses in disproof of the charge of senility, but, like all traditions,
this one has suffered from the onslaughts of critics who have torn it
to tatters, but its picturesqueness survives its certainty.
The play presents another interesting side in the comparison that
it suggests with the Eumenides of ^schylus, and in the contrast that
it presents to the austerer treatment of the earlier poet. The play of
Sophocles knows nothing of the terrible side of the furies ; their shrine
is a holy place which CEdipus unconsciously enters without intention
of desecration, and they are at once reconciled by his offerings. The
divine favor immediately follows these religious rites, and he is con-
soled by recalling the oracle that in this place he should die. There
is no moment of doubt, no prolonged conflict, as in the trial scene of
the Eumenides ; every thing moves uninterruptedly to the solemn
death of CEdipus, at last pardoned and at peace. Even the tears of
his two daughters are checked by Theseus, who says :
" Over those
For whom the night of death as blessing comes,
We may not mourn. Such grief the gods chastise."
It is, too, in the infinite grace of Sophocles when he celebrates the
culture, justice, and moderation of Athens that we notice the differ-
ence between him and ^schylus, who made full use of his oppor-
tunity to terrify the spectators with ghastly scenes. Sophocles, on
the other hand, lets solemn pathos and religious awe take the place of
complete terror. We see another change in the dawnings of the mel-
/
334 SOPHOCLES.
ancholy that accompanies every period of ripe culture, as in these
Hnes :
" O son of yEgeus, unto gods alone
Nor age can come, nor destined hour of death.
All else the almighty Ruler, Time, sweeps on.
Earth's strength shall wither, wither strength of limb,
And trust decays, and mistrust grows apace ;
And the same spirit lasts not among them
That once were friends, nor joineth state with state.
To these at once, to those in after years.
Sweet things grow bitter, then turn sweet again.
And what if now at Thebes all things run smooth
And well toward thee. Time, in myriad change,
A myriad nights and days brings forth ; and thus
In these, for some slight cause, they yet may spurn
In battle, all their pledge of faithfulness."
This passage, by the way, it is plausibly supposed, contains a refer-
ence to the political relations between Athens and Thebes at the be-
ginning of the Peloponnesian war. But besides this possible historical
value, it contains very distinctly the mark of the period as an indi-
cation of the breaking away of the confidence and buoyancy that
found expression in ^Eschylus. The Peloponnesian war itself is but
the outward sign of the same change.
The allusions to Athens and Colonus, the poet's birthplace, have
a wonderful charm, as these lines, which Sophocles is said to have
recited in disproof of the charge of mental decay, will show :
• STROPH. I.
Chor. Of all the land far famed for goodly steeds.
Thou com'st, O stranger, to the noblest spot,
Colonos, glistening bright.
Where evermore, in thickets freshly green,
The clear-voiced nightingale
Still haunts, and pours her song.
By purpling ivy hid,
And the thick leafage sacred to the God,
With all its myriad fruits,
By mortal's foot untouched.
By sun's hot ray unscathed.
Sheltered from every blast ;
There wanders Dionysos evermore,
In full, wild revelry,
And waits upon the nymphs who nursed his youth.
ANTISTROPH. I.
And there, beneath the gentle dews of heaven,
The fair narcissus with its clustered bells
Blooms ever, day by day.
Of old the wreath of mightiest Goddesses;
And crocus golden-eyed ;
And still unslumbering flow
SOPHOCLES' PRAISE OF COLONUS. 335
Kephisos' wandering streams ;
They fail not from their spring, but evermore.
Swift-rushing into birth,
Over the plain they sweep.
The land of broad, full breast.
With clear and stainless wave ;
Nor do the Muses in their minstrel choirs,
Hold it in slight esteem,
Nor Aphrodite with her golden reins.
STROPH. II.
And in it grows a marvel such as ne'er
On Asia's soil I heard.
Nor the great Dorian isle from Pelops named,
A plant self-sown, that knows
No touch of withering age.
Terror of hostile swords.
Which here on this our ground
Its high perfection gains.
The gray-green foliage of the olive-tree,
Rearing a goodly race:
And nevermore shall man.
Or young, or bowed with years,
Give forth the fierce command,
And lay it low in dust.
For lo ! The eye of Zeus,
Zeus of our olive groves.
That sees eternally,
Casteth its glance thereon.
And she, Athena, with the clear, gray eyes.
ANTISTROPH. II.
And yet another praise is mine to sing.
Gift of the mighty God
To this our city, mother of us all.
Her greatest, noblest boast,
Famed for her goodly steeds.
Famed for her bounding colts.
Famed for her sparkling sea.
Poseidon, son of Kronos, Lord and King,
To thee this boast we owe.
For first in these our streets
Thou to the untamed horse
Did'st use the conquering bit :
And here the well-shaped oar.
By skilled hands deftly plied,
Still leapeth through the sea.
Following in wondrous guise.
The fair Nereids with their hundred feet.
Antig. O land, thus blessed with praises that excel,
'Tis now thy task to prove these glories true.
Elsewhere we find a chorus of marked beauty:
He who seeks length of life.
Slighting the middle path.
Shall seem, to me at least,
336 SOPHOCLES.
As brooding o'er vain dreams.
Still the long days have brought
Griefs near, and nearer yet.
And joys — thou canst not see
One trace of what they were ;
When a man passeth on
To length of days beyond the rightful bourne ;
But lo, the helper that comes to all,
When doom of Hades looms upon his sight,
The bridegroom's joy all gone,
The lyre all silent now.
The choral music hushed,
Death comes at last.
Happiest beyond compare
Never to taste of life ;
Happiest in order next,
Being born, with quickest speed
Thither again to turn
From whence we came.
When youth hath passed away.
With all its follies light.
What sorrow is not there .''
What trouble then is absent from our lot ?
Murders, strifes, wars, and wrath, and jealousy,
And, closing life's long course, the last and worst,
An age of weak caprice,
Friendless, and hard of speech.
When, met in union strange,
Dwell ills on ills.
And here this woe-worn one
(Not I alone) is found ;
As some far northern shore,
Smitten by ceaseless waves.
Is lashed by every wind ;
So ever-haunting woes.
Surging in billows fierce.
Lash him from crown to base ;
Some from the westering sun.
Some from the eastern dawn,
These from the noontide south,
Those from the midnight of Rhiparaean hills.
VI.
In the Ajax of Sophocles we have what appears to be an early work of
that writer, and one taken from the legendary history of the Trojan war.
Already yEschylus had drawn from Homer and the other later cyclic
poets ;and Sophocles also, in plays that have been lost, showed a distinct
preference for these authorities ; nearly a quarter of his whole work
was taken from the Trojan myths, Odysseus being the personage who
most frequently figured either as a hero or in a secondary part. This
is only natural when we consider the distinct complexity of the char-
CONTENTION FOR ACHILLES' ARMOR.
337
acter of Odysseus, which would especially attract the student of psy-
chology. That hero has what may be called modern traits, especially
in contrast with the simpler incarnations of a single quality that made
up the personages most commonly found in the epics. Odysseus
appears, as will be seen, in this play. It opens with the goddess
CONTENTION OF AJAX AND ODYSSEUS BEFORE AGAMEMNON FOR THE ARMS OF ACHILLES.
(Sarcophagus relief from Ostia.)
Athene addressing him about the madness of Ajax. Ajax was a
mighty warrior among the Greeks fighting against Troy, and in his
pride he had offended Pallas Athene, so that when Achilles died and
it was announced that his armor should be given to the best and
bravest of the army, Ajax claimed it, on the ground that he had res-
cued from wrong the corpse of Achilles ; but Athene willed that it
should be given not to him but to her favorite Odysseus. Aias in
his wrath sought to slay the Atreidae, and would have succeeded had
not Athene deceived him and let him wreak his anger against the
flocks and herds.
The play begins with Athene telling Odysseus of the way in which
Ajax was deceived, and this she does, as a critic has observed, with a
coldness and scorn that resembles the hard smile with which that
deity was represented in Achaian art. She wishes Odysseus to see
the hero in his madness, but his prudence makes him oppose this
33^ SOPHOCLES.
plan. Yet Ajax comes forth from his tent and foretells the punish-
ment he shall inflict on the beasts that he mistakes for the hated
commanders. Athene points the moral, namely, the danger of disre-
spect to the gods.
" Do thou, then, seeing this, refrain thy tongue
From any lofty speech against the gods,
Nor boast thyself, though thou excel in strength
Or weight of stored-up wealth. All human things
A day lays low, a day lifts up again ;
But still the gods love those of ordered soul.
And hate the evil."
These are her last words, and then the stage is left to human beings,
who were the more especial objects of dramatic interest in the works
of the later writers. The action of the play is swift : Ajax, on discov-
ering all that he had been led to, partly by self-will, partly by the lures
of the goddess, is overcome with remorse and determines to kill him-
self. This he accomplishes in spite of the pathetic entreaties of his
wife, and his love for his infant son. After his death, Agamemnon
and Menelaus, still angry, denounce the dead hero and advise that the
body be allowed no funeral rites. Odysseus intervenes and opposes
successfully this harshness.
This prolongation of the interest after the death of the hero, which
in modern literature is a conclusion as absolute as it is in law, or as a
wedding in a novel, was something more readily understood by the
ancients than it is by us. The Athenians, who had recently condemned
ten generals to death for neglecting to perform funeral rites over the
bodies of slain soldiers, could easily comprehend, what indeed the
Antigone closely shows, the importance of these ceremonies. Yet
even with all possible allowance made for divergence of religious feel-
ing, there is no doubt that it is in the scenes between Ajax and
Tecmessa his wife, and when Ajax bids farewell to his son, and again
to the world, that the highest interest of the play is to be found. By
the side of the dignity and emotion that prevail here, the noisy in-
sults that the Greek leaders utter over a corpse are trivial and painful.
It is indeed the part that is really fine that carries the rest.
In other words, what characterizes the play as an expression of the
difference between Sophocles and -^schylus is the growth of indivi-
duality in the persons represented, and, in addition to this, the frequent
reference to the altered conditions of Athenian life, which is beginning
to fall under the judgment and condemnation of the calm-eyed poet.
" The tragic spirit," it has been said, " is the offspring of the conscience
of a people," * and here we find the conscience of the people, facing
* Vernon Lee's " Euphorion," i., io6.
ATHENIAN LIFE IN THE TRAGEDIES. 339
the current political problems of the day, vividly foreseeing its perils,
while the attempt is made to overcome them by preaching and exam-
ple. Throughout its brief but glorious existence, Greek tragedy was
full of the reflections that contemporary events cast upon it. What
in vEschylus was solemn joy, awe, and serious exaltation, became a
calm vision of high wisdom in Sophocles, who holds the mean between
his illustrious predecessor and Euripides, who, as we shall see, was torn
by a host of distracting emotions.
Here are some extracts to illustrate the noteworthy sanity of
Sophocles ; some emphasizing his keen eye for character, and the later
ones his political wisdom :
For very shame
Leave not thy father in his sad old age ;
For shame leave not thy mother, feeble grown
With many years, who ofttimes prays the Gods
That thou may'st live and to thy home return ;
Pity, O king, thy boy, and think if he.
Deprived of childhood's nurture, live bereaved,
Beneath unfriendly guardians, what sore grief
Thou, in thy death, dost give to him and me ;
For I have nothing now on earth save thee
To which to look ; for thou hast swept away
My country with thy spear, and other fate
Has taken both my mother and my sire
To dw^ell, as dead, in Hades. What to me
Were country in thy stead, or what were wealth }
For I in thee find all deliverance.
Yea, think of me too. Still the good man feels,
Or ought to feel, the memory of delight ;
For gracious favors still do favor win ;
But if a man forget the good received,
His soul no more wears stamp of gentle birth.
AlAS. Lift him, then, lift him here. He will not shrink,
Beholding all this slaughter newly wrought,
If he be rightly named his father's son :
But we to these his father's savage ways
Must break him in, and make him like in soul.
O boy, may'st thou be happier than thy sire,
In all things else be like him. And not bad
Would'st thou be then. And yet thy lot e'en now
Doth move my envy, that thou feelest nought
Of all these evils. Sweetest life is found
In those unconscious years ere yet thou know •
Or joy or sorrow. When thou com'st to this.
Then thou must show thy breeding to thy foes.
What son of what a father ; but till then,
In gentle breezes grow, and rear thy life
A joy to this thy mother. And I know
That none of all the Achaean host will dare
Insult thee with foul scorn, though I be gone ;
Such a stout guardian will I leave for thee
In Teucros, still unsparing for thy need.
Though now far off he hunts our enemies.
340 SOPHOCLES. .
And ye, who bear the shield, my sailor band.
On you in common this request 1 lay ;
Give him this message from me, home to take
This boy, and show him there to Telamon,
And to my mother, Eriboea named,
That he may feed their age for evermore,
[Till they too enter the abode of Death ;]
And these my arms no umpires — no, nor yet
That plague of mine — shall to Achasans give ;
But thou, my son, Eurysakes, be true
To that thy name, and holding by the belt
Well wrought, bear thou the sevenfold shield unhurt ;
But all my other arms with me shall lie
Entombed. And now, take thou this boy indoors
And close the tent, and shed no wailing tears
Here in the front. A woman still must weep.
Close up the opening quickly ; skillful leech
Mutters no spell o'er sore that needs the knife.
*****
So for the future we shall know to yield
Our will to God's, shall learn to reverence
The Atreidas even. They our rulers are,
And we must yield. Why not .? The strongest things
That fright the soul still yield to sovereignty.
Winters with all their snow-drifts still withdraw
For summer with its fruits ; and night's dark orb
Moves on, that day may kindle up its fires.
Day with its chariot drawn by whitest steeds ;
And blast of dreadest winds will lull to rest
Thy groaning ocean ; and all-conquering sleep
Now binds, now frees, and does not hold for aye
Whom once it seized. And shall not we too learn
Our lesson of true wisdom } I, indeed,
Have learnt but now that we should hate a foe
Only so far as one that yet may love.
And to a friend just so mucji help I'll give
As unto one that will not always stay ;
For with most men is friendship's haven found
Most treacherous refuge.
Never in a state
Can laws be well administered when dread
Has ceased to act, nor can an arm^d host
Be rightly ruled, if no defence of fear
And awe be present. But a man should think,
Though sturdy in his frame, he yet may fall
By some small chance of ill. And know this well,
That he who has both fear and reverence
Has also safety. But where men are free
To riot proudly, and do all their will,
That state, be sure, with steady-blowing gale.
Is driving to destruction, and will fall.
With such a mood as this
There can be no establishment of law,
If we shall cast off those whose right prevails.
And lead the hindmost to the foremost rank.
THE PLAY OF PHILOCTETES— ODYSSEUS.
341
Nay, we must check these things. The safest men
Are not the stout, broad-shouldered, brawny ones,
But still wise thinkers everywhere prevail ;
And oxen, broad of back, by smallest scourge
Are, spite of all, driven forward in the way ;
And that sure spell, I see, will come ere long
On thee, unless thou somehow wisdom gain.
Who, when thy lord is gone, a powerless shade.
Art bold, with wanton insolence of speech.
VII.
In the Philoctetes we find Odysseus again, for, it must be remem-
bered, the mythological history was of but moderate compass, so that
poets and artists were continually representing according to their re-
spective arts the same heroes and the same stories, .^schylus and
Euripides treated the subject of this play ; their rendering has not
come down to us, but such scanty accounts of their work as have
PHILOCTETES IN LEMNOS.
reached us indicate with some distinctness the characteristic differences
of the three men. Let us first examine the play of Sophocles. Accord-
ing to the myth, Philoctetes was one of the wooers of Helen, who
being bound by an oath to defend her in case of any harm, joined the
army that went out against Troy. On landing at Chryse, he rashly
342
SOPHOCLES.
trod on sacred ground and was bitten on the foot by a snake ; this
wound became so noisome and the outcries of Philoctetes so distracting,
that he was sent under care of Odysseus to Lemnos, and there he was
left, alone and untended. Meanwhile the siege of Troy dragged on for
ten years. Hector, Achilles, and Ajax all died, but the city was not
taken. Helenus, a son of Priam, was captured ; he had the gift of
prophecy and declared that Troy would fall only before a son of Achil-
les, with the bow of Heracles. This bow' had been given by Heracles
HERACLES.
to Philoctetes, consequently the Greeks sent to Skyros for Neoptole-
mus, the son of Achilles, and arranged that he and Odysseus should
secure the bow from Philoctetes. The play opens with their landing
at Lemnos. Odysseus reminds Neoptolemus of the object of their
voyage and of the extreme need of securing the bow and arrows,
urging the employment of deceit, if necessary, for the attainment of
their object. He can not himself encounter Philoctetes because of
what he had done in banishing that hero, but his guileful spirit
directs the plot. At once Neoptolemus comes upon traces of the
NEOPTOLEMUS AND PHILOCTETES. 343
wretched, lonely man, and the action begins without delay. Neop-
tolemus objects to the use of guile,
" Dost thou not count it base to utter lies ? "
he asks —
" Not so, when falsehood brings deliverance,"
answers Odysseus, and the discussion goes on between the well-mean,
ing boy and the wily master of guile, until Neoptolemus is wholly con-
vinced by the ingenuity of his older companion. Already the art of
Sophocles has brought the scene down to the conditions of human
life. Neoptolemus has found in the cave no other comforts than " some
leaves pressed down as for some dweller's use," and " a simple cup of
wood, the common work of some poor craftsman, and this tinder
stuff," together with some cast-off bandages for his foot. When Phil-
octetes appears, as he does presently, his coming is heralded by his
groans, but his first words are the bubbling forth of eager curiosity :
" Who are ye that have come to this our shore,
And by what chance ? for neither is it safe
To anchor in, nor yet inhabited.
What may I guess your country and your race ?
Your outward guise and dress of Hellas speak,
To me most dear, and yet I fain would hear
Your speech ; and draw not back from me in dread.
As fearing this my wild and savage look,
But pity one unhappy, left alone.
Thus helpless, friendless, worn with many ills.
Speak, if it be ye come to me as friends."
And when Neoptolemus answers that they are from Hellas, he
goes on :
" O dear-loved sound ! Ah me ! what joy it is
After long years to hear a voice like thine ! "
Obviously Philoctetes is not in a suspicious mood, and when he de-
scribes his sufferings at the hands of the Greeks and since, and his
grounds for wrath with Odysseus, he is ready to believe the smooth
invention of Neoptolemus, who represents himself as returning home-
ward after being deceived by the same dishonest man. This similarity
in their condition arouses the sympathy of the credulous Philoctetes,
who asks Neoptolemus not to abandon him, but to carry him away
from the island:
" Abandoned to these evils which thou see'st,
*****
But think of me as thrown on you by chance.
Right well I know how noisome such a freight ;
Yet still do thou endure it. Noble souls
Still find the base is hateful, and the good
Is full of glory."
344 SOPHOCLES.
And he goes on to entreat the kind services of Neoptolemus with
the most complete pathos and passion. The picture that he draws
of his loneliness and total abandonment is to the last degree
touching :
Phil. By thy dear sire and mother, I, my son,
Implore thee as a suppliant, by all else
To me most dear, thus lonely leave me not,
Abandoned to these evils which thou see'st.
With which thou hearest that I still abide ;
But think of me as thrown on you by chance.
Right well I know how noisome such a freight ;
Yet still do thou endure it. Noble souls
Still find the base is hateful, and the good
Is full of glory. And for thee, my son.
Leaving me here comes shame that is not good ;
But doing what I ask thee thou shalt have
Thy meed of greatest honor, should I reach
Alive and well the shore of CEta's land.
Come, come ! The trouble lasts not one whole day :
Take heart ; receive me ; put me where thou wilt,
In hold, or stern, or stem, where least of all
I should molest my fellow-passengers.
Ah, by great Zeus, the suppliant's God, consent ;
I pray thee, hearken. On my knees I beg.
Lame though I be and powerless in my limbs.
Nay, leave me not thus desolate, away
From every human footstep. Bring me safe,
Or to my home, or where Chalkodon holds
His seat in fair Euboea : thence the sail
To CEta and the ridge of Trachis steep.
And fair Spercheios is not far for me,
That thou may'st show me to my father dear.
Of whom long since I've feared that he perchance
Has passed away. For many messages
I sent to him by those who hither came,
Yea, suppliant prayers that he would hither send,
Himself, to fetch me home. But either he
Is dead, or else, as happens oft with men
Who errands take, they holding me, 'twould seem.
In slight account, pushed on their homeward voyage.
But now, for here I come to thee as one
At once my escort and my messenger,
Be thou my helper, my deliverer thou.
Seeing all things full of fear and perilous chance.
Or to fare well, or fall in evil case ;
And one that's free from sorrow should look out
For coming dangers, and, when most at ease.
Should then keep wariest watch upon his life.
Lest unawares he perish utterly.
The chorus, too, add their supplications, and Neoptolemus appears
to accede, really meaning, however, to carry Philoctetes to Troy. The
deceived hero turns to bid farewell to the place where he lived so
long, when an attendant, disguised as a trader, makes his appearance,
and carries'the deception still further by pretending that Odysseus is
THE BOW OF PHILOCTETES. 345
coming to seize him and to carry him by force, if necessary, to fulfill
the oracle. Philoctetes falls into the trap and prepares to get the
herb with which he allays the pain in his foot, and he promises to
Neoptolemus the bow and arrows which were so much desired. When
the two are ready to leave, Philoctetes is seized with an attack of pain
in his wounded foot and places his weapons in the hands of his young
companion. His agony is great until he throws himself on the ground
and falls asleep, while is chanted a beautiful song of the chorus :
" Come, blowing softly, Sleep, that know'st not pain,
Sleep, ignorant of grief,
Come softly, surely, kingly Sleep, and bless ;
Keep still before his eyes
The band of light which lies upon them now.
Come, come, thou healing one.
Speak gently, O my son, speak gently now
With 'bated breath, speak low.
To all whom pain and sickness make their own.
Sleep is but sleepless still."
But when he awakens from his swoon it is to new terrors. Neop-
tolemus, after brief indecision, yields to his better nature, and, con-
fessing his inability to carry the deceit further, exposes the plot to
Philoctetes :
" Thou must to Troia sail.
To those Atreidas and the Argive host."
Philoctetes demands his bow, which Neoptolemus refuses to sur-
render ; this calls forth a tremendous outburst of denunciation and
entreaty :
" By all the Gods
Thy fathers worshipped, rob me not of life.
Ah, wretched me ! He does not answer me,
But looks away as one who will not yield.
O creeks ! O cliffs out-jutting in the deep !
O all ye haunts of beasts that roam the hills,
O rocks that go sheer down, to you I wail,
(None other do I know to whom to speak)."
Neoptolemus wavers ; but while he is still undecided Odysseus ap-
pears and orders Philoctetes to depart ; he, however, rushes to the cliff
to fling himself off it, but the sailors seize him and bind his hands ; in
despair he bewails his misfortunes, praying that enemies may suffer
like ills. After he has withdrawn to his cavern, Neoptolemus, who has
reflected and repented, then hastens back to return the bow to its
owner, in spite of the remonstrances and threats of Odysseus. Philoc-
tetes, when the bow is in his hands, raises it to shoot Odysseus, who
steals away. Neoptolemus once more beseeches the old hero to consent
346 SOPHOCLES.
to go to Troy, where he promises him his foot shall be healed. Philoc-
tetes, however, insists on being taken home, and Neoptolemus consents,
but the final solution is brought about by the appearance of Heracles,
whose orders to go to Troy convince the stubborn Philoctetes.
In this play more than in any we have yet examined we find the
personal elements most strongly brought out ; the three heroes are
three different men, and the conflict that takes place between them is
brought down from that lofty ether, where, if one could say it respect-
fully, commonplaces exercise an undue influence, to this world, where
the contradictions of human characters appear in all their complexity
and vigor. The stubbornness of Philoctetes is satisfactorily explained
by the bitterness of his experience, and the very simplicity of his
character intensifies the keenness of his emotions and the openness of
their expression. Not until Shakspere do we find in the drama equal
fervor and earnestness. Neoptolemus, again, is at first imposed upon
by the superior intelligence of the older and astuter Odysseus, but his
baleful decision to lend himself to a gross wrong melts with shame
for the injustice of his conduct. It does not break away suddenly
from a notion that in a hero's mind right prevails with instantaneous
force ; the change is gradual and hence natural. Odysseus, on the
other hand, is the legendary man of craft, about whom gathered a
number of stories that celebrated the employment of wiles. It is im-
possible to believe that these devices of his were regarded as anything
but amusing; that Sophocles could state the right as it is uttered
by Neoptolemus without knowing, as a mere matter of intellectual per-
ception, the unsoundness'of the contrary fault is inconceivable. But
that Odysseus was a privileged deviser of ingenious schemes who was
not to be too severely judged may be readily believed. Even here he
is not brought into great prominence ; the interest that one feels lies
between Neoptolemus and Philoctetes. It is the tragic contrast of
their characters that makes this marvellous play full of interest and
beauty, and full of that quality of human interest which had in time
taken possession of the Greek drama. The appearance of the god
Heracles merely terminates the play according to the legend ; in fact,
honor was victorious in the willingness of Neoptolemus to take Philoc-
tetes to his home.
This must have been very nearly the last work of Sophocles, for it was
brought out in 409, and it was in 405 that the poet died. One mark of
its lateness is its modernness of feeling and plot, and the way in which
the real tragic conflict is placed within the breast of Neoptolemus.
These qualities mark the extreme limit to which Sophocles brought
the development of Greek tragedy.
THE MAIDENS OF TEA CHI S. 347
VIII.
In the only one remaining of his plays, the Maidens of Trachis, we
have a less valuable specimen of his work. The uncertainty of the
date at which it was brought out, and its comparative inferiority have
become the pretext for discussions as violent as various. Some have
held that it is so poor that Sophocles could not have written it, but
that it was composed by lophon, the poet's son, or some such inferior
author. This assertion, which rests on no solid foundation, is denied
by others, who maintain that it is undeniably the work of Sophocles ;
but a difference of opinion again arises as to whether its faults are those
of early or of late years. It certainly lacks the qualities that are dis-
cernible in the plays that are known to have been written towards the
end of the poet's life, and the languor and timidity of its construction
bear a strong likeness to the fumbling of a beginner. A certain ease
of workmanship is tolerably sure to survive in old age, even when other
qualities have faded away, as we see in the later works of Goethe and
Corneille. /This play opens with Deianeira lamenting the absence of
her husband, Heracles, who is atoning for a homicide, by command of
Zeus, through a year's service in the employment of Omphale in
Lydia. At the suggestion of a nurse, Deianeira sends out Hyllos, her
son, to get news of his father. Then the chorus appear praying for
tidings of the absent Heracles. Deianeira's grief and loneliness are
clearly marked in her address to the chorus, wherein she envies
their immunity from the cares of married life. A messenger enters,
in advance of Lichas the herald, with the joyful tidings that Heracles
is victorious, for which his wife is duly grateful, and soon the herald
appears with lole and a group of captive women whom Heracles
had sent to her. She is filled with pity for their sad lot, and is espe-
cially interested in lole, whose beauty attracts her, and she questions
her about her family. lole, however, makes no answer, and this de-
vice of eloquent silence is one that ^Eschylus often used, as in the
beginning of the Prometheus, and in the protracted speechlessness of
Atossa in the Persians. Meanwhile Deianeira expresses the most
tender sympathy for the poor captive. When they are gone in, the
messenger stops Deianeira and tells her that lole is loved by Heracles,
and that it was in order to gain her that he captured her city. When
Lichas returns, she questions him closely and finds this evil news con-
firmed. Her grief at these disclosures is most delicately represented.
It is not the modern romantic mixture of insulted dignity and con-
temptuous scorn, but rather a passive regret for an acknowledged
weakness that inspires her. To bring back her husband's love, she
HERACLES AND OMPHALE.
{^Pompeiian Wall-painting.')
DEIANEIRA AND HERACLES. 349
determines to apply the blood of a Centaur to a robe to be sent to her
husband, which she had been told would work as a love-charm, and
the chorus approve of her plan. In accordance therewith she entrusts
the garment to tI^ssus to carry to Heracles, but no sooner is he gone
out of reach than she discovers the baleful effect the blood had had
on some wool, which it wholly destroyed, and the whole horror of her
plan becomes clear to" her. Hyllos returns with the news that she has
in fact slain Heracles in just that way, and he prays that she may re-
ceive justice for her evil deeds. In her remorse she runs from the
stage, and the sad scene of her death at her own hands is described
by an attendant. The conclusion of the play is of a mythological
sort, and lies outside of the modern view of the drama. Heracles is
brought in on a couch, suffering fearful torments and lamenting his
sudden fate :
" Leave me to sleep, yes, leave me, wretched one -,
Leave me to sleep my sleep.
Where dost thou touch me ? Where move ?
Death thou wilt bring ; yea, bring death.
What awhile knew repose
Now thou dost stir again ;
It grasps me, creeping still.
Where are ye, of all men that live on the earth most ungrateful }
For whom I of old, in all forests and seas, slaying monsters.
Wore out my life ; and now, when I lie sore smitten before you,
Not one of you all will bring the fire or the sword that will help me."
When he asks to see Deianeira, the whole story is recounted to him,
and he turns from that to utter new prophecies. He orders his funeral
in CEta, where his body is to be burned, and Hyllos reluctantly promises
to carry out his father's wishes, to burn him there, and then to marry
lole. Heracles then leaves the stage to meet his speedy end.
Even this arid description will make it clear that the play lacks the
unity of most of the Greek plays ; not only is the interest divided be-
tween Deianeira and Heracles, but, more than this, the final scenes
have to us moderns the air of incoherent addition. The domestic
tragedy is terminated with a legendary ending. If this was an early
play, it may be that Sophocles felt that in following his bent towards
developing the human interest in his plays, he had not learned the diffi-
cult art of blending it with the imperative mythological setting, and
even in the first part the attempt to combine the interests of Heracles
and his wife causes rather division than union. Although the play
contains many passages of great beauty, it is at times, especially at
the beginning, not free from an unaccustomed heaviness and slowness
of movement. The art of narration which fills so important a part
in the play is not yet brought into proper relation with the necessity
^«
3»
*— ^
eiian Wall-painting:)
HUMAN LIFE IN SOPHOCLES AND SHAKSPERE. 35 ^
of dramatic movement. The complexity of Sophocles is not yet the
perfect master of its instrument ; that quality, if this was in fact an
early work, was only acquired later.
In reviewing the total impression of what has come down to us from
the hands of Sophocles, what strikes us is the calmness and self-posses-
sion of his art, a quality that is more readily perceived than described,
for the nearer an object comes to perfect beauty the more difficult it
is to define it except with that one word. When it has marked qual-
ities that give one side more prominence than another, we are no longer
dumb. In English literature, for example, Milton has been described
with exactness, whereas countless volumes have struggled with Shak-
spere, and his work, at its best, yet defies the most industrious com-
mentators to say just wherein its merit lies. In the same way the
rounded perfection of Sophocles baffles any one who tries his hand
at conveying a full impression of his many attractive qualities. Yet
the field in which he worked may be stated, even if the degree of his
merit can only be admired and not conveyed by analysis. What he
did was to bring into the vast machinery of the drama the human
being. How well he did this only his plays can show, but even in
the pallor of translation his truthfulness and earnestness appear, and,
above all, the dignity and seriousness of his work. This dignity is
not an artificial quality built up on conventionality and morbidly fear-
ful of indecorum, which partly defines the French tragedy as it appears
to foreigners. There is none of the modern dread of simplicity, the
literary gentility, as we may call it, which is afraid of simple phrases
and compels ordinar)' words and phrases to be made over into fine lang-
uage, so that birds shall be " the feathered songsters," and the sky " th'
ethereal vault." Nor does an artificial decorum chill the action ; the
most unreal of the Greek heroes is ready to break forth into violence.
In the King QEdipus — as those who have seen it acted will remem-
ber — the hero moves and acts as well as suffers, with all the vivacity
of a Shaksperian character. The resemblance to Shakspere lies deep.
The English poet, living when he did, was the mouthpiece of two con-
tradictory movements, that of the Renaissance and that of mediaeval-
ism, and these two currents are as clearly visible in his plays as are
two mingling rivers at their point of junction. Yet in Sophocles we see
the same qualities, less vividly contrasted, though potentially existing
in the absence of conventionality and the readiness with which attend-
ants and such minor characters as the guard in Antigone are repre-
sented. The more important resemblance between them lies in that
they both felt the greatness of human life, and both sympathized as
well as perceived and described. The greater wealth of modern times
is reflected in the later poet, but the seriousness is common to both.
CHAPTER IV.— EURIPIDES.
I. — The Changes in Greek Literature and in the Body PoHtic. — An Illustrative Quota-
tion from Mr. J. A. Symonds. II. — The Life of Euripides, and an Attempt to
Explain His Relation to His Predecessors — His Movement toward Individu-
ality not a Personal Trait, but Part of a General Change. The Religious De-
cadence ; Political Enfeeblement. III. — The Work of Euripides ; its Abun-
dance — The Hecuba— The Prologue as Employed by this Writer. IV. — The
Orestes and its Treatment. — The New Treatment of the Heroes as Human"
Beings. — The Phenician Virgins. — The Medea ; its Intensity — Extracts. V. —
The Crowned Hippolytus. — Realism in the Treatment of the Characters. — The
Further Change in the Importance of the Chorus.
I.
IN Euripides we notice that another step is taken. An excellent
description of the change is given by Mr. J. A. Symonds in his
" Studies of the Greek Poets " (Amer. ed., ii. 34) : " The law of im-
evitable progression in art from the severe and animated embodiment
of an idea to the conscious elaboration of the merely aesthetic motives
and brilliant episodes, has hitherto been neglected by the critics and
historians of poetry. They do not observe that the first impulse in a
people toward creativeness is some deep and serious emotion, some
fixed point of religious enthusiasm or national pride. To give ade-
quate form to this taxes the energies of the first generation of artists,
and raises their poetic faculty, by the admixture of prophetic inspira-
tion, to the highest pitch. After the original passion for the ideas to
be embodied in art has somewhat subsided, but before the glow and
fire of enthusiasm has faded out, there comes a second period, when
art is studied more for art's sake, but when the generative potency
of the earlier poets is by no means exhausted. For a moment the
artist at this juncture is priest, prophet, hierophant, and charmer, all
in one. More conscious of the laws of beauty than his predecessors,
he makes some sacrifice of the idea to meet the requirements of pure
art ; but he never forgets that beauty by itself is insufficient to a great
and perfect work, nor has he lost his interest in the cardinal concep-
tions which vitalize the most majestic poetry. During the first and
second phases which I have indicated the genius of a nation throws out
a number of masterpieces — some of them rough-hewn and Cyclopean,
others perfect in their combination of the strength of thought with
THE LAW OF LITERARY DEVELOPMENT. 353
grace and elevated beauty." In fact, the perfected work succeeds
the earlier crudities, as would be expected and is proved by compar-
ing Sophocles with yEschylus. To go on, however: "But the mine
of ideas is exhausted. The national taste has been educated. Con-
ceptions which were novel to the grandparents have become the in-
tellectual atmosphere of the grandchildren. It is now impossible to
return upon the past — to gild the refined gold or to paint the lily of
the supreme poets. Their vigor may survive in their successors; but
their inspiration has taken form forever in their poems. What, then,
remains for the third generation of artists ? They have either to
reproduce their models — and this is stifling to true genius — or they
have to seek novelty at the risk of impairing the strength or the
beauty which has become stereotyped. Less deeply interested in the
great ideas by which they have been educated, and of which they are
in no sense the creators, incapable of competing on the old ground
with their elders, they are obliged to go afield for striking situations,
to force sentiment and pathos, to subordinate the harmony of the
whole to the melody of the parts, to sink the prophet in the poet, the
hierophant in the charmer."
This interesting hypothesis is further corroborated by the instances
which Mr. Symonds brings forward from the history of the fine arts,
as, for example, the growth of Greek sculpture, from its crude begin-
ning, through perfect beauty in the hands of Pheidiasto the somewhat
cloying luxuriance of Praxiteles. " In architecture," he says truly,
" the genealogy of Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian orders points to the
same law," which he further illustrates from modern painting by point-
ing to the relative position of Giotto, Raphael, and Correggio. In
fact, as Mr. Symonds remarks, " this law of sequence is widely applic-
able. It will be seen to control the history of all uninterrupted
artistic dynasties," and we may go further and affirm that no law con-
trols the action of the mind with regard to a certain class of objects
without being one of universal application. In government, for
instance, which certainly bears but slight resemblance to the fine arts,
we may observe how inevitably the application of such a principle as
that of civil-service reform produces first enthusiasm, then discreet
application, which is followed by the development of the same prin-
ciple in minute details. In physics we see the same uniform sequence,
whereby the glow of discovery is in time succeeded by the ingenious
utilization of the principle in common life.
Still it is true that seldom do we have left us such marked instances
of the law of literary development as ^schylus, Sophocles, and
Euripides, and just as it is hard to describe a straight line, or time, or life,
or any of the things that we understand instinctively, while deviations
354 EURIPIDES .
from intelligible things can be readily defined, so it is easy to persuade
one's self that writers who differ from a recognized standard are thereby
detestable. -^schylus for centuries suffered by comparison with
Sophocles, and now, or until very recently, it is the turn of Euripides
to be treated with contempt instead of judicious admiration. For-
tunately the duty of a historian is to describe, and not to lead the
applause or the hisses. For him to do nothing but praise the great
poets would be like a botanist cheering Bartlett pears, or, if it be
objected that even these pears are too common, then cheering the
century plant. In the same way, the student is more profitably
employed in observing the respects in which Euripides resembles or
differs from his predecessors than in deriding or simply praising his
various qualities.
II.
While Euripides thus appears to belong to a much later and very
different generation, he was a contemporary of Sophocles and often his
competitor in theatrical contests. He was born in 480 B. C, the year
of the battle of Salamis, and, we are told, on that island. Indeed, a
later legend declared that he was born on the very day of that battle,
although this statement may be an inaccuracy that arose from the
pardonable desire of bringing the three greatest tragedians into close
connection with the most glorious events of Athenian history. On the
other hand, the statement, though practically immaterial to us, may be
true, and only to be denied as probably will be denied, in the remote
future, the undoubted fact that John Adams and Jefferson died on the
same day, the fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of
Independence. Sophocles, who was about fifteen years the elder, sur-
vived Euripides a few months, dying in 406. In correlating the plays
of the three great tragedians, we must remember that they were sepa-
rated by no great distance of time, the respective dates of their births
being about 525 B.C., 495 B.C. and 480 B.C.; that ^schylus fought at
Marathon, Sophocles took part in the paean for the battle of Salamis,
and that on the day of the battle, or thereabouts, Euripides was born.
The accounts of the early life of Euripides are few and various. He
appears to have been a man of considerable culture ; he had a large
library ; mention is made of pictures that he painted ; he is said to
have busied himself with metaphysical studies and to have been a
friend of Socrates and of Anaxagoras. Indeed this fuller, more com-
plex culture penetrates the whole work of Euripides ; this is penetrated
by all the fervor and stress of the swiftly developing artistic and
literary life of Athens. The spirit which animated yEschylus was
something like that flowering of the Renaissance which we see in
RIPENING PERIOD OF CULTURE REPRESENTED IN EURIPIDES. 355
Milton ; he rested on the long and complicated growth of the lyric
poets as Milton rested on the revival of learning. Sophocles perfected
this quality and brought it to its full fruition. When the rising tide of
intellectual excitement had made its way into all the nooks and corners
of men's interests, this new spirit, or, rather, this modification of the
old spirit, inevitably found expression in literature, just as Pope's com-
EURIPIDES.
pacter treatment of the couplet with its narrower but subtler thought
succeeded Dryden's vigor, and as Tennyson's mosaic work is built up
on Keats's broader handling of romantic verse. There is a similar
difference between Corneille and Racine. The mere mechanical con-
struction of the verse is a symbol as well as an expression of the deeper
underlying change, and the plays of Euripides, especially the later
ones, abound with examples of the influence of contemporary study
and speculation. There is nothing from which it is so impossible for
a man's mind, as well as his body, to escape as from the day of his
birth, and in these plays we shall see his treatment of religious
356 EURIPIDES.
myths, his scepticism, his dialectic skill, reflecting the current life
of his day.
It is said that Euripides was trained for athletic sports, but in such
a way that he conceived a great dislike for them and for those who
practiced them. His married life appears to have been quite as
unhappy as that of a poet should be. His second wife led him an
unpleasant life, and one of the charges brought against him by Aris-
tophanes was that of being a woman-hater. He certainly had a keen eye
for the foibles of women, and doubtless his own unfortunate experience
embittered his representation of the sex in his plays, but the charge is
a singular one to come from the lips of Aristophanes, who denounced
women with far more severity than did his tragic contemporary. More-
over, it is a familiar fact that the reasons assigned by men for their
dislike of their neighbors are often nothing but plausible pretexts to
secure the sympathy of others, and to not properly define the real
cause of hatred. The motives of Aristophanes are to be discussed
later ; of Euripides it may be said that he certainly showed a fondness
for choosing heroines who were led by passion to great excesses, but he
is not accurately defined by being called a woman-hater.
Like .^schylus, Euripides died away from Athens. He was not,
however, like his great predecessor, driven avvay by unkind treatment.
He left his home on the invitation of King Archelaus, of Macedonia,
who was doing his best to raise that country to the level of the higher
civilization of Athens, and for that purpose was summoning to his
capital distinguished men, as Frederick of Prussia and Catherine of
Russia in the last century, and as Hiero of Syracuse earlier, gathered
in poets and philosophers for delight and improvement. In his stay
at this court Euripides repaid his poet's hospitality by writing, at the
king's request, a tragedy, Archelaus, wherein he celebrated the founder
of the dynasty. This is, unfortunately, lost, but the fact that it was
written is interesting, as showing, what scarcely needed proof, that a
Greek tragedian could write a play that bore a close relation to
existing circumstances. It was here that he died about 406 B.C., at
Arethusa, the tradition telling us that he was attacked by dogs at
night and that he did not recover from their wounds.
His stay in Macedonia illustrates the widespread interest in Athenian
work, and just as the artists of that city were summoned to other cities
their statues were purchased by rulers who were anxious to decorate
their lands. In the same way there arose a demand among foreigners
for the writings of the most eminent tragedians. Greek players
traveled abroad, as English players did at the time of Shakspere, and
as actors of all nations do now. Euripides was called on for plays to
be brought out in other places. His Andromache, for example, was
POLITICAL CHANGES IN A THENS— DEMOCRACY OF EURIPIDES. 357
written for the stage at Argos, and this is not the only proof of the
way in which Athenian culture was spreading over civilization. Yet it
frequently happens that what attracts the mentally alert foreigners is
something that but slowly makes its way in the greater social com-
plexity of the land that produces it. Of late years the last results of
science in the hands of Darwin, Spencer, and Huxley have found more
unreserved following among young men in Russia — to say nothing of
America — than in England, and while to the foreigner Euripides was
probably the most brilliant writer in Athens, in that city he was much
disliked. He won the first prize but five times, and in general there is
but little doubt that the attacks of Aristophanes found as much
approval in the hearts of the Athenians as did those against Socrates.
This is the price that he paid for representing in literature the disin-
tegration that was befalling life and thought in that city.
It would be an unsatisfactory explanation of the differences between
Euripides and his great predecessors that should ascribe these solely
to the fact that the last of the three poets was born with an accidental
tendency towards irreverence, which inspired his novel treatment of
the drama. It would be equally exact to say that the inventor of the
telephone was born with an inherent tendency towards the study of
electricity, without taking into account the conditions and direction of
science at his time. Even those who go further and call Euripides the
poet of the ochlocracy or mob rule, as the later democracy is called,
utter -only part of the truth, for the decay of democracy was in fact
but one expression of the general development of the Athenian culture
which also manifested itself in the plays of Euripides, as in the heresies
of Socrates and the scientific spirit of Anaxagoras. In the political
changes of Athens one can trace only the normal result of the corrup-
tion and aggressiveness of the citizens working the ruin of the state,
and in these tragedies we see the poet trying to reconcile the tangled
web of human life with some satisfactory substitute for the vanishing
religious beliefs. The change was not in the mind of Euripides alone ;
it was one that extended throughout society, that manifested itself in
political experiments, distrust in the old religion, and the enfeeblement
of the grand impulse that had animated the fine arts. Naturally his
position won him enemies ; there are always men who believe that evil
can be averted by doing over by rote what has once been done with
real enthusiasm, and those who held this belief attacked him with
severity; but he had the younger generation on his side and he became
the favorite tragedian of later times, the one who had most authority
among the Romans and so for a long time among the moderns. After
all, Greece is not so remote as it sometimes appears; there are many
men now living, generally, it will be noticed, holding places of authority,
GROWTH OF SCEPTICISM— DISTRUST OF THE GREEK GODS. 359
who regret that literature is following its own course, and earnestly
commend, for instance, that novelists imitate Walter Scott. This is
precisely the form of advice that was given to Euripides with the same
success.
We have seen how Sophocles was also carried in this direction,
though to a far less extent. He still retained confidence in the gods
or in something behind the gods, but this Euripides has lost. When
the mind of the older poet was forming, Athens was enjoying its brief
hour of triumph; Euripides was born to later and sadder days, when
misfortune brought doubt and despair. Scarcely any thing is more
noteworthy in the intellectual history of Greece than the way in which
that country outgrew the religion it had inherited from a remote past.
That polytheism was already old and could not stand the examination
which it was sure to receive from a most intelligent race that applied
its reason to every question ; it was equally incompetent to endure
scientific analysis ; nor could it atone for its pitifulness in these respects
by inculcating a lofty and sensitive morality. The Greek gods appeared
disreputable, while a taint began to affect their legitimacy. The ruin
of Athens, which arose very naturally from the love of dominion that
follows, as well as in good measure constitutes, success, further dis-
turbed men's minds. The higher powers could be acknowledged so
long as things went well. In the hour of defeat their impotence
proved their untrustworthiness. There was nothing on which the
Athenian mind could rest ; morality had no anchorage, science did
not exist. It is this pathetic confusion that we see reflected in the
plays of Euripides.
III.
Euripides rivalled his predecessors in fertility at least. He is said
to have written ninety-two plays, of which nineteen have come down
to us ; of these one, the Rhesus, is manifestly the work of some later
and far inferior writer. We have, then, more of his work than of the
two others together, but, unfortunately, it is not always the best pieces
that have been preserved. Seven of them, however, survived on their
merits as the most important and characteristic ones for school use.
These are the Hecuba, Orestes, PhcEnissae, Medea, Hippolytus,
Alcestis, and Andromache. The original collection contained more,
but these seven were finally determined to be enough, just as the first
six books of the ^neid and eight orations of Cicefo were not long
ago adjudged sufficient for boys' schools. The remaining eleven plays
have depended on chance for their preservation ; what survived mice
and mould and fire was copied and so handed down to us.
360 EURIPIDES. •
The Hecuba still retains its position as a text-book and is one of the
best known of the author's plays. It was brought out apparently about
425 B. C, and represents the misfortunes of the Trojan queen. After
the fall of Troy a harsh fate robs her of her daughter Polyxena, who
is sacrificed at the grave of Achilles, and her son Polydorus is murdered
by his Thracian host, Polymestor; she revenges herself, however, by
slaying the children of the Thracian king and putting out his eyes.
Certainly the tragic element is not wanting. It is not, however,
brought out with the usual Greek art which let the development be
an inherent part of the plot : for it is only by the accident that a slave
goes to the shore to fetch water for the funeral rites to Polyxena that
the body of Polydorus is found cast upon the beach by the waves.
Yet this coincidence is not of a sort to offend us moderns, and the
intensification of the Queen's sufferings by this new horror is made to
develop all the fury of vengeance which stands in marked contrast
with the earlier pathos. This pathos is prominent in delineations of
Polyxena, whose first sorrow on hearing of the fate that awaits her is
for her mother's bereavement. She thinks nothing of herself, and
afterwards she preserves a lofty resignation and pride, especially when
she asks the Greeks that she may not be bound, and compelled, after
living a princess, to submit to the indignity of dying like a slave.
Euripides knew full well the path to the hearts of his audience, as this
extract will show :
POLYX. lo, mother, my mother, what means thy cry ?
What message strange for me bade thee stir me from my dwelling
To startle me forth with amaze, like a fluttering bird ?
Hecuba. My child, my child !
POLYX. Why address me in despair ? thy first words bode me ill.
Hecuba. Alas for the loss of thy life.
POLYX. Speak forth, no longer hide it.
I tremble, my mother, I tremble.
Why art thou moaning.?
Hecuba. Child, O child of an ill-starred mother.
PoLYX. What message is this thou announcest ?
Hecuba. The Argives in conclave decreed thy slaughter
By common consent, at the tomb
Of the son of Peleus.
POLYX. Alas, my mother, how void of gladness
Are these ills thou speakest I Make it plain,
mother, explain.
Hecuba. My speech is a speech of evil, my child.
And I tell thee the Argives decreed
By their vote to dispose of thy life, woe is me !
PoLYX. Oh, thy dread sufferings ! O my mother all wretched,
Ill-starred in thy life.
Dread, oh dread is the bane.
Most hateful, most unspeakable.
Which a god stirred against thee.
1 thy daughter live now no longer, no more
EXTRACTS FROM THE HECUBA.
361
Chorus.
Odysseus.
Hecuba.
Odysseus.
Hecuba.
Odysseus.
Hecuba.
Odysseus.
Hecuba,
Odysseus
Hecuba,
Odysseus.
Hecuba,
Odysseus.
Hecuba.
Wretched with thy wretchedness shall I share
The lot of slavery
For me like some youngling in the upland reared
By the kine, from thy wretched arms in misery snatched
Thou shalt be borne away.
From thy side, by death and slaughter
Convoyed to the dark underearth, where with the dead
In misery I shall abide.
Thee now, wretched mother of my life,
I mourn for with sobs and lamentations.
My own life, the bane and the outrage of it,
I mourn not for that, a better fortune befalls me
In this that I must die.
Hither Odysseus' steps are hastening
With words of new import for Hecuba.
Woman, thou knowest, I think, the host's decree
And fixed enactment, yet I will inform thee:
The Greeks require thy child Polyxena
For slaughter on Achilles' heaped-up tomb,
And they dispatched me to convoy the maid ;
Her escort I, the offering's high-priest
And overseer will be Achilles' son.
Hear now, what thou must do ! wait not for force
Choose not the ways of utter strife with me.
But heed resistless might and the calamity
At hand ! By wisdom schooled e'en woe learns prudence.
Behold ! My supreme trial here impends
With meanings brimmed, and not unfraught with tears,
Methinks I should have died when I was spared,
Whom Zeus slays not but saves, that I, undone.
The utterness of woes on woes may see.
If though, when with their masters bond-slaves speak,
It breeds no rank offence and hath no sting
For them to crave full answer, then speak thou
And to my questions let me hear response.
'Tis granted, ask. I grudge thee not my leisure.
Knowest thou what time thou cam'st to Ilium,
A spy in loathsome garb, when from thine eyes
Coursed drops of death and bathed thy very chin }
I know. More than my outmost soul these stirred.
When Helen knew, when only I was told .''
Well I remember what great risk I ran.
When thou in prayer most humbly soughtst my knees }
Yea, when my hand died in thy raiment folds.
Then thou w^ert my slave. Speak what saidst thou then }
Long was my plea and subtle for my life.
Was't I who spared thee, I who helped thee home ?
Else how should I the sun's light see to-day ?
Shows not thy wicked heart in these thy courses,
Since all my kindness done thee, though confessed
Brings me no help but wins thy utmost harm }
O ingrate brood of men, who babbling strive
For worldly honor, I'll not know you even,
You ruin those you love, yourselves unmoved.
If aught you speak can please the common rout.
What wit, I ask, what wisdom found therein
Won men to vote the slaughter of my child }
Did honor prompt this human sacrifice
Over a grave, where slaughtered kine are seemlier }
Or.rightfully resolved to slay his slayers.
362 EURIPIDES.
Mayhap Achilles presses for her death !
But surely she has done no wrong to him.
Let him crave Helen's slaughter on his tomb :
She wrought his ruin. She brought him to Troy.
Say you a captive maid must die, most choice
And excellent in beauty — 't is not me.
Still stands the beauteous child of Lyndarus
Matchless, nor have we matched the harm she did you.
So much in justice's name and rights I plead.
Hear now what debt of gratitude thou owest
And pay my due. Thou sayest thy hand seized mine
And thou didst fawn once on this withered cheek.
Even so I seize thy hand and touch thy cheek.
That kindness I require, I cry thee mercy.
Tear not my darling from these arms away,
Slay not my child. Enough have died ere now.
She is my joy, makes me forget my ^Ils.
My consolation, she, for much I lost.
My home, my staff, my helpmeet, and my guide.
Let not the strong use strength for wrong.
Nor say in joy they shall not some day weep.
For I once flourished, now my life is death,
My stores of happiness one day engulphed.
I charge thee by thy beard hear thou my prayer,
Have pity ; seek the Achaean host and speak
Persuasive words, 'tis malice bids you slay
The women whom at first you did not kill,
But from the altars seized, and spared them then.
The law you live by shields alike the slave
And freeborn man from death by violence.
Thy influence, though even men shall revile thee.
Must win. The self-same plea, by noted lips
And lips unnoted framed, is not the same.
Chorus. There lives no man whose heart is hardened so
That by thy cries and lingering lament
Of woe unstirred, he should not weep for thee.
Odysseus. Learn wisdom, Hecuba ; let not thy anger
Make him who speaks thee fair thy seeming foe.
Thy life, through which my fortunes came to mend,
I bind myself to save, I say nought else.
But what to all I spake I'll not gainsay :
Troy taken, now he who was our foremost warrior
Asks his tomb and must have thy slaughtered child.
It breeds infection in our commonwealths
Whene'er a righteous and a loyal man
Wins not some higher meed than those less worthy.
Achilles earned vv^hat honors we can give.
Woman, his glorious death defended Greece.
Wer 't not a shame if, while he saw the light.
We used the friend whom we abuse when dead ?
So be it : then what must men say when next
Our marshalled host sees strenuous war draw nigh }
" Are we to fight or to consult our ease ,
Seeing that he who falls no honor gets ? "
In truth while life still lasts, from day to day
A scant supply were quite enough for me.
My grave, though, I would fain see reverenced,
For gratitude must always be long-lived.
Thou pleadest thy despair, my answer hear :
With us are those who claim no less our pity.
EXTRACTS FROM THE HECUBA.
363
And some are old, yea, older even than thou.
Some are young wives whose valiant husbands fell
Where now the dust of Ida hides their bones.
Bow to thy fate ; while we if we do err
In honoring the brave must stand for fools.
Thou and thy barbarous kindred all have friends
But love them not, when brave men die for you
You marvel not, and this helps Greece to triumph.
And makes your fortunes match your foolishness.
Chorus. Alas ! what ills outrageous bondage has
For slaves, unbearable and yet endured.
Hecuba. My daughter, vanished are my words, my plea
Assailed the air in vain to save thy life.
With greater than thy mother's skill, plead thou.
Use thou all Philomela's tearful notes
And importune him for escape from death.
A tearful suppliant, grasp Odysseus' senses ;
Win him with words ; thou hast good arguments ;
Since he has children thou shalt move his heart.
POLYX. I see thee thrust, Odysseus, thy right hand
Beneath thy cloak, and with averted face
Turn from me, lest with suppliant hand I reach
Thy beard. Take heart, my prayers shall not molest thee
Lead, for I follow where strong fate requires.
Fate and my love of death. Should I refuse
It would betray a base and craven heart.
Why must I live ? My father once was king
Of Phrygia, thus life first was known to me.
And then by bright hopes nurtured I grew up
A bride for kings. And men grew jealous, too.
Of him whose home and hearth might some day claim me.
Once mistress of Ida's women, all
Among all maids once singled out, all me !
The equal then of gods, wer't not for death.
And now a slave ! The very name of slave
Makes me in love with death — it sounds so strange.
Nay more, some master fierce at heart mayhap
I yet shall find, bought with a price, even I,
Sister of Hector erst and many brothers.
Forced in his house to grind his corn and cake.
To sweep his house and ply the loom for him ;
My life through him shall be long agony.
Yea, and my bed a slave from somewhere bought
Shall soil, though once men deemed me fit for kings.
No ! No ! my eyes renounce this light of day ;
Still free, my body I consign to Hades.
Odysseus, take me hence, guide and despatch me ;
I see no hope, no expectation, naught
That gives me heart or shows me joys to come.
My mother, stand not thou against my will
With word or deed. Give me thy counsels, help
To die, ere by dishonor I am shamed.
Who has not known the bitterness of woe
Must wince when he must bear its galling yoke.
More blessed far were he in death than thus
Alive. For life dishonored means great woe.
Chorus. Dread is the mark and plain for men to see
Which stamps the nobly born, their high repute
Proves nobler than their birth when they are worthy.
Hecuba. Honor inspires thy words, my child, but honor
3^4
EURIPIDES.
Has with it pain. If Peleus' son must needs
His pleasure have, and you must shun his blame,
O then, Odysseus, leave her still not slain,
Lead me away even to Achilles' tomb,
Unsparing pierce me. I brought Paris forth
Who aimed the shaft that ruined Thetis' son.
PARIS AIMING AT ACHILLES.
Odysseus. Good woman, not thy death but hers required
Achilles' ghost, and hers the Greeks must grant.
Hecuba. Oh then, — but will you kill me with my child?
So shall the draught of blood be twice as much
Which earth and he who asks for hers shall have.
Odysseus. This girl's one death suffices, we'll not add
One more, I would we owed not even one.
Hecuba. No power must part us, with my child I die.
Odysseus. Is't truth.? have I who know it not some master.?
Hecuba. As to an oak I cling to her like ivy.
Odysseus. Not if thou heedest wiser thoughts than thine.
Hecuba. I'll not submit and let my daughter go.
Odysseus. No more will I depart and leave her here.
POLYX. Hear reason, mother, thou, Laertes' son,
Deal gently with a parent's wounded heart,
Thou must not strive against the strong, poor mother,
Wouldst fall to earth and tear thy aged flesh.
When force had sundered us and flung thee back
Shall younger strength deface thy seemliness .'
All this awaits thee— nay, not so — 'twere shameful,
And now, my mother dear, thy darling hand
Stretch out and let my cheek press close to thine.
Never again, once now and never more,
Light from the orb^d sun I am to see.
Hear thou the last of all my greetings given.
Oh mother mine, I leave thee now to die.
Hecuba. And I, my daughter, still must live a slave.
POLYX. Unwed, defrauded of my marriage song.
Hecuba. My child, thou art undone and I despair.
POLYX. O I shall lie apart from thee in death.
Hecuba. What shall I do ? Where go to end this life ?
POLYX. My sire was free.yet I must die a slave.
Hecuba. The childless mother I of many children.
POLYX. To Hector, to thy aged spouse, what word ?
EXTRACTS FROM THE HECUBA.
365
Hecuba.
POLYX.
Hecuba.
POLYX.
Hecuba.
POLYX,
Hecuba.
POLYX.
Hecuba.
POLYX.
Hecuba.
Say that none lives on earth with woes Hke mine.
O bosom, breasts which some time nursed my Hfe.
O doom untimely of my wretched child.
My mother, fare thee well, farewell Cassandra.
Others may fare thee well, thy mother shall not.
My Polydorus, fare thee well in Thrace.
He may have died to round my tale of woe.
He lives and he shall close thine eyes in death.
My anguish is my death before I die.
Away ! Odysseus, veil me in these folds ;
Before you slay me I am dead at heart.
Slain by her cries whom I with waihng slay —
My mother. O light, I still may use thy name.
Not thee, save while the journey lasts that parts
The sword and Achilles' funeral pyre from me.
Ah me ! I faint. My limbs give way and fail,
O daughter, take thy mother, give thy hand —
Give, leave me not childless. My friends, I die.
Oh but to see the Dioscuri's sister —
Laconian Helen, whose most beauteous eyes
Made hideous hell in blessed Troy that was.
Breeze, breeze from the ocean deep
That conveyest sea-faring craft
Swift barks o'er the high-swelling floods.
Whither vvilt thou convoy me in my woe.
By whom enslaved, a chattel in whose house
Am I to sojourn on arriving.-*
Dost thou bear me off to a roadstead in Dorian lands ?
Or in Phthia where
The father of goodliest water streams,
(Men say) Apidanus fattens the furrowed fields.
Or to what one among islands convoyed
By the sea-smiting oar — wilt thou bring me
To drag on a pitiful life indoors —
Is it the isle where the palm first grew.
Where the laurel its first hallowed shoots raised upward
For Leto — well beloved,
To comfort her awful travail ?
And there with Delian maids
Shall I praise goddess Artemis' bow and her fillet of gold ?
Is it the city of Pallas,
Throned in a beauteous chariot, I am to visit.
And there yoke young steeds on her saffron robe,
On the richly fashioned flower-spangled web
Broidering them, or even the Titan race,
With Zeus, son of Cronos, lulling them to rest
With the flash of his flames ?
Woe is me for my offspring.
For my fathers, for my fatherland.
Which, washed by smoke, lies ravaged
And taken by the spear of the Argives,
And I in a land of strangers
And called by the name of slave —
I have left the land of Asia
And exchanged it for Europe,
Where I find the bridal chamber of Hades.
It is in passages like this that we may notice the resemblance between
the plays of Euripides and those of the followers of Shakspere. The
366 EURIPIDES.
grand ethical simplicity of the great masters is lost, but the pathos of
separate scenes is even keener and intenser in the later poets.
This change, which is one of those most characteristic of Euripides,
is accompanied by another, the use of the prologue to state very clearly
what is going to happen in the play ; and the design of this contrivance
has called forth much discussion. Since, however, the main effort of
Euripides was to excel in the pathetic treatment of his incidents, and
he often, for this purpose, modified the usual construction of the myths,
he may have employed the prologue in this manner in order to fix the
attention of his spectators on his own art. Nowhere could the mod-
ern attraction of surprise have found itself a place in Greek tragedy.
Throughout, familiar legends were told and retold as symbols of great
truths ; and for them a prologue was not needed. When a man is in-
terested in the pathology of the emotions, in their keen analysis, the
importance of the plot as in itself an object of interest is sure to dwin-
dle, as we see in the very modern novel, in which the story sinks into
insignificance by the side of the accurate portrayal of thoughts and
feelings. In Euripides probably similar causes brought forth similar
results.
Undoubtedly, too, the prologue was of great service in diminishing
the necessity which lies heavy upon every dramatic writer, of making
clear who are his characters and what are the conditions in which he
proposes to exhibit them. Generally this exposition requires the whole
of the first act, and we all know its tendency to make this part of the
play a piece of conventionality, almost as artificial as a prologue thinly
disguised by a dialogue in which old servants recount as much previous
history as is necessary for the information of spectators. On the other
hand, we may see in the first act of Macbeth how skilfully the state
of affairs could be exhibited, and its perfection may be profitably com-
pared with the cruder methods in As You Like It. Occasionally,
as in the Hippolytus, the prologue of Euripides goes further and an-
nounces what shall be the conclusion of the dramatic action. By so
doing no play was set at any disadvantage in comparison with the
others, because the myths on which all rested were matters of common
knowledge, and the exact form of treatment — which was the main ob-
ject of interest — yet remained to be developed. In general, however,
the spectator was brought only to the point where the action began,
and was free to observe the treatment with very good knowledge of the
point to be reached. Some of the prologues have not reached us ;
others are supposed to have been composed by the actors. But, who-
ever composed them, the prologues are there, and have been a contin-
ual object of abuse for those who are too glad to seize any opportunity
to blame Euripides.
IN TROD UCTION OF THE PERSONAL ELEMENT INTO TRA GED V. 367
The prologue of the Hecuba, spoken by the shade of her murdered
son, informs the audience of his bloody end, and leaves the black cloud
overhanging his distressed mother through the early part of the play,
while she is still ignorant of his fate, and so intensifies rather than re-
lieves the gloom of the tragedy. The spectator knew, though Hecuba
herself did not, the additional blow that was awaiting her, and his sym-
pathy was doubled. A more pathetic play than this can hardly be
imagined, or one better fitted to serve as an example of the great
pathos and intense personal interest that Euripides introduced into
the solemn tragedy. Its severity was tempered by the human sympa-
thy that he aroused, and he moved in the direction in which the people
were moving.
IV.
In the Orestes we find the confusion that distinguishes Euripides
most clearly marked, and we are as far as possible removed from the
directness and simplicity of what we have previously seen in Greek
tragedy. The story, which was perfectly familiar to all his fellow-citi-
zens, and had been treated by yEschylus and Sophocles, receives here
a novel turn. Orestes is represented as punished with madness for
murdering his mother. When the populace decide that he shall die
for this ill deed, Pylades urges him to revenge himself on Menelaus by
killing Helen. But the gods take up Helen from them, and Electra
delivers Hermione to them, and they were about to kill her, when
Menelaus came in and endeavored to take the palace by storm. They
anticipated his purpose and threatened to set it on fire. But Apollo
appeared, saying that he had carried Helen to the gods, and bade
Orestes marry Hermione, and Electra to live with Pylades, then Ores-
tes, being freed from the taint of the murder of his mother, was to reign
over Argos. Yet this incomplete outline does not in the least touch
the tone in which the play is written. Instead of heroes, to whom
there attaches a notion of grandeur and solemnity, we have citizens
bearing the heroic names, who discuss their actions in the most every-
day fashion. The wildness of the plot is evident, and easily explica-
ble, for, since there was no single animating idea to be conveyed by
the poet, the interest could be maintained only by the accentuation of
the new personal element. The best way to accomplish this was by
employing a variety of incidents and emotions. In our own time,
when certainly the stage is not put to any great use as a moral instruc-
tor, the interest of the spectator is kept alive by unexpected incidents.
The tragedy of Euripides was debarred from this method by its em-
ployment of the prologue, wherein the whole story was told, so that
368
EURIPIDES.
the audience, knowing what they had to expect, were free to see how
it was represented. The poet's skill was devoted
to the analysis of character, and here was his
greatest success, in showing the play of passions
and emotions. This made more prominent the
fragmentary character of his plays ; literary art
was in a state, not unfamiliar to men of this gen-
eration, in which the parts were far better than
the whole, and lines and passages were effective,
while the play as a whole left a vague or unsatis-
factory impression. It was not the whole charac-
ter that he brought out, but flashes of ingenious
and unexpected feeling.
The Philoctetes of Sophocles is still heroic,
although we may trace the effect of the work
of Euripides, and of the changing times, in the
humanity of that stubborn character. But
Euripides is far more of a realist ; he lets the
ludicrousness and vividness of life appear in a
way that very naturally shocked his enemies,
who held that tragedy had nothing to do with
actual life. In the Hecuba one of the Trojan women
who composed the chorus tells how she was binding
her braided hair with fillets fastened on the top of
her head, and was looking into the golden mirror,
getting ready to go to bed, when suddenly a tumult
filled the streets, and it was known that the Greeks
had made an entrance into the city. In the Orestes
there is a scene between the hero and a Phrygian
slave that is comical in its nature, so much so that it
has been suggested that this and other parts of the
play were meant for parodies of other tragedies.
This may be true, but it is a harsh view to take of any man, even a tra-
gedian, that his jokes can be understood only
after an interval of two thousand years. At any
rate, is is clear that Euripides was willing to em-
ploy even ridicule to make his plays vivid and life-
like. The external form of the older work sur-
vived, just as an echo of the full-mouthed Eliza-
bethan tragedy was whispered softly in Dean Mil-
man's plays, even so late as the first quarter of
this century. This comparison must not lead us
too far, however, for while Dean Milman was making a plaster-cast of
INCREASE OF COMPLEXITY IN THE DRAMA.
369
an old play, Euripides
was trying to breathe
new life into the old
models. This play
shows how many were
the incidents that were
meant to take the place
of the earlier simplic-
ity. It was brought
out in 408 B.C., and was
the last of the plays that
he wrote in Athens.
The Phoenician Vir-
gins, which stands next
in the collection, was
composed at an uncer-
tain date. Again we
have the crowded stage,
for nearly all the woes
of the Theban royal
house are presented in
a long procession in
this tragedy, which
makes up for the ab-
sence of a single over-
whelming passion by
the abundance of sepa-
rate pathetic scenes.
No greater contrast can
be imagined than that
which this busy play
presents to the sim-
plicity and bare narra-
tion of The Seven
against Thebes, and no
other tragedy more
thoroughly represents
the inevitable tendency
of literature to proceed
from large outlines to
the rendering of slight
details, the same differ-
ence that we see in
37° EURIPIDES.
the novel of the present day, when we compare it with the generous
treatment of the Waverley novels, and that is further illustrated in an-
other branch of work by the division of scientific study among specialists.
The Medea, which was produced in 43 1 B.C., is one of the masterpieces
of Euripides. The play was brought out in competition with Euphorion,
the son of ^schylus, who probably gave some of his father's plays,
and Sophocles, who received the first and second prizes respectively,
while the third was given to Euripides. This is far from being the
only instance in the brief history of Greek tragedy of the failure of a
great play, although in this case it must be remembered that the Medea
is the only surviving member of the tetralogy. It remains a model of
the peculiar merit of its author before his later manner. The story of
the Medea is simple and is told with great directness. She is the wife
of Jason, who had profited by her aid in getting the Golden Fleece and
had married her. Later he fell in love with Glauke, the daughter of
Creon, and married her. The subject of the play is the wild wrath and
jealous fury of Medea at his desertion. She is sentenced to exile by
Creon, who fears her anger, but she succeeds in getting twenty-four
hours' delay, in which time she sends to the new bride of Jason deadly
gifts by which she perishes, and, moreover, she slays her own and
Jason's children. She is carried away, with the bodies of her children,
by ^geus, in a chariot, and betakes herself to Athens. This whole
bloody history was treated by Euripides with masterly skill. His
ingenious drawing of the infuriated wife showed how close was his
observation, how delicate his sympathy. Gods and goddesses are in
distant Olympus, but two of the eternal elements of human nature,
maternal love and the fierceness of jealousy, are caught and set down
for the delight of centuries. The play advances in excitement from
the moment it begins, and the old nurse utters her forebodings of
trouble as Medea lies without tasting food, her body sunk in grief,
dissolving all her tedious time in tears, since she knew that her husband
had wronged her.
" And will not raise her eyes, nor from the ground
Lift up her face. As a rock might or sea-wave,
Does she hear those who love her counselling her."
It is with impressive art that Medea's wails are heard behind the
scenes, utterly distraught as she is and yearning for death. When she
appears, it is with an expression of regret for the miserable condition
of women, and of her determination to find revenge in some way, and
the chorus of Corinthian women freely express their sympathy. When
Creon enters and orders her into banishment, she argues most ably :
" Never," she says,
MEDEA CONTEMPLATING THE SLAUGHTER OF HER CHILDREN.
(Pompeiian Wall-painting.')
372 EURIPIDES.
" Never fits it one born prudent-souled
To have his children reared surpassing wise ;
For, added to their blame of lavished time,
They win cross envy from their citizens.
For, offering a new wisdom unto fools,
Thou shalt be held a dullard, not a sage :
And, if deemed more than those who make a show
Of varied subtleties, then shalt thou seem
A mischief in the city. Yea, myself
I share this fortune ; for, being wise, I am
To some a mark for envy, and to some
Abhorrent. Yet I am not very wise."
There is but little doubt that Euripides knew very well the world he
lived in, and this is further to be seen in the skill with which this
passionate woman is driven to decide by just what measures she shall
wreak her vengeance ; her only thought is of the means, whether to
burn them, to cut their throats, or to take the straight and familiar
path and give them poison. While she tries to persuade Creon, and
commands herself for her own purposes, she does not spare Jason,
who, naturally enough, does not hold an advantageous position, and
he does not protect himself by assuring Medea that although she hates
him, he could never wish her evil. This cold civility has its natural
effect ; and Medea's lashing tongue, as it were, flays the wretched
Jason, who feebly tries to show what advantages have come to her in
her new home. The great scene, however, is when Medea is debating
with herself the murder of her children. This has been thus translated
by Mr. Symonds :
" O, children, children ! you have still a city —
A home, where, lost to me and all my woe.
You will live out your lives without a mother !
But I — lo ! I am for another land.
Leaving the joy of you : to see you happy.
To deck your marriage bed, to greet your bride,
To light your wedding torch shall not be mine !
me, thrice wretched in my own self-will !
In vain, then, dear my children ! did I rear you ;
In vain I travailed, and with wearing sorrow
Bore bitter anguish in the hour of childbirth !
Yea, of a sooth, I had great hope of you,
That you should cherish my old age, and deck
My corpse with loving hands, and make me blessed
'Mid women in my death. But now, ah. me !
Hath perished that sweet dream. For long without you
1 shall drag out a weary doleful age.
And you shall never see your mother more
With your dear eyes, for all your life is changed.
Woe, woe !
Why gaze you at me with your eyes, my children .''
Why smile your last sweet smile ? Ah, me ! ah, me !
What shall I do ? My heart dissolves within me.
Friends, when I see the glad eyes of my sons !
MEDEA'S SOLILOQUY— EMOTIONAL QUALITY. 373
I can not. No ! my will that was so steady,
Farewell to it. They, too, shall go with me.
Why should I wound their sin with what wounds them,
Heaping tenfold his woes on my own head }
No, no ; I shall not. Perish my proud will.
Yet, whence this weakness ? Do I wish to reap
The scorn that springs from enemies unpunished .'
Dare it I must. What craven fool am I
To let soft thoughts flow trickling from my soul !
Go, boys, into the house ; and he who may not
Be present at my solemn sacrifice —
Let him see to it. My hand shall not falter.
Ah ! ah !
Nay, do not, O my heart ! do not this thing !
Suffer them, O poor fool — yea, spare thy children !
There in thy exile they will gladden thee. ^
Not so : by all the plagues of nethermost hell
It shall not be that I, that I should suffer
My foes to triumph and insult my sons !
Die must they : this must be, and since it must,
I, I myself will slay them, I who bore them.
So it is fixed, and there is no escape.
Even as I speak, the crown is on her head ;
The bride is dying in her robes — I know it.
But since this path most piteous I tread.
Sending them forth on paths more piteous far,
I will embrace my children. Oh, my sons.
Give, give your mother your dear hands to kiss !
Oh, dearest hands, and mouths most dear to me,
And forms and noble faces of my sons !
Be happy even then: what here was yours.
Your father robs you of. Oh, loved embrace !
Oh, tender touch and sweet breath of my boys !
Go ! go ! go ! leave me ! Lo, I cannot bear
To look on you : my woes have overwhelmed me !
Now know I all the ill I have to do : ,
But rage is stronger than my better mind.
Rage, cause of greatest crimes and griefs to mortals."
In the whole Greek drama it would be hard to find a speech more
compact of personal emotion than this vivid representation of the con-
flict in a woman's heart between fury and maternal love. Often in the
Greek plays we find argumentative speeches defending one course of
action, or describing some incident ; here we have a soliloquy unfold-
ing the internal strife, and thus being an almost transparent medium
between Medea's anguished heart and the spectator. The epical ele-
ment of narration has vanished, we have here the direct delineation of
passion. Thanks to this quality, the play has lived triumphant in
modern literature, for it appeals directly to a universal human sym-
pathy.
An interesting fact about this play is that it was preceded by one
from the hands of Neophron, of which there is left a fragment of the
speech in which his Medea determines to kill her children. It has
been thus translated by Mr. Symonds :
374 EURIPIDES.
" Well, well ; what wilt thou do, my soul ? Think much
Before this sin be sinned, before thy dearest
Thou turn to deadliest foes. Whither art bounding ?
Restrain thy force, thy god-detested fury.
And yet why grieve I thus, seeing my life
Laid desolate, despitefully abandoned
By those who least should leave me ? Soft, forsooth,
Shall I be in the midst of wrongs like these ?
Nay, heart of mine, be not thy own betrayer !
Ah me ! 'Tis settled. Children, from my sight
Get you away ! for now blood-thirsty madness
Sinks in my soul and swells it. Oh, hands, hands.
Unto what deed are we accoutred ! Woe !
Undone by my own daring ! In one minute
I go to blast the fruit of my long toil."
It is not too much to say that this reads like a first draft of the
more complicated speech that we find in Euripides. If we had been
more fortunate in recovering the lost work of the second-rate drama-
tists we should then see more clearly than we now do the gradual un-
folding of th6 various tendencies of Greek tragedy. The fragments
left to us are too scanty to serve as anything but faint indications of
the abundance of plays :
Chorus.
Strophe I.
No hope left us now for the children's life ;
No hope ; they are passing on to death ;
And the gift that comes to the new-made wife
Is the gift of a curse in her golden wreath.
Alas for her doom !
Round about her yellow hair
Her owrif hand will set it there.
Signet jewel of the tomb.
Antistrophe I.
By the grace and the perfect gleaming won
She will place the gold-wrought crown on her head,
She will robe herself in the robe ; and anon
She will deck her a bride among the dead.
Alas for her doom !
Fallen in such snare, too late
Would she struggle from her fate,
Hers the death-lot of the tomb.
Strophe II.
But thou, oh wretched man, oh woeful-wed.
Yet marriage-linked to kings ; thou, all unseeing,
Who nearest fast
A swift destruction to thy children's being,
A hateful death to her who shares thy bed.
Oh hapless man, how fallen from thy past !
Antistrophe II.
And miserable mother of fair boys,
We mourn too, thy despair with outburst weeping.
Thine who wouldst kill
Thy sons for the wife's couch where lonely sleeping
Thy husband leaves thee for new lawless joys
EXTRACT FROM THE MEDEA. 375
With a new home-mate who thy place shall fill.
Attendant.
Mistress, thy children are forgiven from exile :
And in her hands the queenly bride, well pleased.
Received the gifts. Thence good-will to thy sons.
Medea.
Alas!
Attendant.
Why dost thou stand aghast when thou hast prospered ?
Medea.
Woe 's me !
Attendant.
This chimes not with the tidings I declare.
Medea.
Woe's me again I
Attendant.
I have not heralded mischance I know not,
And missed my joy of bringing happy news.
Medea.
Thou hast brought what thou hast brought : I blame thee not.
Attendant.
Why then dost droop thine eyes and dost weep tears ?
Medea.
There is much cause, old man. For this the gods
And I by my own wild resolves have wrought.
Attendant.
Take heart. For through thy sons thou'lt yet return.
Medea.
Alas ! I shall send others home ere that.
Attendant.
Thou 'rt not the only one torn from her sons.
And being mortal lightly shouldst bear griefs.
Medea.
And so I will. But go thou in the house,
Prepare my children what the day requires.
Oh sons, my sons, for you there is a home
And city where, forsaking wretched me.
Ye shall still dwell and have no mother more ;
But I, an exile, seek another land,
Ere I have joyed in you and seen you glad,
Ere I have decked for you the nuptial pomp.
The bride, the bed, and held the torch aloft.
Oh me ! forlorn by my untempered moods !
In vain then have I nurtured ye, my sons.
In vain have toiled and been worn down by cares.
And felt the hard, child-bearing agonies.
There was a time when I, unhappy one.
Had many hopes in you, that both of you
Would cherish me in age, and that your hands.
When I am dead, would fitly lay me out —
That wish of all men : but now lost indeed
Is that sweet thought, for I must, reft of you.
Live on a piteous life and full of pain ;
And ye, your dear eyes will no more behold
Your mother, gone into your new strange life.
376 EURIPIDES.
Alas ! Why do ye fix your eyes on me,
My sons? Why smile ye on me that last smile ?
Alas ! What must I do ? For my heart faints,
Thus looking on my children's happy eyes.
Women, I cannot. Farewell my past resolves,
My boys, go forth with me. What boots it me
To wring their father with their cruel fates,
And earn myself a doubled misery }
It shall not be, shall not. Farewell resolves.
And yet what mood is this .-* Am I content
To spare my foes and be a laughing-stock }
It must be dared. Why, out upon my weakness
To let such coward thoughts steal from my heart !
Go, children, to the house. And he who lacks
Right now to stand by sacrifice of mine.
Let him look to it. I'll not stay my hand.
Alas ! Alas !
No, surely. O my heart, thou canst not do it ;
Racked heart, let them go safely, spare the boys :
Living far hence with me they'll make thee joy.
No ; by the avenging demon-gods in hell.
Never shall be that I should yield my boys
To the despitings of mine enemies.
For all ways they must die, and, since 'tis so,
Better I slay them, I who gave them birth.
All ways 'tis fated : there is no escape.
For now, in the robes, the wealth upon her head,
The royal bride is perishing ; I know it.
But, since I go on so forlorn a journey.
And them too send on one yet more forlorn,
I'd fain speak with my sons. Give me, my children,
Give your mother your right hands to clasp to her.
Oh darling hands, oh, dearest lips to me;
Oh forms and noble faces of my boys !
Be happy : but there. For of all part here
Your father has bereft you. Oh sweet kiss,
Oh grateful breath and soft skin of my boys !
Go, go. I can no longer look on you.
But by my sufferings am overborne.
Oh I do know what sorrows I shall make.
But anger keeps the mastery of my thoughts,
Which is the chiefest cause of human woes.
Chorus.
Oftentimes now have I ere to-day
Reached subtler reasons, joined higher debates.
Than womanhood has the right to scan.
But 'tis that with us too there walks a muse
Discoursing high things — yet not to us all.
Since few of the race of women there be,
(Thou wert like to find among many but one),
Not friendless of any muse.
And now I aver that of mortals those
Who have never wed, or known children theirs.
Than parents are happier far.
For the childless at least, through not making essay,
If sons be born for a joy or a curse.
Having none, are safe from such miseries.
But such as have springing up in their homes
Sweet blossom and growth of children, them
EXTRACT FROM THE MEDEA. Z11
I see worn with cares through the weary while :
First how to rear them in seemly wise
And how to leave the children estate ;
Then next, whether they are spending themselves
For ignoble beings or for good,
That is left dark from their ken.
But one last ill of all, to ail men
Now will I speak. For if they have found
Sufficing estate, and their children have waxed
To the glory of youth, and moreover are good.
If their lot have chanced to them thus, lo Death,
Vanished back to his Hades again.
Has snatched the forms of the children away.
And what avails it for children's sake
To have the gods heap on mortals' heads
This bitterest, deadly despair ?
Medea.
Friends, now for long abiding the event,
Eager I gaze for what shall come of it ;
And now discern a servitor of Jason's
Advancing hither. And his gasping breath
Declares him messenger of some dire news.
Messenger.
Oh thou who hast wrought a horrible wild deed,
Medea, fly, fly, sparing not car of the waves.
Nor chariot hurrying thee across the plains.
Medea.
But what hath chanced to me worth such a flight }
Messenger.
The royal maiden is this moment dead,
With Creon her father, by thy magic drugs.
Medea.
Thou hast told sweetest news. From henceforth rank
Among my benefactors and my friends.
Messenger.
What sayest thou ? Lady, hast thou thy right wits,
Nor rav'st, who, having outraged the king's hearth,
Joy'st at the hearing and dost nothing fear }
Medea.
Somewhat in sooth I have to answer back
To these thy words. But be not hasty, friend.
Come, tell me how they died. For twice so much
Wilt thou delight me if they died in torments.
Messenger.
When then the boys, thy two sons, had arrived.
And with their father entered the bride's house.
We servants, who were troubled for thy griefs.
Rejoiced : and much talk shortly filled our ears.
Thou and thy husband had made up past strife.
One kissed the hand and one the golden head
Of thy young sons, and I myself, for joy.
Followed the boys into the women's halls.
But our mistress, whom we serve now in thy place.
Before she saw thy sons come side by side.
Kept her glad gaze on Jason : then ere long
378
EURIPIDES.
She hid her eyes and turned away from him
Her whitened face, loathing the boys' approach.
But thy husband checked his young bride's heat and rage,
Thus speaking : " Be not rancorous to thy friends,
But cease thy wrath and turn again thy head,
Counting those dear who 're to thy husband dear.
Take then their gifts, and 'of thy father pray
He spare for my sake my boys' banishment."
And when she saw the gauds she said no nay.
But spoke her husband sooth in all. And ere
The father and the boys had gone far forth
She took the shimmering robes and put them on,
And, setting round her curls the golden crown.
SCENES FROM THE MEDEA.
(^Drawing from A m/>hora.)
At the bright mirror stroked her tresses right,
And smiled on the mute likeness of herself.
Next, risen from her couch, flits through the room,
Daintily tripping on her milk-white feet,
With the gifts overjoyed, often and long
O'er her slant shoulder gazing on herself ;
But then a sight came dread to look upon,
For a change comes on her hue; she staggers back.
Shuddering in every limb, and scarce wins time
To fall upon her couch, not to the ground.
EXTRACT FROM THE MEDEA. 379
Then an old waiting-dame, who deemed the wrath
Of Pan or other god had come on her.
Shrilled the prayer-chaunt ; I trow before she saw
The white foam oozing through the mouth, the eyes
Start from their sockets strained, the bloodless flesh.
For then, far other wailing than her chaunt,
Came her great shriek. Straight to the father's house
Rushed one, another to the new-wed husband,
To tell of the bride's fate ; and all the house
Was ringing with incessant hurrying steps.
By this might a swift walker stretching limb
Have touched the goal of the six plethra course.
And she, who had been speechless, with shut ejes.
Fearfully moaned, poor wretch, and started up :
For twofold anguish did make war on her.
For both the golden crown set round her head
Was sending marvelous streams of eating fire.
And the fine-webbed robe, the offering of thy sons,
Was gnawing at the hapless one's white flesh.
But she, sprung from her couch, now flies, ablaze.
Tossing her head and curls this way and that,
Fain to dash off the crown. But all too firm
The golden headband clave ; and still the fire
Flamed doubly fiercer when she tossed her locks.
And, conquered by her fate, she drops to the floor.
Scarce, but by her own father to be known :
For neither the grave sweetness of her eyes.
Nor her fair face was visible ; but blood
Mingled with flame was welling from her head.
And, by the secret poison gnawed, her flesh
Dropped from the bones, as resin-gouts from the fir, —
Dreadful to see. And none dared touch the dead,
For her fate had we to our monitor ;
But the hapless father, through his ignorance
Of how she perished, having ere we knew
Entered the chamber, falls upon the corse.
Breaks instant into wailing, and, her body
Enfolded in his clasp, he kisses her,
Thus calling on her, " Oh, unhappy child.
What god hath foully done thee thus to death }
Who makes this charnel heap of moldering age
Thy childless mourner } Oh, woe worth the while !
Would now that I might die with thee, my child."
But, when he stayed his sobbings and laments
And would have raised his aged body up.
He, as the ivy by the laurel's boughs,
By the fine-webbed robes was caught ; and fearful grew
The struggle. He sought on his knees to rise ;
She held him back. And if by force he rose
He tore the aged flesh from off his bones.
And then at length the evil-fated man
Ceased and gave up the ghost, able no more
To cope with that great anguish. And they lie.
Father and daughter, corpses side by side :
A sight of sorrow that appeals for tears.
And truly let thy fortunes be apart
From reasonings of mine : for thou thyself
Wilt know a shelter from the retribution.
But not now first I count the lot of man
A passing shadow : and I might say those
380 EURIPIDES.
Of mortals who are very seeming wise
And fret themselves with learnings, those are they
Who make them guilty of the chiefest folly ;
But no one mortal is a happy man,
Though, riches flooding in, more prosperous
One than another grow ; yet none is happy.
Chorus.
Fortune, it seems, on Jason will to-day
Justly heap many woes. Oh hapless one.
Daughter of Creon, how we mourn thy fate,
Who to the halls of Hades art gone forth
Because of Jason's marrying with thee.
Medea.
My friends, this purpose stand approved to me,
Slaying my boys to hurry from this realm ;
Not, making weak delays, to give my sons
By other and more cruel hands to die.
Nay, steel thyself, my heart. Why linger we
As not to do that horror which yet must be ?
Come, oh, my woeful hand, take, take the sword
On to my new life's mournful starting point,
And be no coward, nor think on thy boys.
How dear, how thou didst give them birth. Nay, rather
For this short day forget they are thy sons :
Then weep them afterwards. For though thou slay'st them.
Oh, but they're dear, and I a desolate woman.
Chorus.
Strophe.
Earth, and all-lighting glow of sun,
Behold ! behold !
See this sad woman and undone.
Ere yet her murderous hand, made bold
Against her own, her children slay.
For they sprang of the golden stem
Of thy descent ; and great to-day
Our dread the blood of gods in them
Shall by a mortal's wrath be spilt.
But now do thou, Oh, Zeus-born light,
Stay her — prevent ; put thou to flight
That fell Erinnys to this home
From God's avenging past crimes, come
To whelm her in despair and guilt.
Antistrophe.
Upon thy children has thy care
Been spent in vain ;
In vain thy loved babes didst thou bear ;
Thou who the inhospitable lane
Of the dark rocks Sympleglades
Didst leave behind thee in thy wake.
Forlorn one, why do pangs like these
Of passion thy torn spirit shake }
Why shall stern murder of them grow }
For scarce is any cleansing found
Of kindred blood that from the ground
For vengeance cries : but like for like
The gods send curses down and strike
The slayers and their houses low.
EXTRACT FROM THE MEDEA. Z^\
First Son.
Alas!
What shall I do ? Whither run from our mother ?
Second Son.
I know not, dearest brother, for we perish.
Chorus.
Dost hear thy children, hear their cry of pain ?
Oh luckless woman, desperate !
Shall I within the house then ? I were fain
To shield the children from such fate.
First Son.
Ho ! in the gods' name, rescue ! There is need.
Second Son.
For we are in the toils, beneath the knife.
Chorus.
Oh cruel, what, of stone or steel, art thou.
Thou who that bloom.
Of sons thyself didst bear wouldst see die now
By thine hands' doom ?
One woman have I heard of, one alone,
And of the far-off days, whose deathful hand
Was laid upon the babes that were her own,
Ino by gods distraught, when from her land
She by the queenly spouse of Zeus was banned.
Sent to roam to and fro ;
And, seeking her sons' death, she, wild with woe,
Stretched forth her foot from off the sea's rough strand.
Whelmed her with them into the waves below.
And, they so dying with her, died.
Henceforth can aught called strange or dread betide ?
Oh bed of woman, with all mischief fraught.
What ills hast thou ere now to mortals brought !
Jason,
Women, ye who thus stand about the house,
Is she within her home who wrought these crimes,
Medea, or hath she gone away in flight }
For now must she or hide beneath the earth
Or lift herself with wings into wide air
Not to pay forfeit to the royal house.
Thinks she, having slain the rulers of this land,
Herself uninjured from this home to fly .''
But not of her I reck as of my sons :
Her those she wronged will evilly requite,
But to preserve my children's life I came.
Lest to my hurt the avenging kin on them
Wreak somewhat for their mother's bloody crime.
Chorus.
Oh, wretched man ! What woes thou com'st to, Jason,
Thou know'st not, else hadst thou not said these words.
Jason.
What is it ? Seeks she then to kill me too ?
Chorus.
The boys have perished by their mother's hand.
3^2 EURIPIDES.
Jason,
Woe ! What sayst thou ? Woman, how thou destroy 'st me !
Chorus.
And now no more in being count thy sons.
Jason.
Where killed she them, in the house or without }
Chorus.
Open these gates, thou'lt see thy murdered sons.
Jason.
Undo the bolt on the instant, servants there,
Loose the clamps, that I may see my grief and bane,
May see them dead and guerdon her with death.
Medea {from overhead^.
Why dost thou batter at these gates, and force them.
Seeking the dead and me who wrought their deaths .-*
Cease from this toil. If thou hast need of me
Speak then, if thou wouldst aught. But never more
Thy hand shall touch me ; such a chariot
The Sun, my father's father, gives to me,
A stronghold from the hand of enemies.
Jason.
Oh, loathsome thing, oh woman most abhorred
Of gods and me and all the race of men.
Thou who hast dared to thrust the sword in thy sons
Thyself didst bear, and hast destroyed me out.
Childless. And thou beholdest sun and earth.
Who didst this, daredst this most accursed deed !
Perish. Oh, I am wise now, then unwise.
When from thy home in thy barbarian land
I brought thee with me to a Hellene house,
A monstrous bane to the land that nurtured thee ;
And to thy father traitress. Now at me
Have the gods launched thy retributory fiends,
Who, slaying first thy brother at the hearth,
Hiedst thee unto the stately-prowed ship Argo.
Such thy first deeds : then, married to myself.
And having borne me children, for a spite
Of beddings and weddings thou hast slaughtered them.
There's not a Hellene woman had so dared ;
Above whom I, forsooth, choose thee to wife —
A now loathed tie and ruinous to me —
Thee lioness, not woman, of a mood
Than the Tursenian Scylla more untamed.
Enough ; for not with thousands of rebukes
Could I wring thee, such is thine hardihood.
Avaunt, thou guilty shame ! child-murderess !
But mine it is to wail my present fate;
Who nor of my new spousals shall have gain,
Nor shall have sons whom I begot and bred.
To call my living own : for I have lost them.
Medea.
I would have largely answered back thy words
If Zeus the father knew not what from me
Thou didst receive and in what kind hast done.
EXTRACT FROM THE MEDEA. 383
And 'twas not for thee, having spurned my love.
To lead a merry life, flouting at me.
Nor for the princess ; neither was it his
Who gave her thee to wed, Creon, unscathed.
To cast me out of this his realm. And now.
If it is so like thee, call me lioness
And Scylla, dweller on Tursenian plains.
For as right bade me, I have clutched thy heart.
Jason.
And thou too sufferest, partner in the pangs.
Medea.
True, but the pain profits if thou shalt not flout.
Jason.
Oh sons, how foul a mother have ye had !
Medea.
Oh boys, how died ye by your father's guilt !
Jason,
Not this right hand of mine slew them, indeed.
Medea.
No, but thine outrage and new wedding ties.
Jason.
So for a bed lost thou thoughtsl fit to slay them }
Medea.
Dost thou count that a light wrong to a woman ?
Jason.
Aye, to a chaste one : but thou 'rt wholly base.
Medea.
They are no more. For this will torture thee.
Jason.
They are, I say — a haunting curse for thee.
Medea.
Who first begun the wrong the gods do know.
Jason.
Thy loathly mind they verily do know.
Medea.
Thou'rt hateful : and I'm sick of thy cross talk.
Jason.
And I of thine : but the farewell is easy.
Medea.
Well, how } What shall I do .? I too long for it.
Jason.
Let me then bury and bemoan these dead.
Medea.
Never. Since I will bury them with this hand,
Bearing them to the sacred grove of Hera,
God of the heights, that no one of my foes
Shall do despite to them, breaking their graves.
And I'll appoint this land of Sisyphus
3^4 EURIPIDES.
A solemn high day and a sacrifice
For aye, because of their unhallowed deaths.
For I go to the city of Erechtheus,
To dwell with ^geus there, Pandion's son,
For thee, as is most fit, thou, an ill man,
Shalt die an ill death, thy head battered in
By the ruins of thine Argo : that, to thee,
The sharp last sequel of our wedding tie.
Jason.
But thee may thy children's Erinnys slay
And Vengeance for blood.
Medea.
And who among gods and friends will hear thee
Betrayer of strangers and breaker of oaths }
Jason.
Out, out, stained wretch and child murderess.
Medea.
Go now to thy home and bury thy bride.
Jason.
I go. Yea, of both my children bereft.
Medea.
Thy wail is yet nothing. Wait and grow old.
Jason.
Oh, sons, much loved !
Medea.
Of their mother, not thee.
Jason.
And yet thou didst slay them.
Medea.
Making thee woe.
Jason.
Alas ! alas ! I, a woeful man,
Desire to kiss the dear lips of my boys.
Medea.
Thou callst on them now, hast welcomes now ;
Then didst reject them.
Jason.
In the gods' name.
Give me to touch my children's soft flesh.
Medea.
It may not be : thy words are vain waste.
Jason.
Oh Zeus, dost thou hear how I'm kept at bay.
And this that is done unto me of her.
This foul and child-slaying lioness }
But still to my utmost as best I may
I make these death-wails and invokings for them ;
Thus to my witness calling the gods,
How thou, having slain my sons, dost prevent
That I touch with my hand and bury the dead —
Whom would I had never begotten, so
By thee to behold them destroyed.
THE CROWNED HIPPOLYTUS. 385
Chorus.
Zeus in Olympus parts out many lots,
And the gods work to many undreamed of ends,
And that we looked for is never fulfilled,
And to things not looked for the gods make a way :
Even so hath this issue been.
V.
The Crowned Hippolytus, like the Medea, has served as an inspira-
tion to the modern stage, although it can scarcely be denied that they
both owe part of this long life to the fact that Seneca used them in
the preparation of two of his famous plays. That his treatment of the
old subjects abounded with gross faults will be seen later; yet their
very extravagances, by suiting the raw taste of an unpolished age, led
the modern public back to the study of antiquity. His Phaedra was
probably taken from some other original than this Crowned Hip-
polytus, for Phaedra was the heroine of other plays than this. One of
them, the work of Euripides, was known as the Veiled Hippolytus,
from the fact that the hero hid his head in shame when his stepmother
confessed her love for him. The Crowned Hippolytus was so called
from the fact that the hero appeared, bearing a crown to offer to
Artemis. While the earlier play was a failure, this revision was
a great success. It was brought out in 428 B.C., winning for its
author the first prize. The scene of the play is Trazene, where Hip-
polytus, the son of Theseus, had been brought up. The prologue,
after the awkward fashion which was not employed in the Medea,
announces with the dryness of a playbill the action of the play:
Phaedra, the stepmother of Hippolytus, is cursed by Aphrodite with
love of that young hero. He is represented a charming youth, fond
of hunting and of the country, and a devoted worshipper of Artemis.
Indeed, while the gods stand above the scene and create confusion for
men and women, in this instance bringing about the death of Hip-
polytus on account of Aphrodite's jealousy of Artemis, yet even here
the action rests on human deeds and emotions. Thus Hippolytus is
drawn in a most natural way. His love for the country is beautifully
given, as these lines will show :
" Welcome to me, O fairest
Artemis, loveliest maiden
Of them that walk on Olympus !
I bring for thee a plaited wreath of flowers
From meadow lands untrodden and unmown.
There never shepherd dares to feed his flocks.
Nor iron comes therein ; only the bee
Through that unsullied meadow in the spring
Flies on and leaves it pure, and Reverence
Freshens with rivers' dew the tended flowers.
ARTEMIS, THE GODDESS OF THE CHASE.
{Statue in the Louvre.)
THE CROWNED HIPPOLYTUS—PH^DRA'S LAMENT. 387
And only they whose virtue is untaught,
They that inherit purity, may pluck
Their bloom and gather it — no baser man.
Yet, O dear mistress, from this pious hand
Take thou a garland for thy golden hair.
For I, of all men, only am thy friend
To share thy converse and companionship.
Hearing thy voice, w^hose eyes 1 never see —
And thus may I live until I reach the goal ! "
Yet even here we may detect the self-satisfaction which leads Hip-
polytus to his fate. The last lines express his consciousness of his
superiority, and it is with great tact that Euripides lets his hero dis-
play the fanaticism by which alone the Greeks could explain his
detestation of Aphrodite. When Phaedra appears, it is to find the
spectators understanding that she is under the ban of some offended
deity. Still this divine interference is swiftly reconciled with the facts
of life. The nurse who brings Phaedra out upon the stage is as far as
possible removed from a solemn agent of offended deities. She is
rather a remote ancestress of Mrs. Gamp, with her selfish, complaining,
and familiar advice. Here are her first words :
"Alas! the miseries of mankind and their odious diseases ! What
must I do for you, and what not do? Here you have light and air,
and the couch on which you are lying sick has been moved out of
doors, for you were forever talking about coming out ; but soon you
will be in a hurry to go back to your room, for you are very fickle and
nothing contents you. What is present gives you no pleasure ; what
you lack, you fancy more agreeable. Tending the sick is worse than
being sick — one is a simple evil; the other combines mental distress
and hard work." Of course, in the measures of the original, these
words lacked the flippancy which they acquire in prose, for the unity
of composition in a tragedy which had acquired its form under the
solemn inspiration of the deepest religious sentiment compelled that
all such living flavors should adopt a majestic expression ; yet, in
spite of this cloak, the familiarity of the nurse's speech must have been
distinctly perceptible to the spectators. When Phaedra begins to
utter her distracted lament, the nurse repeats her commonplace con-
solation, and seeks the cause of her misery, and almost always with
the same vulgar curiosity. This quality stands in marked contrast with
Phaedra's despair. When her secret becomes known, she beseeches
her unworthy confidant not to tell it. The nurse, however, is brutal
in her frankness :
" Why do you talk in this fine strain ! You need not choice words,
but the man." And out of her own head, having promised to arrange
matters honorably, she tells Hippolytus that Phaedra loves him. The
Chorus hear his wrathful utterances at being told this, and in a moment
388
E U RIP IDES.
he bursts in full of fury and giving expression to his hatred of women.
Phaedra, overcome by remorse, hangs herself, and when her husband,
Theseus, returns he finds in her lifeless hand a letter in which she has
accused him of pursuing her with unholy love. In his grief and anger
Theseus bitterly denounces his son and orders him into exile. Hip-
polytus is bound to secrecy by an oath to the nurse and departs in his
chariot. The horses carry him to the seashore, and there he is beaten
against the rocks by the sea. When he is brought back dying,
THE NURSE DISCLOSES TO HIPPOLYTUS THE LOVE OF HIS STEPMOTHER PHiCDRA.
{Wall Painting— Herculaneum.)
Artemis appears and explains the ruin that Aphrodite has wrought.
Theseus is broken-hearted ; he says :
" Oh, son, forsake me not for death. Take heart."
To which Hippolytus makes answer:
" I have done with taking heart, father. I die !
Cover my face, and swiftly, with the robe."
The position that the gods hold, of superior and wilful interrupters
of public and private peace, is not an exalted one. They possess no
THE INFERIOR POSITION OF THE GODS— EXTRACTS. 389
quality of lofty rule. The etiquette of Olympus forbids that Artemis
should intervene to protect this ill-starred family from the wrath of
Aphrodite, They exist only as conventional dramatic characters, who
inspire other feelings than reverence. There is, indeed, a clashing
between their interference and the natural conduct of the play, but
they were as essential a part of the Greek stage as were the chorus
and the measures of the lines.
The songs of the chorus are often beautiful, as in this passage :
" O Love ! O Love ! from the eyes of thee
Droppeth desire, and into the soul
That thou conquerest leadest thou sweetness and charm ;
Come not to me bringing sorrow or harm,
And come not in dole.
Nor with measureless passion o'ermaster thou me !
For neither the lightning fire
Nor the bolts of the stars are dire
As the dart hurled forth from the hand of Love,
The son of God above.
For vainly, vainly, and all in vain,
Pile we to Phoebus the Pythian shrines ;
Vainly by Alpheus heap victims on high ;
Vain indeed are the prayers we cry.
If no prayer divines
That Love is the tyrant and master of men.
Through every fate he errs.
The keeper of bride chambers.
Nor alike unto all, nor one only way,
He comes to spoil and slay."
It is impossible not to notice the tendency of the lyrical parts of the
plays to become graceful ornaments rather than coherent parts of the
construction. In modern times the growth of the opera after the
decay of tragedy is perhaps a similar change. The end of the play is
given in these lines :
HiPPOLYTUS.
O miserable mother ! Hateful birth !
May none I love spring from a lawless bond !
Theseus.
Will ye not drag him hence, slaves ? Were ye deaf
When long ago I spoke his exile out }
HiPPOLYTUS.
Yet at his peril that lays hands on me.
Thyself, if so thou wilt, shalt thrust me forth.
Theseus.
That will L if thou art fixed to disobey ;
No grief comes o'er my heart that thou must go.
HiPPOLYTUS.
'Tis settled, as it seems. Alas ! alas !
For what I know, I know not how to tell.
O thou, Latona's daughter, dear to me
39° EURIPIDES.
Above the rest of heaven, in the hunt
Companion, whom I took sweet counsel with !
O Artemis ! I must be banished now.
From glorious Athens. But farewell, farewell,
O city, and farewell, Erectheus' land.
O plain of Troezen, what delights are thine
To spend a happy youth in ! but farewell.
For the last time behold I thee, that hearest
For the last time my voice. Come, speak to me,
Youths of my age and country ; send me hence
With a kind word at parting ; for indeed
You shall not look upon a purer man.
Though thus I show not in my father's thoughts.
Chorus.
Greatly the care of the gods, when I think on it, lessens my grieving,
But hide I a hope in the heart's depths of comprehending it then.
I am utterly left at fault, in beholding the works and perceiving
The fortunes of mortals ; for aimlessly change
In a shifting confusion the lives of men,
Far-wandering ever to range.
Oh, would that Fate from the heavens would answer my calling upon her.
Granting me joy with my lot and a spirit unsullied in pain,
A judgment not strained too high, neither basely enstamped with dishonor ;
For, easily changing the want of my ways
To the need of the morrow, in peace would I fain
Be happy the length of my days.
But dim and amazed is my mind, the unlooked-for I see come to pass ;
For, ah me ! I behold, I behold
The clearliest burning star
Of Hellas cast out by a father, alas !
In his anger, to exile afar !
O ye sands of the neighboring shores, where the water
Breaks into foam ! Forest oaks spreading wide
Where with swift-footed hounds he would rush on the slaughter.
With Artemis aye at his side !
The yoke of Henetian foals in the car o'er the Limnan plain
He shall urge never more, never more.
The steeds held back by his foot ;
And the song that was sleepless shall silent remain,
In his home, 'neath the chords of the lute.
And crownless, Dictynna, the glade is thou hauntest
Deep in the forest, ungarlanded, lone.
Hushed is the strife for his hand, and the contest
Of maidens in marriage, for, lo ! he is gone.
Epode. But thy sorrows the soul in me sadden ;
And fatal the fate is I undergo
In tears for thy sake and in pain.
Thy son, O mother, is born in vain !
Woe! Woe!
Against the gods I madden !
O graces ! O goddesses linked in one !
Why must the innocent exile go
Cast out from the halls of his father, and forth from his kingdom thrown ?
But lo ! of this man's followers I behold
One reach the house with sorrow in his face.
THE DBA TH OF HIP POL YTUS. 39 ^
Second Messenger.
Turning my steps what way shall I o'ertake
The King ? Speak, ladies, is he in the halls ?
Chorus.
Behold, he comes from out his palaces.
Messenger.
Theseus, I bear a history worth a thought
To thee, to all Athenian citizens.
And these that dwell in Troezen it regards.
Theseus.
Speak : is it any great calamity
That falls upon the neighboring twain of states }
Messenger.
The word is this : Hippolytus is no more.
Though yet for a scale's turn looks he on the light.
Theseus.
Killed 1 And who slew him ? Met him any man
In hate, whose wife he, as his father's, wronged ?
Messenger.
His horses and his chariot were his death ;
These, and the curses of thy mouth implored
Of him that is thy sire and rules the seas.
Theseus.
O great Poseidon, how truly art my father
That thus mine imprecation hast fulfilled !
How did he perish } Speak : how did he die ?
How did the snares of justice close him in }
Messenger.
We servants, standing by the wave-met beach.
Curried the horses weeping, since there came
To us a messenger, who said, " No more
Hippolytus shall set returning feet
Upon our earth, being banished by the King."
We wept ; and then himself approached and brought
The same sad strain of tears. Close at his heels
The myriad of his friends and fellow-youth
Followed in thronging companies. At last
He spoke, forsaking groaning : " O my soul,
Why art thou thus disquieted in me ?
My father's law must come to pass. O slaves.
Yoke now the harnessed horses to the car.
For me this city is no more ! " And then,
Truly, each man was eager to obey.
Swifter than speech we drew the horses up
Caparisoned to his side. He seized the reins
In both his hands from off the chariot-rail.
Mounting all buskined as he was. But first
He spoke to God with outstretched palms : " O Zeus,
Let me not live if I be born so vile,
And show my father, when I am dead least.
If not while yet I look upon the light,
How much he hath misused me ! " With the word
He spurred at once both horses on, and we
Ran by the reins, and followed him along
The forthright Argive, Epidaurian way ;
392 EURIPIDES.
But as we brought into the desert place
Our convoy — where there is a certain shore
Beyond this country, sloping to the sea
Saronic — thence arose a fearful voice
We shuddered at to hear, so loud it boomed
Like rumbling thunders of the nether Zeus.
The steeds, with stiffened heads and ears pricked up,
Listened, and on us crept a vehement fear
Of whence the voice might come ; but, looking out
Towards the shore that roared with waves, we saw
A huge, unnatural billow, whose crest was fast
In heaven, that took away the coasting rocks
Of Sciron from our sight, and Isthmus hid,
And Aesculapius' cliff. Then swelling high,
Dashing much foam about in the sea's swirl.
It neared the strand and towards the chariot moved.
But as the breaker and flood of the huge third wave
Burst on the beach, that billow sent us out
A portent, ay, a fierce and monstrous bull ;
And all the country, filled with its uproar,
Voiced back the appalling sounds to us, whose eyes
Refused to look upon our visible fear.
Then on the horses came a mighty dread ;
But he who mastered them, knowing well the ways
And nature of the steed, seized on the reins,
Pulling them as a sailor pulls the oar.
Tightening the trace with stress of the backward thrown
Body. But in their teeth the horses strained
The bit, nor heeded urging from behind
Of steering hand, nor rein, nor wheel. For when
Our master drove them towards the softer ground
The monster came in front to turn them back,
Maddening the team with fright ; but towards the rocks
Bore them their furious mettle, still so far
He silently kept coming close behind.
Until the chariot fell ; the horses reared
And threw their driver out ; against the crags
The felloe o' the wheel was dashed, and forth there flew
The linch-pins and the axle-boxes up.
All was confusion then. But he, alas !
Hippolytus, all tangled in the reins.
Bound with indissoluble bonds, was dragged
Along, his dear head dashed against the rocks,
His body shattered ; and he cried aloud
Most horribly, " Ye whom my mangers fed !
O my own horses ! stop ; nor blot me out
Utterly from the world ! O fatal curse !
Ah ! who will save a man most innocent ? "
But, fain at heart to help, our laggard feet
Still left us far behind ; yet from the reins
At last, I know not how, he loosed himself
And fell, nor long his breath of life endures.
With that the horses vanished, and no more
We saw the monster in that craggy place.
King, in thy palaces a slave from birth
Am I, yet will I not be made to think
That he, thy son, is evil. Let the race
Of women all go hang and fill the pines
Of Ida with their writing. He is pure.
HIPPOL YTUS DEFENDED B V ARTEMIS. 393
Chorus.
Now of new ills the grief is consummate.
Fate and necessity may no man flee.
Theseus.
Through hatred of this man thy tale of woe
Rejoiced me at the first ; but since the gods
I fear, and since he was my son, no more
Delight nor sorrow moves me for his pain.
Messenger.
But how to please thee then ? Must we convey
His body here } How use this anguished man }
Consider ; but if I might counsel thee.
Thou wert not savage to a suffering son.
Theseus.
Go, bear him hither. Let mine eyes behold
Him that denied his guilt ; for I with words
And Heaven's judgment will confute him now.
Chorus.
Thou the unbending mind of the gods and of earthly ones bendest,
Cypris, and where thou wendest
He whose feathers are bright with a myriad changing dyes
On nimblest pinion flies ;
Over the earth and above the brine of the sounding sea
Hovering flutters he.
For Love with maddened heart enchants
Whatever meets his glittering wings —
The wild beast whelps in mountain haunts,
The creatures in the waves.
And on the earth the growing things
That burning Helios looks to see.
And man ; but these are all thy slaves.
And subject, O Cypris, to thee.
Artemis.
Oh, sprung from a noble father, O son
Of Aegeus, thee bid I hear.
For I am the maid of Latona that speak !
Theseus, unhappiest, wherefore to thee
Is bloodshed and pain a delight .-*
For unjustly thy son is destroyed with the curse
Of thee, an unnatural sire.
For thy trust was put in the falsehood of Phaedra
Regarding uncertain invisible things.
But sure is thy ruin and plain.
Oh, how dost not hide out of sight in the nethermost
Chasm of torment and darkness in hell.
Thy body, defiled as thou art ?
Or why dost not take to thee wings and escape
To a changed existence above,
Withdrawing thy foot from the snare of these ills
That here hast no lot with the good ? '
But hearken, Theseus, how thine evils stand.
For, though it vantage nought, I will torment thee ;
But to this end I came, to manifest
The just mind of thy son, that he may die
In honour, and of Phaedra's agonized love.
394 EURIPIDES.
That yet was, in some sort, a nobleness
To witness. For that goddess most abhorred
By us, whose pleasure is the virgin life,
Goaded her on to passion for thy child.
But while she strove to gain the victory
Over desire by right, against her will
The scheming nurse destroyed her, that betrayed
Her secret to thy son, binding with oaths.
He, as was just, would not obey nor hear
Her words, nor yet, for all thy calumny.
Took aught of obligation from his oath.
Having an honourable nature. Then
Thy wife, afraid a test might show her shame,
Graved the false tablet that destroyed thy son
With subtle guiles, and yet persuaded thee.
Theseus.
Woe's me !
Artemis.
O Theseus, stings the speech } Be still,
That, all being heard, thou then mayest groan the more.
Dost not remember how thy father gave thee
Three curses, sure to slay ? O sinful man.
One sent no foe destruction, but thy son !
The sea-god justly gave thee what was due
According to his vow, but in my sight
And his most base thou showest, for that thou
Proof nor the voice of prophets didst not wait,
And soughtest not inquiry, and no time
Didst brood the thought, but swiftlier than was well
Vented a curse against thy son, and slew him.
Theseus.
mistress, let me die !
Artemis.
Mighty and dread
Thy deeds ; and yet forgiveness may befall
To even such. For Cypris willed these things
To satisfy her heart. So runs the la,w
For gods : what wills desiring deity
No fellow-god would thwart, each stands aloof
From crossing other's purpose evermore.
Be sure that, stood I not in dread of Zeus,
1 never would have come to such dishonour
As leave to die the man more dear to me
Than all the world beside. As for thy sin,
The guilt is loosed because thou didst not know.
Since in her death thy wife destroyed the proof
Of questions, and through this beguiled thy mind.
Now most upon thy head this storm is burst,
But me, me too, it strikes. For at the death
Of pious mortals gods do not rejoice,
That crush the wicked and destroy their race.
Chorus.
Ah ! look where he cometh, a dying man,
With tender body and auburn head
Mangled and cruelly rent.
Woe to the palaces, woe ! for a ban
THE CROWNED HIPPOLYTUS 395
Of double sorrow and twofold dread
Upon us from heaven is sent.
HiPPOLYTUS.
Ah, ah ! I suffer ! I die !
Alas, me unhappy ! For thus was I torn
By the unjust answer of God
To the curse of a father unjust !
And spasms of anguish, ah ! beat in my brain,
Swift agonies shoot through my head.
Ah ! stop, for I faint ; let me rest.
O team of my chariot, fed at my hand !
It is you that destroyed me, and you are my death,
O hateful and terrible steeds !
Alas, me ! I pray you by Heaven, O slaves.
Touch ye the wounds of my mangled flesh
With tender and quiet hands.
Zeus, dost behold } for the servant of God,
1 that am holy and chaste.
Go down to a manifest hell under earth,
Life unto me being lost ;
And the work of goodness I wrought to mankind
Is fruitless indeed, and as labour in vain.
Alas ! alas !
For the anguish, the anguish is come on me now.
Let me alone, slaves. Wilt thou not come,
O healer. Death ?
Destroy me, destroy me ! I long for the sword
Keen with a double edge,
To cleave me asunder, to cut me in twain
And put my life to sleep.
O curse ! the sins of my forefathers now,
The blood-guilt of my kin.
Are burst from the bounds, nor delay on the course,
But upon me — O wherefore } — are come
That am nowise the cause of the wrong.
Ah ! what shall I say }
How set me free
From living and suffering pain ?
O black necessity, gate of night !
O Death, wouldst thou hush me to rest !
Artemis.
O sufferer, truly art thou yoked with grief,
Yet by thy nobleness of soul destroyed.
HiPPOLYTUS.
Ah ! ah !
O heavenly breath of fragrance, thee I feel
Even in torment, and the pain is passed.
The goddess Artemis is standing by.
Artemis.
She is, O sufferer, she, thy friend in heaven.
HiPPOLYTUS.
And dost thou, mistress, look upon my woes ?
Artemis.
Yet dare not shed the god-unlawful tear.
HiPPOLYTUS.
Thy huntsman and thy follower is no more.
39^ EURIPIDES.
Artemis,
No more, no more, yet dear to me in death.
HiPPOLYTUS.
Gone is thy horseman, guarder of thy shrines.
Artemis.
Ay, for unscrupulous Cypris schemed the plan.
HiPPOLYTUS.
Alas ! I know what god destroys me now.
Artemis.
Thou, being chaste, wert odious to her fame.
HiPPOLYTUS.
One Cypris, as it seems, destroys us three.
Artemis.
Thy father, thee, and — for the third — his wife.
HiPPOLYTUS.
Wherefore I also mourn my father's fate.
Artemis.
The goddess blinded him with her deceits,
HiPPOLYTUS.
Father, how art thou wretched in this grief !
Theseus.
I perish, son ; I have no joy in life.
HiPPOLYTUS.
Such bitter gifts thy sire the sea-god granted !
Theseus.
Would that the prayer had died within my throat !
HiPPOLYTUS.
But why } Thou wouldst have slain me in thy rage.
Theseus.
For Heaven willed my judgment's overthrow.
HiPPOLYTUS.
Ah ! were man's curse on Heaven but as strong !
Artemis.
Hush ! for not even in the shadowy world
Hereunder shall the shafts of Cypris' rage
Be hurled against thy body unrevenged.
Because thy holiness was not in vain,
Nor vain thy lofty thought ; but whoso breathes
Most dear to her shall fall, by might of these
Inevitable arrows of my hand.
Slaughtered in vengeance for thy death. But thou
Shall have immortal recompense for pain.
Great are the honours I will give thee here
In this Troezenian city, and for thee
Unmarried girls before their wedding day
Shall shear their yellow tresses ; thou shalt reap
For many an age the harvest of their tears.
And evermore thy memory shall remain.
And make a music in their maiden mouths
For ever, nor shall silence hold unsaid
The love that Phaedra bore thee. But, O king,
THE CROWNED HIPFOLYTUS. 397
son of Aegeus, take within thine arms
Thy child and clasp him to thee, since I know
Thou didst not willingly visit him with death,
And it is natural that men should err
When so the immortals order. And forgive
Thy sire, Hippolytus. Thy death was fate.
And this thou knowest. But farewell, farewell ;
1 may not look upon thy life's decay.
The dying gasps of men were my pollution ;
And no more distant I behold thine end.
Hippolytus.
Farewell even thou, blest virgin, and depart.
But lightly a long friendship dost thou leave.
Yet for thy sake I loose from all reproach
My father; for indeed since long ago
Thy words have been my rule of life. Ah, me !
The air grows black before my sight already.
Father, take me, lift me, lift me up.
Theseus.
Thy blessing, son ; how dost thou wring my heart.
Hippolytus.
I die ; and see indeed the gates of hell.
Theseus.
And wilt thou leave my soul defiled with blood }
Hippolytus.
No, from this guilt and bloodshed thou art freed.
Theseus.
How sayest thou, my soul is loosed from sin }
Hippolytus.
Artemis, witness, wielder of the bow.
Theseus.
O best beloved, how noble art thou shown !
Hippolytus.
Farewell thou also ; take my last farewell,
Theseus.
Woe's me, to lose a son so dear and brave !
Hippolytus.
Pray that thy lawful sons may prove as much.
Theseus.
son, forsake me not for death. Take heart.
Hippolytus.
1 have done with taking heart, father. I die ;
Cover my face and swiftly with the robe.
Theseus.
O Athens' famous frontiers, Pallas' earth.
How shall ye mourn this man ! Alas ! alas !
Cypris, of thy revenge how many things
Shall keep the memory present in my breast !
Chorus.
Common this sorrow to all in the city
Comes, an unlooked-for guest.
Of many the tears shall gush out in their pity,
And many shall beat the breast.
For the grief of the great there are many to wail,
And long shall the fame of their sorrow prevail.
CHAPTER v.— EURIPIDES II.— Continued.
I. — The Alcestis of Euripides — His Humanity Offensive to his Contemporaries — The
Andromache ; the Conversational Duels. II. — The Suppliants ; The Heracleidas;
Their Political Allusions — The Helen, with its Romantic Interest in Place of the
Earlier Solemnity, and its Enforcement of Unheroic Misfortune — Its Lack of the
Modern Dramatic Spirit. III. — The Troades, a Curious Treatment of the Old
Myths — The Mad Heracles; its Representation of the Gods in Accordance with
the New Spirit — The Electra; its Importance as a Bit of Literary Controversy —
Its Inferiority to the Plays of ^schylus and Sophocles on the Same Subject — The
Ion ; a Drama, not a Tragedy, and a Marked Specimen of the Change in
Thought — A Comparison between its Complexity and the Earlier Simplicity —
Condemnation of the Old Mythology. IV. — The Two Iphigeneias — The deus ex
niachina. V. — The Bacchae, and its Importance in the Study of Greek Re-
ligious Thought — The Feeling of Euripides for Natural Scenery; his Modern
Spirit — The Satyric Play, the Cyclops — The Rhesus. VI. The Successors of
Euripides — The Extended Influence of the Greek Drama, and Especially of
Euripides as the Most Modern of the Ancients.
I.
THE Alcestis is the earliest play of Euripides that has come down to
us, it having been brought out in 438 B.C. Only comparatively
recently has it been discovered that it was the fourth play of a tetralogy
which secured the second prize, the first falling to Sophocles; and the
fact of its thus standing at the end of a series of four explains much
that would otherwise continue to embarrass critics, for it evidently pos-
sessed some of the qualities of the final satyric piece, with its semi-
comic lines and its happy ending. Possibly this combination of trag-
edy and comedy was a novel invention of this author, and it was
certainly one that has borne rich fruit in later times.
The play represents the self-sacrifice of Alcestis, the wife of Adme-
tus. Admetus had angered Artemis by his marriage, and thus been
doomed to die, but Apollo, who had served him and found him a kind
master, succeeded in persuading the goddesses of fate to accept a sub-
stitute, if any of his family could be induced to die in his stead.
Neither his father nor mother, however, was willing to perish for
him, but Alcestis, his loving wife, consents.
Those who have seen in Euripides a mere despiser of women
have shown a lofty disregard for a good part of the evidence from
which to form a judgment, for he drew good as well as evil
women, as this play shows, and moralists have asserted that
HUMANITY OF EURIPIDES— OFFENDS CONSERVATIVES. 399
they have seen both kinds in life. In the Hecuba the chorus of
women asserts that some women are envied for their virtues, while
others may be classed among bad things. Doubtless what most
troubled the contemporaries of Euripides was simply the fact that
he drew women as they were, good or bad, instead of more or
less abstract embodiments of heroic passions such as we find in the
work of his predecessors. It was the humanity of Euripides that
offended his conservative contemporaries ; they felt for his changes the
same repugnance that many people now feel for novels about heroes
and heroines who have no heroic qualities, who are like people across
THE DOOM OF ADMETUS. (Wall Painting — Herculanaum.')
the street and totally devoid of the impossible incrustation of fault-
less beauty, unfailing enthusiasm, and every human virtue. Such
critics demand something greater and, as they think, finer than life can
furnish, and the opposition to Euripides was due to a similar feeling.
It is not easy to see, however, what heroism is greater than that
which Alcestis here displays : a queen, a mother, a wife, loving and
loved, she abandons every thing that makes life sweet from pure un-
selfishness. And with what art Euripides portrays the bitterness of
her sacrifice ! A slave comes forth in tears and describes her mis-
tress's farewell to the home where she and been so happy.
400
EURIPIDES.
" As soon as Alcestis per-
ceived that the fatal moment
was drawing nigh, she bathed
her fair body in the pure
water of the stream, and ar-
rayed herself in the rich
robes that she took from the
cedar chests, and then turn-
ing to the hearth, she prayed
to the protecting deity: ' O
sovereign goddess ! now that
I am ready to descend to the
shades, I lay myself at your
feet for the last time. Be a
mother to my children.
Grant to the boy a loving
wife, to the girl a worthy
husband. Let them not die,
like their mother, an untime-
ly death, but let them, hap-
pier than she, live out the
full measure of their days in
their native land. ' " The
slave goes on to recount the
sad parting of Alcestis with
her own room. " Meanwhile
her children kept clutching
her dress and weeping ; she
took them in her arms, kiss-
ing them in turn, as about
to die. All the slaves were
wandering here and there in
the palace, lamenting the
fate of their mistress ; she
offered her hand to every
one, and there was none so
poor to whom she did not
speak and bid farewell."
This last is a touch of
pathos that with all the rest
brings down the scene from
fairyland to every-day life
after a fashion that can not
BROWNING'S RENDERING OF THE FAREWELL OF ALCESTIS. 4° I
be said to mar it. This piteous bit of kindliness simply shows us the
woman in all her thoughtful gentleness, and can art do more than that ?
The same effect is produced when Alcestis herself appears upon the
stage, and controls herself for parting from her husband, a passage that
is thus rendered by Browning in his " Balaustion's Adventure ":
" Admetos, — how things go with me thou seest, —
I wish to tell thee, ere I die, what things
I will should follow. I — to honor thee,
Secure for thee, by my own soul's exchange.
Continued looking on the daylight here ^-
Die for thee — yet, if so I pleased, might live.
Nay, wed what man of Thessaly I would,
And dwell i' the dome with pomp and queenliness.
I would not, — would not live bereft of thee.
With children orphaned, neither shrank at all.
Though having gifts of youth wherein I joyed.
Yet, who begot thee and who gave thee birth.
Both of these gave thee up ; for all, a term
Of life was reached when death became them well,
Ay, well — to save their child and glorious die :
Since thou wast all they had, nor hope remained
Of having other children in thy place.
So, I and thou had lived out our full time.
Nor thou, left lonely of thy wife, wouldst groan
With children reared in orphanage : but thus
Some god disposed things, willed they so should be.
Be they so ! Now do thou remember this,
Do me in turn a favor, — favor, since
Certainly I shall never claim my due.
For nothing is more precious than a life :
But a fit favor, as thyself wilt say.
Loving our children here no less than I,
If head and heart be sound in thee at least.
Uphold them, make them masters of my house,
Nor wed and give a step-dame to the pair.
Who, being a worse wife than I, thro' spite
Will raise her hand against both thine and mine.
Never do this at least, I pray to thee !
For hostile the new-comer, the step-dame.
To the old brood — a very viper she
For gentleness ! Here stand they, boy and girl ;
The boy has got a father, a defense
Tower-like he speaks to and has answer from :
But thou, my girl, how will thy virginhood
Conclude itself in marriage fittingly ?
Upon what sort of sire-found yoke-fellow
Art thou to chance } with all to apprehend —
Lest, casting on thee some unkind report,
She blast thy nuptials in the bloom of youth.
.For neither shall thy mother watch thee wed.
Nor hearten thee in childbirth, standing by
Just when a mother's presence helps thee most !
No, for I have to die : and this my ill
Comes to me, nor to-morrow, no, nor yet
The third day of the month, but now, even now,
I shall be reckoned among those no more.
Farewell, be happy ! And to thee, indeed.
402 EURIPIDES.
Husband, the boast remains permissible
Thou hadst a wife was worthy ! and to you,
Children, as good a mother gave you birth."
The touches which appeal to every mother's heart are those that
Euripides introduced into the tragedy, borrowing his language, as
Aristotle has said in speaking of the changes that he wrought, from
common life and every-day talk. It was not a mere coincidence that
at the same time Socrates was bringing down philosophy from the
heavens to live among men.
Then follows the pathetic parting between Alcestis and her family,
and the mourning of the chorus. Therewith ends the first part of the
tragedy. The second part begins with the entrance of Heracles, who
finds Admetus upbraiding his father for his reluctance to die when so
few years could be left for him at the best. The god, when he finds
in what trouble the family is, goes down to the lower regions and
brings back the veiled Alcestis, whom he intrusts to the care of
Admetus, pretending that she is a prize he has just won at wrestling.
Gradually Admetus discovers the true state of affairs, and all ends
well with the reunited family. The happy termination thus made, the
play was well suited to take the place of the extravagant jollity of the
customary satyric play. It had an adverse effect, however, in cutting
it out from the list of tragedies, which was taken to mean those plays
that ended sadly. If we do not accept that definition, we need not
accept the exclusion, but, whatever it is called, the play contains
pathos and gloom enough to earn the name. The latter part relieves
it ; but certainly makes no one forget the qualities just described.
The Andromache is not one of the most striking of the plays of
Euripides. It describes the sufferings of the heroine after the fall of
Troy, when, in the division of spoils, she falls to the lot of Neop-
tolemus, who was already married to Hermione. Hermione was
childless, and jealous of Andromache and the son she had borne to her
new husband. In the absence of Neoptolemus, who had gone to con-
sult the Delphian oracle, the unhappy Trojan woman is exposed to the
ill-treatment of her rival, who accuses her of employing unholy arts to
prevent her bearing a child. Hermione, in her wrath, wishes to take
vengeance on Andromache and her son, Molottus, with the aid of her
father, Menelaus, but Peleus interferes, and Menelaus withdraws,
leaving Hermione in despair. Then Orestes arrives ; he had been in
old times a lover of Hermione, and he now claims her hand, which she
grants him on receiving his assurances that he will dispose of her
husband. This was not an idle assertion, for the messenger appears
to announce the violent death of Neoptolemus. Peleus mourns
this turn of events, but Thetis consoles him by promising him immor-
THE DI SPUTA TIVE ELEMENT IN EURIPIDES' PLA YS. 403
tality and bids Andromache and her son to be sent to the Molonian
land.
Obviously it would be a carping critic who should complain that
this play lacked incident. Indeed, it shows very clearly how far
Euripides broke the old rules of tragedy, and instead of uniting with
a single aim, to bring out one great emotion, accumulated incoherent
actions that should give him continual opportunities for the develop-
ment of novel and unexpected turns of passion. It was these that
tempted him ; it was heart-wringing incidents that he cared for, so far
as they presented occasion for subtle argument and disquisition. The
old narrative and lyrical forms of tragedy faded away before the dis-
putative, which was full of reproach, appeal, and denunciation. This
quality had, to be sure, always existed in the earlier plays, but he
developed it abundantly, sacrificing the unity of the tragedy to the
perpetual excitement of the emotions. His plays became intellectual
and passionate duels; the incidents being mere pretexts for eloquence.
The Andromache, though not impressive by reason of its discordant
composition, is yet full of tender and striking touches. It has another
interest to the student in the fact that it contains many political
allusions, and that Sparta is frequently spoken of with great bitterness.
Hence the conclusion is formed that it was written during one of the
truces in the Peloponnesian war. The play was composed for the
Argive stage, and here any abuse of Sparta was very welcome.
II.
The Suppliants, which was brought out in 420, not only contains
incidental political references, but is throughout a sort of political
pamphlet in which Athens is praised and the gratitude of Argos is
invoked. The ancients themselves called the play an encomium of
Athens, and with good reason, for it referred to a part of its mytho-
logical past that its orators never let be forgotten. The Seven against
Thebes, it will be remembered, ended with the denial of the rites of
burial to the heroes who had fallen in their attack upon the city.
This play opens with the appearance of Adrastus and the mothers of
the heroes as suppliants for the interference of the Athenians. Aethra,
the mother of Theseus, interests herself in their success, and summons
her son to listen to them. His sympathy is soon won, and he is pre-
paring to send a messenger to Thebes, when a herald from that city
appears, who demands that the suppliants be at once expelled from
Attica. This at once arouses Theseus, and he declares war against
Thebes, and soon a messenger arrives with tidings of his victory. The-
seus returns with the corpses of the Argive leaders, who are buried at
404 EURIPIDES.
Eleusis. This simple plot is further employed to carry an earnest
defense of democracy, and the action is complicated by romantic
details, yet these are no less prominent than elsewhere in the work of
Euripides, and in parts one may feel a breath of the old ^schylean
simplicity. Yet this impression is at the best only momentary.
HERCULES — TORSO (Belvidere.)
(Work of Apollonius of Athens. Example of the sculpture of the Attic Renaissance.)
Very similar in construction is the Heraclidae, which was written
probably at about the same time as the Suppliants, and with a similar
intent of praising Athens. This time, however, the Argives came in
for denunciation, and the poet spoke out plainly the old hostility be-
POLITICAL INTENT OF THE HERACLID^. 405
tween Attica and the Peloponnesus. According to the old tradition,
the sons of Heracles came to Athens, after being driven out from
every other part of Greece, and sought protection at the altars of the
gods. When Erystheus, the King of Argos, demanded their expul-
sion and tried to have them removed, the Athenian king Demophoon
forbade it, although the Argive herald threatened war. The oracles
promised victory to the Athenian king if he would sacrifice to Perse-
phone a noble Athenian virgin. This filled his heart with heaviness,
but Macaria, one of the daughters of Heracles, offered herself as a vic-
tim, so that the Athenians went out to battle full of confidence, and
were victorious over the Argives, whose king they made captive.
Undoubtedly the dimly-veiled political lessons that were conveyed to
the contemporaries of Euripides by this representation of the legend-
ary hostility between the two great geographical divisions of Greece
outweighed the literary merits of this play. The passage in which
Macaria offers herself for sacrifice is a bit of pathos such as Euripides
was fond of employing, but even this is left incomplete, although, of
course, the text may have come down to us in a fragmentary state.
The play does not contradict the general assertion that a tragedy
written for political effect will necessarily lose a good measure of
literary interest. Yet it throws much light on the anxiety of the
Athenians with regard to the Peloponnesian war. The design of
Euripides was to cheer his fellow-citizens, and to console them with a
vivid illustration of old oracles that promised them divine protection.
The Helen, which was brought out with the Andromeda in 41 2 B.C., is
a noteworthy play as an example of the variety that its author employed
in the handling of Greek myths. We have already seen how he modi-
fied the direct effect of tragedy by the introduction of pathetic
scenes and incidents ; here we find him substituting the drama for
the tragedy, introducing romantic interest in the place of the older
solemnity and simplicity. The Philoctetes of Sophocles represents a
great change from the solemn grandeur of ^schylus ; this play is
quite as far removed from the Philoctetes as is that play from the
work of the first of the great tragedians. The change was very great,
and it is easy to understand how shocked some of the public must
have been at the way in which Euripides handled the theatrical
machinery. This play depends for its plot on the story already men-
tioned by Stesichorus, that it was not the real Helen who went to
Troy with Paris, but, instead, a counterfeit likeness, while she was
transported to Egypt. Thus Euripides did not invent this part of the
story, and the ancient dramatists seem to have been as slack in inv^ent-
ing plots as their modern successors: it is in the treatment of the
plots that they differ from other people. Herodotus had also men-
4o6 EURIPIDES.
tioned another version of the myth, according to which, Paris on his
way to Troy with the wife of Menelaus was driven by inclement
weather to one of the mouths of the Nile, and thence was carried to
Memphis, where Proteus, the Egyptian king, denounced his crime,and,
retaining Helen, sent him off. When the Greeks besieged Troy, the
Trojans were not able to return Helen, and of course the Greeks could
not believe the reasons that were assigned, but imagined them inven-
tions. After the war Menelaus on his way home landed at Egypt,
when Proteus returned his wife to him. Euripides made use of a part
of this story in his play. The scene is Egypt and the play opens with
Helen's long speech, as prologue, about the condition of things. She
mentions the phantom that went to Troy, and laments that the son
of the dead Proteus is anxious to marry her. It is a curious fact
that she mentions her alleged descent from Zeus with scepticism. And
if Helen, his own daughter, doubted it, who need believe it ? the
spectators may have asked. Suddenly Teucer, one of the Greek
heroes, appears, and Helen soon gathers from his evident hatred of her
in what estimation she is held by the Greeks. He tells her that her
mother has killed herself for shame at Helen's misdeeds, and that
her brothers, Castor and Polydeuces, or, as the Romans called him, Pol-
lux, have come to the same end. She hears of the sufferings of the
heroes on their return and the rumors of the death of Menelaus. Her
despair is expressed to the chorus of Greek girls, who are full of sym-
pathy. She enters the house to learn what she can of the fate of
Menelaus at the very moment when that hero reaches the shore where
his ship has been wrecked. He is in dire distress, and Euripides, after
his fashion, draws a pitiful picture of his misery and squalor. This was
but part of his general treatment of the drama, whereby what had
been abstract personifications of more or less majestic qualities became
simple men and women who aroused sympathy by their intelligible
human sufferings. In this play Menelaus is in rags, and when he
knocks at the door of a house he is answered rudely by an old slave
woman, who knows the fate that threatens all Greeks. His surprise is
great when he hears that Helen is there ; the story is absolutely inex-
plicable. Helen returns with the chorus, and the husband and wife
are thus brought face to face. He comes forward as a suppliant,
probably with a bowed head, and then in a moment they recognize
each other. Helen possesses the key of the mystery, but Menelaus is
naturally puzzled between this unexpected appearance of his wife and
his confidence in the whole history of his life for many years, and he is
about to withdraw, when a messenger arrives to tell him that his wife,
a Trojan captive, whom he had left in a cave on the shore with his
companions, had vanished into thin air, uttering words that removed
NEW DRAMATIC SPIRIT UNDER THE OLD FORMS. 407
all doubt. Helen is thus restored, unstained, to the love of
Menelaus.
The rest of the play, nearly a thousand lines, is taken up with the
planning and execution of an ingenious device to outwit the Egyptian
king and to reach home. Helen tells him that her husband has been
wrecked here, and that his dead body has been cast ashore. She says
that it is the custom of the Greeks to place such corpses on ships and
to set them sailing away with the body and offerings to the sea-gods.
When they have received permission from the king to do this, all is
settled, and they put it into accomplishment. When the king learns
how he has been deceived he is furious with his sister who has lent
herself to the plot, but his wrath is stayed by the Dioscuri, Castor and
Polydeuces, who affirm that all has happened according to the will of
the gods.
The modern reader notices the extreme care that is taken to prevent
the occurrence of any incident that has not already been announced
and thoroughly described beforehand, a fact which shows the effort of
the writer to make most prominent his treatment of the theme. What
we understand by the dramatic movement was not allowed to out-
weigh the merit of the execution. The dramatist was given the
freedom of choice among a number of subjects of a similar kind, and
these he had to treat in a more or less conventional way, his method
being the striking quality ; just as the Italian painters were free to
paint any subject that they could find in religious history, and every-
thing depended on the painter's skill. Yet, as, after all, the leading
figure in, say the scene at Gethsemane, was a man in a garden, the
truth of the delineation of Euripides is only determined by the test
of comparison with human life. Or, if we take the comparison fre-
quently made between this side of the Greek tragedy and the modern
opera, we shall notice how much more important in them both is the
lyrical, musical, narrative, or disputative treatment than the dramatic
movement which we demand on the stage. Yet, in the Philoctetes of
Sophocles, a good part of the interest lies in the uncertainty of the
spectator as to whether Neoptolemus was to relent or to persist in his
harshness ; and, in fact, all of his plays that have come down to us are
marked by careful construction. This quality disappears in Euripides,
who trusts rather to vividness of momentary effect. In modern and
very modern poetry we see writers in the same way placing confidence
in lines and passages with no inspiring message to deliver to the world.
In this play Euripides shows his usual skill and masterly execution.
The chorus sings in graceful verses the escape of Helen and her arrival
at home, and the action is brisk. It is easy to see how great was the
influence of Euripides on the later comedy. It was only in the form
4o8 EURIPIDES.
that he clung to the old tragedy. The spirit was active that was in
time to abandon the paths that ^schylus and Sophocles had made
their own, but the facility of his workmanship rendered him content
with the old forms. The modifications that Euripides introduced have
been the object of severe denunciations from those who fancy that
literature, having once found a good method, should always preserve
it ; in other words, that the expression of thought should be above all
things artificial ; and the Helen, with its happy ending, has been the
especial recipient of this wrath. Yet, one of its characters, Theonoe,
is very nearly the most delicately drawn of all those into whom Euri-
pides has breathed a quality of resemblance to life and a subtle per-
sonality which are most fascinating. She knows the minds of the
gods, that Here and Aphrodite are at variance with regard to the
issue of the adventure, and she holds the decision in her own hands :
if she tells her brother, the amorous king of Egypt, that Menelaus and
Helen are there, she will bring them to ruin, and by her silence she
can save them. The prayers of Helen and her husband are most
earnest. Helen says, " If you who are a prophetess, and believe that
the gods exist, shall subvert your father's just deeds and aid your
unjust brother, it is disgraceful that you should know all about what
is divine and what is not, and should yet not know what is just." Can
we not see why the spectators liked Euripides, even if critics said then
what is still echoed, that he was corrupting the stage with novelties?
Menelaus is even more urgent, and he begins by asserting that he
could not fall at her knees or shed tears, because that would be weak-
ness unbecoming a Trojan hero. This is a whifT of modern feeling,
although too often men have formed an inexact notion of the readiness
of the Greeks to shed tears, from the lines of Homer, and have extended
the alleged habit to all of that race without discrimination of time.
This, as well as other passages which might be quoted, may show that
what was apparently common enough in the heroic age, had disap-
peared in later days before the spread of civilization. And in the
representation that Euripides gives of the mythical heroes, he did not
find it necessary to go back to the old portrayal of their qualities ; he
rather brought them down to the condition of people in his own time.
The rags and tatters in which he arrayed them, as is the case with
Menelaus in this play, while it aroused the scorn of Aristophanes,
brought vividly before the spectators a familiar condition of suffering.
This, as has been often insisted on, is the most essential part of his
treatment of tragedy.
Indeed, positive proof of the change among the Greeks in respect of
lachrymosity may be found in Plato's Republic, X. 605, where, after
speaking of the long lamentations usual in the tragedies, where are
PATHOS AND ELOQUENCE IN EURIPIDES. 409
"persons engaged in beating their breasts and bemoaning themselves
in song," Socrates goes on : " but, on the other hand, whenever sorrow-
comes home to one of us, you are aware that we pride ourselves upon
the opposite conduct ; that is, we glory in being able to endure with
calmness, because in our estimation this behavior is manly, while the
other is womanish." Yet, Menelaus goes on, " they say it is the part
of an honorable man to shed tears in misfortunes, but not even this
will I prefer to courage." And so he begins to entreat her earnestly
and courageously, and with perfect success. It is easy to perceive
that Euripides introduced some of his changes in the drama with a
clumsiness that presents a striking contrast with the smoothness which
the older forms had acquired, but he atoned for this by his skill when
the characters were fairly before him, and at times, as we shall see, he
modelled his plays without what seems to us awkwardness.
III.
Too often, however, we are disposed to call awkwardness merely
what differs from our own notions, and since what we have been taught
to expect in a play is a rounded completeness, we are prone to forget
that what Euripides tried to offer and his audience expected to
receive was abundant opportunity for eloquence. Any means that
aided this object could not fail to be satisfactory. In the Troades
(415 B.C.) the action is nothing: the play is a succession of pathetic
scenes that deal with the final misery of that captured town, and one
striking thing is the attempt to show how noble was Troy even in its
fall, and how dearly bought was the Grecian victory. The Greeks, as
Cassandra says in the play, lost innumerable men, and gave up all that
made life sweet in behalf of a woman who was carried away by her
own consent and not by violence. They died, not in exile, and those
whom Ares slew saw not their children, nor were they prepared for
the tomb by the hands of a wife, but they lie in a strange land. The
Trojans, however, won the fairest renown, inasmuch as they died for
their country ; those who were slain in battle were buried with all the
usual rites, honored by the attentions of their friends and relatives.
And those who had been spared continued to live with their wives
and children, a joy denied the Greeks.
No occasion is lost to show how much ruin success brought upon
the Greeks ; nor are the Trojan woes forgotten. The sufferings of the
captured women who are divided as slaves among the Greek generals
are made most vivid. Indeed, nothing is spared : Cassandra falls into
the hands of Agamemnon ; Polyxena is destined for an offering on the
grave of Achilles ; Hecuba is assigned to Odysseus ; Andromache to
41 o EURIPIDES.
Neoptolemus ; and the young Astyanax is snatched from his mother
to be flung from the walls. These separate incidents are not enough :
Helen and Hecuba quarrel in the presence of Menelaus, who seems to
condemn yet is evidently in his heart ready to forgive his faithless
wife, and finally the captive women are led forth wailing, while Troy
sinks in flames. Such are the woes that form this tragedy. It was
written ten years after the Hecuba, which seems almost to be a con-
tinuation of it, and the Andromache, it will be remembered, treats the
same events.
The Mad Heracles is full of tragic horror. It contains two separate
actions, woven, however, into a single play wherein the promised
peaceful solution is suddenly changed into the blackest tragedy. The
scene is laid in Thebes, before the temple of Zeus. Lycus has seized
the throne during the absence of Heracles, who is ordered by Eurys-
theus to fetch Cerberus from the lower world, and has determined to
put to death Megara, the wife of Heracles, and her children. Just at
the fatal moment Heracles returns, and prepares to take vengeance on
the tyrant. Suddenly, however, his plans are frustrated by an attack
of madness : he fancies that he is at Mycenae, and mistaking his own
family for that of Eurystheus he kills them all. This delusion is sent
upon him by Here, and Pallas Athene rids him from it. His remorse
when he has recovered his senses is most acute ; he wishes to kill him-
self, but Theseus, whom he had brought back with him from the lower
regions, manages to console him, and he determines to accompany
Theseus to Athens and there to atone for his deeds by sacrifices. For-
tunately there is in English Mr. Browning's excellent translation of
this play, to which the reader can be referred. Here is a song of the
chorus, who lament their age and infirmity :
" Youth is a pleasant burthen to me ;
But age on my head, more heavily
Than the crags of Aetna, weighs and weighs.
And darkening cloaks the lids and intercepts the rays.
Never be mine the preference
Of an Asian empire's wealth, nor yet
Of a house all gold, to youth, to youth
That's beauty, whatever the gods dispense !
Whether in wealth we joy, or fret
Paupers, — of all God's gifts most beautiful, in truth !
" But miserable murderous age I hate !
Let it go to wreck, the waves adown.
Nor ever by rights plague tower or town
Where mortals bide, but still elate
With wings, on ether, precipitate.
Wander them round • — nor wait !
THE MAD HERACLES— EXTRACTS. 4"
" But if the gods, to man's degree,
Had wit and wisdom, they would bring
Mankind a twofold youth, to be
Their virtue's sign-mark, all should see.
In those with whom life's winter thus grew spring.
For when they died, into the sun once more
Would they have traversed twice life's racecourse o'er ;
While ignobility had simply run
Existence through, nor second life begun.
" And so might we discern both bad and good
As surely as the starry multitude
Is numbered by the sailors, one and one.
But now the gods by no apparent line
Limit the worthy and the base define;
Only, a certain period rounds, and so
Brings man more wealth, — but youthful vigor, no! "
The pathetic scene when Heracles awakes from a slumber, after
murdering his wife and children, is most impressive. He had been
fastened to a column as he sunk in a swoon, and his first words are :
" Hah —
In breath indeed I am — see things I ought —
^ther, and earth, and these the sunbeam-shafts !
But then — some billow and strange whirl of sense
I have fallen into ! and breathings hot I breathe —
Smoked upwards, not the steady work from lungs.
See now ! Why bound — at moorings like a ship —
About my young breast and young arm, to this
Stone piece of carved work broke in half, do I
Sit, have my rest in corpses' neighborhood ?
Strewn on the ground are winged darts, and bow
Which played my brother-shieldman, held in hand, —
Guarded my side, and got my guardianship !
I can not have gone back to Haides — twice
Begun Eurustheus' race I ended thence ?
But I nor see the Sisupheian stone.
Nor Plouton, nor Demeter's sceptred maid !
I am struck witless sure ! Where can I be ?
Ho then ! what friend of mine is near or far —
Some one to cure me of bewilderment ?
For naught familiar do I recognize."
Then the hero's father comes up to him and explains the condition
of things slowly, reluctantly, as if fearing still for his son's reason, who
presses on unsuspecting and is at last overwhelmed on learning all
that he has done. When he bids farewell to his father and is about to
start away with Theseus, his words are most impressive. In the first
place, Euripides put into the mouth of Heracles most serious doubts
about the gods. He says that he can not believe they are so adul-
terous as they are reputed to be,
" Nor, that with chains they bind each other's hands,
• Have I judged worthy faith, at any time ;
Nor shall I be persuaded — one is born
412 EURIPIDES.
His fellows' master! since God stands in need
If he is really God — of nought at all.
These are the poets' pitiful conceits ! "
Probably these bold expressions of Euripides could only be placed
in the mouth of a son of Zeus; the poet left for himself the defense
that he was merely making a dramatic use of a god's grumbling, while
in fact he was making a serious attack on the whole Greek mythology.
Heracles thus goes on :
" But this it was I pondered, though woe-whelmed —
' Take heed lest thou be taxed with cowardice
Somehow in leaving thus the light of day ! '
For whoso cannot make a stand against
These same misfortunes, neither could withstand
A mere man's dart, oppose death, strength to strength.
Therefore unto thy city I will go "
(He is speaking to Theseus and means Athens).
" And have the grace of thy ten thousand gifts.
There ! I have tasted of ten thousand toils
As truly — never waived a single one,
Nor let these runnings drop from out my eyes !
Nor ever thought it would have come to this —
That I from out my eyes do drop tears ! Well !
At present, as it seems, one bows to fate.
So be it ! Old man, thou seest my exile —
Seest, too, me — my children's murderer !
These give thou to the tomb, and deck the dead.
Doing them honor with thy tears — since me
Law does not sanction ! Propping on her breast,
And giving them into their mother's arms,
— Reinstitute the sad community
Which I, unhappy, brought to nothingness —
Not by my will ! And, when earth hides the dead,
Live in this city ! — sad, but, all the same,
Force thy soul to bear woe along with me !
O children — who begat and gave you birth —
Your father, has destroyed you ! nought you gain
By those fair deeds of mine I laid you up.
As by main-force I labored glory out
To give you — that fine gift of fatherhood !
And thee, too, O my poor one, I destroyed,
Not rendering like for like, as when thou kept'st
My marriage-bed inviolate, — those long
Household-seclusions draining to the dregs
Inside my house ! O me, my wife, my boys —
And, O myself, how, miserablymoved.
Am I disyoked now from both boys and wife !
O bitter those delights of kisses now —
And bitter these my weapons' fellowship !
For I am doubtful whether shall I keep
Or cast away these arrows which will clang
Ever such words out, as they knock my side —
' Us — thou didst murder wife and children with ! •
Us — child-destroyers -— still thou keepest thine ! '
INDIVIDUAL JUDGMENT PREFERRED TO TRADITION. 4^3
Ha, shall I bear them in my arms, then ? What
Say for excuse ? Yet, naked of my darts
Wherewith I did my bravest, Hellas through.
Throwing myself beneath foot to my foes,
Shall I die basely ? No ! relinquishment
Of these must never be, — companions once.
We sorrowfully must observe the pact !
O land of Kadmos, Theban people all,
Shear off your locks, lament one wide lament.
Go to my children's grave and, in one strain.
Lament the whole of us — my dead and me —
Since all together are fordone and lost,
Smitten by Here's single stroke of fate ! "
Even to this Euripides adds a few lines of talk between Heracles
and Theseus that make the last scene yet more pathetic, and the play-
ends with their departure for Athens.
This tragedy is an excellent specimen of the art of Euripides. The
unexpected change by which the arrival of Heracles, that promised
relief and blessing, suddenly accomplishes ruin, was a device that he
was very fond of, and one that obviously gave his plays a novel charm.
Even more important was the way in which the pitiableness of the
awakening Heracles is brought out. To be sure, the machinery, by
means of which Here secures his madness, is like some of that in the
Iliad ; yet the tendency of the play is towards making the Greek
deities despised, for just so far as they are brought down from heaven
and exhibited as human beings, is their conduct estimated as would
be that of men and women in like circumstances, and this is a test
which they can not well endure. So long as they were kept aloof from
criticism in an unknown heaven, they escaped too rigorous judgment,
as does any aristocracy which is hidden from its victims. Yet in
mythology, as in life, knowledge is a democratic element ; science is
the great solvent of conventions, and, since there is but one right, the
mere statement of wrong-doing, especially when its mischief is seen,
is at once condemnation. It was in this way that Euripides formed
the connecting link between antiquity and modern times, by repre-
senting the right of individual judgment and its superiority over the
acceptance of tradition. That he should have been condemned is
only natural : the man who first utters what many feel, and what is
to become a commonplace in the future, is sure of opposition. Yet
Euripides, in time, carried the public with him, for views like his, how-
ever condemned by authority, when once uttered in a free community,
have to be solved, even if the solution overthrows the existing state
of affairs ; and his thoughts were those of a period when the old faith
was decaying and new questions were forcing themselves forward. It
414 EURIPIDES.
is true that the person who gives expression to any feeling helps in a
way to further its influence, but he does not create it, although he
suffers all the opprobrium that attaches itself to a ringleader, and in
this way Euripides bore the brunt of all the odiousness of the irre-
sistible change. There were very rftany to blame him for what he did,
who regretted what they regarded as his perversion of the old tragedy,
his abandonment of the old methods, and who, as was the case with
Aristophanes, looked back longingly on the happy time when the
tragedy had represented something greater than real life, forgetting
that ^schylus had, like Euripides, only given form and utterance to
the feelings of his own day, and that literature languishes when a
writer decides to say what is expected of him rather than what he
feels. We shall find abundant evidence of the extent to which even
Aristophanes, much as he loved the past, was influenced by the present
in his management of his art. Euripides apparently felt no scruples
about moving with the current, and so gives us a most distinct example
of the changes of this interesting period.
In the Electra we may see once more how different was his way of
looking at the old subjects from that of his predecessors. Fortunately,
we are able to compare it directly with the treatment of the same sub-
ject by both ^schylus and Sophocles, and yet it is to be borne in mind
that the relative position of Euripides is not to be determined by this
play alone. One striking thing in it is the frank criticism that it con-
tained of the Libation Pourers of -^schylus. Then, it will be remem-
bered, Electra recognizes the lock that Orestes laid on her father's
grave by its likeness to her own hair, and her foot exactly filled the
print left on the sand by her brother. Now Aristophanes, as we shall
see later, was never tired of turning Euripides to ridicule, and of com-
paring him unfavorably with ^schylus ; here Euripides had a chance
to revenge himself, and although he made the older poet seem absurd,
he put himself in no commendable light. Moreover, the more marked
the success of his fling at ^schylus, the greater was the confusion
that this double wrought in his own play. Yet it is possible to find a
certain satisfaction in detecting this answer of Euripides to the jibes
of his bitter parodist. It is but two or three lines that he employs for
this purpose, but they must have had a great effect among the quick-
witted Athenians. After all, we must remember that he had been
attacked as no man has ever been attacked in the whole history of
literature by the ablest master of invective that the world has ever
known, and with ribaldry that has since lost the social position it then
held. Here is his reply :
An old man who had carried Orestes away when .^gisthus slew
Agamemnon is present, who says to Electra :
EURIPIDES' REPLY TO THE ASSAULTS OF ARISTOPHANES. 4^5
" Do you examine the hair, placing it against your own, whether the tint
of the shorn tresses be the same. For of children of the same father, most
parts of the body are accustomed to be naturally alike."
To this Electra replies :
" You utter words unworthy of a wise man, if you think that my very bold
brother would come into this land by stealth through fear of Aegisthus.
Then how will the lock of hair match mine, the one belonging to a well-born
man trained in athletic sports, the other to a woman employed in combing
wool ? It is impossible. And you will find a great many persons, in no way
related, having hair of the same appearance."
The old man then says :
" But do you step into his track and consider the print of his slipper,
whether it be of the measure of your foot."
Electra: "But how can there be footprints on stony ground ? And if
there were any, the feet of a brother and of a sister would not be of the same
size : the man's foot would be larger."
That was all, but the memory of these lines must have clung to those
who afterwards saw the play of ^Eschylus acted. In the Phoenician
Virgins Euripides had also paid his respects to the earlier dramatist,
who had at great length described the contending generals in his Seven
against Thebes. Here is the passage:
Eteocles says : " It shall be so ; and having gone to the city of the seven
towns, I will appoint chiefs at the gates, as you advise, having opposed
equal champions against equal foes. But to mention the name of each would
be a great delay, the enemy being encamped under our very walls. But I
will go that I may not be idle with my hand."
While we remember that this was the only means of answering
the attacks of Aristophanes that lay in the reach of Euripides, that
even the serious tragedy had to be employed by him as a means of
expressing opinions for which there was no other utterance, just as
political feeling often employed the same device ; yet, here as every-
where, the answer to the attack appears unfortunate, however inter-
esting it may be. Euripides, not .^schylus, is hurt by the implied
a'ssault. That at a given moment his patience should have yielded is
only natural, and our sympathy is awakened for the man who was the
object of so violent abuse that the echo of it still affects men's judgment
even at the present day, but his ariswer only marred the singleness of
impression that his play would otherwise have produced.
The subject is the familiar one, Electra's recognition of her brother
and the murder of ^gisthus and Clytemnestra. Yet Euripides
4i6
EURIPIDES.
employs his usual art to render the story more pathetic by representing
Electra as the wife of a poor peasant, of noble family, to be sure, " but
ORESTES AND ELECTRA.
{Hercuianeutn Group.)
yet poor in means," he says of himself, " whence noble descent is
lost," even in the heroic age. This humble station secured the pity
of the audience for the daughter of Agamemnon, and at the same
EFFECT OF ADVANCING CIVILIZATION UPON THE DRAMA. 417
time made it unlikely that she should be recognized by Orestes. The
recognition, which is the best scene in the play, is much prolonged by
this device, and is only brought about, in the failure of the means that
^schylus had employed, by the intervention of the old man referred
to above. He employs a means already approved by Homer and
recognizes Orestes by an old scar. From this point the play moves
swiftly to its end. The murder of Clytemnestra, who is lured into the
peasant's hut, is impressive ; that of ^gisthus is described by a mes-
senger. At the conclusion the twins. Castor and Polydeuces, appear
and order what shall be done afterwards. The play, with occasional
merit, is ill-suited to bear comparison with the plays of ^schylus and
Sophocles treating the same subject.
Euripides does himself non-justice in his Ion, a play that is singu-
larly important in its indications of the future growth of the drama.
For one thing, it is not a tragedy, but a play with a happy ending and
a long and complicated plot. In this respect Euripides was an inno-
vator ; it was not the mere crisis of an event that he chose for his sub-
ject, but rather an enlargement, a fuller development of the event, into
which he introduced unsuspected circumstances. Thus, it will be
noticed, advancing civilization always complicates the artist's work,
for civilization is a process of accumulating knowledge and experience
which make themselves more prominent in the mirror that the artist
holds up to nature. Just as a boy in gazing at a landscape will see
only the trees on which green apples or nuts grow, and the brook in
which he may bathe after gorging himself with unseasonable fruit, an
older person will perceive innumerable other things according to his
knowledge : the farmer will observe the wheat that needs cutting, the
meadow that must be drained, the pasture to be plowed ; the geolo-
gist will notice the lay of the land, the rocks, the soil ; every one will
-see only what his education makes prominent. Thus, in the last cen-
tury, the poets saw in the landscape only a violent contrast to the
city ; nightingales, larks, sparrows were but birds except so far as their
differences were pointed out by Latin poets. Flowers were flowers,
without distinction of variety. Foliage was green, the sky was blue —
the reader will remember how the Edinburgh Review took Wordsworth
to task for flying in the face of that obvious fact by calling the sunset
^Y green — the evening was dark. Gradually there became perceptible
in the colors of things hues that before were overlooked ; insects and
birds were distinguished and defined. The old bonds were soon
broken ; the peasant, whose appearance in literature may be now seen
surviving in the chorus of an Italian opera, became a man, and this
change was felt in politics, theology, philosophy, as well as in art and
literature. Euripides saw a similar change, and the old unity was
41 8 EURIPIDES.
gone, just as now no educated person can read a newspaper or look at
a landscape without receiving a host of impressions such as our great-
grandfathers never knew.
Hence we are justified in explaining the simplicity of the earlier
Greek tragedies as the result of unpracticed perceptions rather
than of artistic exclusion. The feeling of the earlier lack of com-
plexity is common, and was thus explained by Edgar A. Poe in his
" Marginalia":*
"About the ' Antigone,' as about all the ancient plays, there seems
to me a certain baldness, the result of inexperience in art, but which
pedantry would force us to believe the result of a studied and
supremely artistic simplicity. Simplicity, indeed, is a very important
feature of all true art — but not the simplicity which we see in the Greek
drama. ... In the drama, the direct, straight-forward, un-Ger-
man Greek had no Nature so immediately [as to the sculptor] from
which to make a copy. He did what he could. . . . The pro-
found sense of one or two tragic, or rather melo-dramatic, elements
(such as the idea of inexorable Destiny — this sense gleaming at inter-
vals from out the darkness of the ancient stage), serves, in the very
imperfection of its development, to show, not the dramatic ability, but
the dramatic z'/zability of the ancients. In a word, . . the complex
[arts] . . demand the long and painfully progressive experience
of ages. To the Greeks, beyond doubt, their drama seemed perfec-
tion — it fully answered, to them, the dramatic end, excitement, and
this fact is urged as proof of their drama's perfection in itself. It
need only be said, in reply, that their art and their sense of art
were necessarily on a par."
It is not necessary to agree with the whole of this statement,"
trimmed and curtailed as it is, before acknowledging that it describes
what many feel. Thus Mr. Lowell, in his article on Mr. Swinburne's
tragedies, which is to be found in his " Among My Books," comparing
the Electra of Sophocles with Hamlet, calls attention to the " differ-
ence between the straightforward bloody-mindedness of Orestes and
the metaphysical punctiliousness of the Dane. Yet each," he goes
on, " was natural in his several way, and each would have been unin-
telligible to the audience for which the other was intended. That
Fate which the Greeks made to operate from without, we recognize
at work within in some vice of character or hereditary disposition."
These differences, it must be borne in mind, were not rejected by
Sophocles, any more than the expression of individual characteristics
was rejected by the great Greek sculptors ; they and he did not feel
* See his Works. New York : Armstrong (1884), V. 266.
PROGRESS TOWARD MODERNNESS IN THE ION. 419
them. Euripides did, and this play bears many traces of the effect
they wrought upon his mind. Let us first examine the plot.
The play opens with the usual prologue, after which Ion, a young
attendant of the temple at Delphi, comes in and sings a hymn as he
performs his sacred duties. Then there enters the chorus of Athenian
women, who wander about admiring the decorations of the temple ;
they are accompanying Creusa, who is weeping. Ion asks the cause,
and she makes a vague answer, that sad memories were called up and
she wonders where she can appeal for justice if we are undone by the
injustice of the gods. She then explains that she has come to Delphi
to be freed from barrenness, and tells him of her descent and mar-
riage. In turn she asks him who he is, and he tells her that he was
a foundling, and was carried into the temple and brought up to fill his
present place, and that he has no means of knowing who his parents
were. Creusa then recounts her own story, pretending that it was the
experience of one of her friends, who had borne a child to Apollo and
had laid it in his cave, whence it had mysteriously disappeared. If the
child had lived, it would have been of about the age of Ion. She
wonders if the god will utter an oracle disclosing this child's fate, but
this Ion deems unlikely, for it would be to his interest to keep the
affair concealed. While Creusa complains to the god, her husband
Xuthus enters, who tells her that the oracle of Trophonius has prom-
ised that they should not leave the shrine at Delphi childless. Ion
then remonstrates with the deity while going on with sacred rites,
and the chorus pray that the house of Erechtheus, to which Creusa
belongs, be not left childless. Then Xuthus appears once more and
meets Ion, whom he greets as his child, explaining that the oracle had
promised that the first person he met issuing from the temple should
be his son. Ion, however, is filled with a desire to see his mother, and
withstands the invitation of Xuthus to come to Athens, because he
knows the contempt that the people of that city feel for strangers. At
last, however, he consents, hoping to find that his mother belonged to
that city, and the two depart to celebrate the answer of the oracle
with a feast. This action pains the chorus, who see what a disappoint-
ment it will be to Creusa.
They were right ; when she finds out how things stand she is indig-
nant, and she expresses very plainly her wrath with Apollo. An old
pedagogue readily persuades her to seek vengeance, but the plan mis-
carries, and when it has been determined that she shall be stoned to
death she rushes to the altar as a suppliant. Ion hastens to pursue
her and remonstrates angrily with her; he is unwilling to slay her at
the altar, and laments that she should escape her just punishment, till
the old Pythia appears, bringing with her the wraps he had worn when
MODERN SPIRIT OF EURIPIDES.
421
she found him in his infancy. He is much moved, and Creusa is soon
able to prove that the embroidery was her work, and the other orna-
ments of the child she describes, so that Ion is manifestly the child
whom she thought she had lost. Ion himself is not wholly convinced,
and is on the point of entering the temple to get full information from
Apollo when Athene appears, explaining everything. They all then
withdraw their complaints of Apollo, and the play ends.
Such, then, is the plot of this play, with its intricacies plainly soluble
by the audience and its cross-purposes thoroughly intelligible to them
at least. From the beginning they were in possession of the whole
secret, and they watched the dialogue of Creusa and Ion, and their
misunderstanding with doubtless the same delight that one feels in
witnessing any delicate social fencing. To be sure, by the necessities
of the drama, it was a divine myth that formed the plot, but all that
was remote was their names : they were mother and son, animated by
a familiar human feeling. They were not abstract personalities moved
hither and thither by a blind fate, but people groping their way to the
light amid ordinary obstacles. Custom forbade that Euripides should
raise his fellow-citizens to the position that was held by gods and
mythical heroes ; but these heroes and divine beings he was at liberty
to represent like his fellow-citizens, just as Voltaire in the last century
veiled his modern teaching beneath the conventional stage-dresses and
scenery. The great public, even of Athens, atoned for its real change
of view by clinging warmly to the form, just as now a man who wore
his hat inside of a church would be more obnoxious than a decorous
atheist.
In Creusa's recognition of Ion's baby-clothes we see the modern
drama making its appearance on the Greek stage. There is no antique
simplicity here, but the new-born complexity of emotion in which
hopes and fears are shifting with every line that is uttered. Indeed,
one may almost go so far as to say that the way in which Xuthus
recognizes Ion for his son represents the old-fashioned machinery of
the stage, and that Creusa's slower recognition represents the greater
interest of the new methods.
It is to be noticed, however, that this novelty must be limited to the
devices of the drama alone, and that in Penelope's slow recognition of
Odysseus we have an authoritative precedent for this slow solution,
and throughout the Greek tragedies we are struck by the frequent
corroboration of what Plato says in the Republic (x. 595). " Of all
those beautiful tragic poets he seems to have been the original master
and guide." Indeed, if the digression may be allowed, the Iliad and
the Odyssey held the place of sacred books among the Greeks ; they
formed the Bible that underlay the whole work of their civilization, just
42 2 EURIPIDES.
as they continue to hold in our day a place quite equal to that of some
of the remoter books of the Old Testament. And as they were in
old times what for that matter they are now in part, the groundwork
of education, we continually notice to how great an extent the subse-
quent literary fabric of Greece was built up on them as a foundation.
From no other source did they draw such light and guidance. In this
case there stood in every one's memory the ideal recognition in the
Odyssey just mentioned ; and throughout the poetry, in imitation as
well as in the unceasing references, we find continual proof of the
authority of the Iliad and Odyssey.
Even more interesting in the Ion is the condemnation of the rude
tales of the old mythology. Ion speaks frankly: "Apollo," he says,
"deserves remonstrance. What is he doing? He betrays virgins by
violence and neglects the perishing children whom he has privily
begotten. Do not thou act so, but when thou hast power follow
virtue. For whatsoever mortal is base, him do the gods punish. How
then is it right that you, who establish laws for mortals, shall yourselves
be guilty of lawlessness? . . Ye do wrong, pursuing pleasure rather
than prudence. It is unjust to call men vile who imitate the evil deeds
of the gods instead of those who give such teaching." To be sure, the
play ends with a recognition of the power and wisdom of the gods, but
these words had been uttered, and their justice is not contradicted by
the facts. Elsewhere in the play Euripides speaks of slaves : " For
one thing," he says, " brings shame to slaves, the name. In all other
respects, no slave that is honorable is worse than a free man." Words
like these are sure to be remembered, and they attest for us the new
spirit that was making itself felt in the drama. It is not in this play
alone that these sentiments are to be found ; here, however, they
combine with the general construction to strengthen the impression
of modernness.
The exact date of the production of Ion is not known, but it is con-
jectured to have been about 419 B. C. It, at least, bears no traces of
having been composed in a period of public distress.
IV.
The two plays of which Iphigeneia is the heroine are very note-
worthy. The Iphigeneia in Aulis was brought out with the Bacchae
after the poet's death, and was one of his latest compositions. It
bears distinct marks of his most striking qualities. The mythical
story is made interesting by its compact presentation of personal
qualities; the Greek heroes and the fate of Troy are but the setting
for the drawing of a lovely character.
THE IPHIGENEIAN FLA YS — THEIR STORY. 423
Agamemnon has vowed to sacrifice his daughter Iphigeneia to
placate Artemis who prevents the fleet from sailing to Troy. In order
to bring her to Aulis he writes to Clytemnestra that he has promised
to marry their daughter to Achilles, and the two women join him in
total unconsciousness of what is really designed. When they discover
Agamemnon's intention, Clytemnestra is overcome with wrathful sor-
row, and Iphigeneia at first pleads for her life ; when, however, she sees
how inevitable is the sacrifice, she resigns herself to her fate with the
most touching readiness. At the last moment, however, Artemis,
relenting, substitutes a hind for the human victim, and announces
through Calchas, the seer, that she is satisfied, and that the fleet may
sail. Euripides outdoes even himself in the pathos which he has
woven into this play.
" I have made up my mind to die," says Iphigeneia, " and I would
fain act gloriously, discarding all ignoble thoughts. . . The sailing
of the ships and the destruction of Troy depend upon me, as well as
the future fate of women, that the barbarians do not steal them away
from Greece. All these things I shall set right by my death, and my
fame, as the freer of Greece, shall be blessed. Moreover, it is not
right that I should be too fond of life, for thou hast brought me forth
for the common good of Greece, not for thyself alone. . . If
Artemis wishes my body, shall I, a mere mortal, withstand the god-
dess? That can not be. I give my body for Greece. Sacrifice it and
capture Troy. This shall long be my memorial, my children, my wed-
ding, my glory."
The whole play abounds with touching scenes.
In the Iphigeneia among the Taurians, which was written earlier, the
time is laid twenty years later, when Orestes, who in the other play
was an infant that had fallen asleep when his mother carried him to
Agamemnon's camp, has grown up, and has come to the Tauri to bear
away' the image of Artemis and thus secure a respite from the Furies
who pursue him since he killed his mother. He is accompanied by
Pylades, and the play gives a fascinating picture of their deep-seated
friendship. Iphigeneia is among the Tauri, where she has been since
Artemis carried her away from Aulis, and she has just had a dream
which, she believes, announces the death of Orestes, when word is
brought to her that two strangers have landed on the coast. They have
thereby exposed themselves to a great peril, for it is the custom of the
place to sacrifice to the goddess all the Greeks who reach that inhospi-
table shore. She sees them, and, of course, not knowing who they are,
determines that one shall be spared to take a letter to her brother. Then
follows a beautiful contest between the two friends as to which shall
give up his life to save the other. But this letter makes them known.
424
EURIPIDES.
and at once the state of affairs is altered. The sole question is how they
shall all escape with the image of Artemis from the land of Thoas, the
king of the country. This scene, which bears a likeness to the similar
adventure in the Helen, is interesting, especially when Thoas captures
them, but Athene appears and bids him to let them go, and with this
divine interference the play ends. This play, it will be remembered,
has been imitated in later times, and notably by Goethe, but no one
has outdone the early poet in his vivid rendering of the power of
friendship. It was already a stride forward to have seen that unsel-
fishness was an admirable thing ; after all, a decaying civilization, like
IPHIGENEIA GIVING THE LETTER TO PYLADES.
(^Front Apulian Amphora^
waning health, opens men's eyes to unsuspected virtues. Nor is this
all that Euripides has done in this play ; he has told the incidents
with a care and grace he has seldom equalled. The captive Greek
maidens utter the tenderest longing for their distant home, and the
modern reader feels in perfect sympathy with the play until the
attempt is made to deceive Thoas ; then a discord arises. As one
might say, we can sympathize with the Achilles of the Iliad, but we
can not approve of Odysseus, the father of Greek deceit, and here,
while friendship and fraternal affection are put in an honorable light,
the way in which Thoas is circumvented is painful and repellant. Even
COMPLICA TIONS CA USED B V THE INTERFERENCE OF THE GODS. 425
the ready appeal to divine sanction does not convince us, though it
may explain the discord. The savagery of the Greek mythology ate
into the heart of morality, and although the gods approved deceit, they
were unable to make it honorable, and only brought confusion upon
themselves. The Greeks paid dearly for their subtle intellect by
letting it weave an ingenious web over simplicity and straightfor-
wardness.
Even more striking, however, is the construction of the end of the
play, where the goddess Athene appears and complicates what was
drawing to a natural end by special interposition. This method of
concluding his plays by means of a deus ex machina is one of the char-
acteristics of the later drama as handled by Euripides, and, like almost
everything that is peculiar to him, it has been attacked as an enfeeble-
ment of the tragedy by those who disliked him, and has been stoutly
defended, sometimes indeed held up for special commendation, by
those who admired him. The safest course may be simply to men-
tion it as a change from the old custom, and one that he employs very
frequently. Thus in the Orestes, Hippolytus, Andromache, Sup-
pliants, Iphigeneia among the Taurians, Ion, Helen, and Electra, we
find divinities appearing who, in all except the Andromache and Elec-
tra, have a more or less important influence upon the action of the
play. Only a few are without them ; among these are the Heraclidae,
Iphigeneia in Aulis, the Phoenician Women, and the Medea, and in
this last Medea is removed by a machine, as Aristotle in his " Poetics "
notes and condemns, saying that the conclusion of a tragedy should be
the result of the action, and not be introduced by an artifice as here.
In the Iphigeneia in Tauris, or among the Taurians, all goes smoothly
to its end, but the leading persons, when escaping, are driven back by
a storm, only to be released by Athene, who once again sets them
free.
The reason of this modification of the drama is not plain. Unfor-
tunately many of the opinions of modern men with regard to Euri-
pides are taken without question from his deadly foe Aristophanes, who
lost no opportunity to deride his detested contemporary, and always
ascribed the worst motives to all that he did. In this case, however,
it may have been the desire to bring the play into coherence with the
old myth, and one especially flattering to the Athenians, that inspired
the clumsy device. It is hard to suppose that the general modification
of the drama was introduced without what at least seemed some im-
portant intention, and it may be hasty to condemn it, because its real
meaning is obscure. Calderon, in modern times, made frequent use of
similar methods, so far without condemnation ; and it may be that
Euripides, by assigning this important influence to the gods, expressed
426 EURIPIDES.
the general or common sentiment of his audience that their inter-
ference in human affairs was possible, or that in the past it had been
possible. What to ^schylus had been implied by the course of affairs
now, in darker days, seemed like a miracle, not a natural event. Fate
seemed to deny, what had once been plain, that the divine control pro-
duced good fortune insensibly. At this time it was necessary to show
that the appearance of the gods was fitful and intermittent. Their
introduction was homage to their power, and only in this way could
their authority be conceived. All these suggestions are of course but
the most meager hypotheses ; the fact remains that the deiis exmacJiina
is a very mysterious divinity, and that the number of his worshippers
is very small. Crude as may be the plan of Euripides, it is evident
that it betokens a different view of the old question of responsibility
for sin. In -^schylus, and even in the earlier plays of Sophocles, there
are abundant signs of the survival of the notion that guilt is an inher-
ited thing, that may be atoned for vicariously, while the later growth
of individuality produced in the plays of Euripides a sense of personal
responsibility which demanded the separate appearance of the gods, if
their control of events was to receive any sort of recognition. The
apparent clumsiness of his device is but the inevitable result of its
novelty ; what is done for the first time is sure to be ill done. The
masterly skill of his predecessors only makes it clear that they em-
ployed generally accepted methods of accounting for the tragic
discord.
V.
In the Bacchae, or the Priestesses of Dionysus, we have the only
Greek tragedy concerned with the story of the god from the worship
of whom tragedy had risen. Thespis, Phrynichus, and .^schylus had
already treated similar subjects, but their treatment of these myths is
wholly lost. This play, which was brought out after the death of
Euripides, by his nephew, alone survives to bring vividly before us a
side of the religious life of the Greeks which only careful study can
make at all intelligible.
Dionysus opens the play with the announcement that he is come to
the land of Thebes from the distant East, introducing his worship into
Hellas, and he deprecates the opposition of Pentheus, the king of the
land, while he is glad of the number of his worshippers who already
have joined his maddening revels. The chorus sing a wild lyrical song
in praise of the god, and Cadmus, the former king, and Teiresias, the
blind seer, both old men, appear with the announcement that they, too,
are bent on honoring the same deity. They are joined by Pentheus
DIONYSUS AND PERSONIFIED WINE.
428 EURIPIDES.
who has been absent and has returned to find his peaceful kingdom in
a strange commotion ; the women have left the palace and are wander-
ing about the mountains, dancing in honor of this new deity, being
lured away by the charmer from the Lydian land, whom he threatens
severely: " If I catch him under this roof I will stop his making a noise
with the thyrsus, and I will put an end to his waving his hair by cut-
ting off his neck from his body." His surprise, which is certainly very
natural, is only augmented by seeing the venerable Teiresias arrayed
in dappled deer-skins, and his own grandfather, Cadmus, raging about
with a thyrsus — the ivy and vine-wreathed wand carried by the
adherents of Dionysus — he appeals to them to come to their senses.
The two elders reason with the king and urge him to join the reveling
crew and to withdraw his opposition to the new divinity, but Pentheus
refuses. He renews his threats against the god and gives orders to
have him brought bound before him if he is caught. Remonstrance
only hardens him, nor is he moved by the appeal that the chorus make
to the goddess of sanctity and their condemnation of those men who
are full of self-conceit and think themselves wiser than any one else.
At this point, when the zeal of the adherents of Dionysus, and the
indignation of his enemy have been clearly indicated, the god is brought
in, bound, before Pentheus. The men who bring him describe their
capture as only a god could be described : " He was docile in our hands,
nor did he withdraw his foot in flight, but yielded willingly. Nor did
he turn pale or change his wine-colored cheek, but laughed and per-
mitted us to bind him and carry him away." They go on to say that
the Bacchae who were shut up had escaped and were free, dancing in
the meadows, invoking Bromius as their god : " Of their own accord
the fetters fell from their feet, and the keys unlocked the doors with-
out mortal hand, and full of wonders is this man." Yet all these signs
have no weight with Pentheus, though he himself acknowledges the
more than human beauty of the god. He at once proceeds to
examine the stranger, unconscious that he has the god himself before
him. Dionysus does not declare himself, but speaks only of his orgies,
which he says that he derived from the god of wine. Pentheus orders
him to confinement near the stable; "then," he says, "you may
dance. And as for the women, your companions, I Avill either sell
them or keep them at work as slaves." Dionysus goes off to his place
of punishment of his own will, threatening Pentheus, however, with
punishment for his wanton insolence.
This scene is followed by a song from the chorus, who foretell the
future success of the Dionysiac rites, and they invoke the god, wher-
ever he may be, to free their companion and themselves from persecu-
tion. Their prayer is heard ; the voice of the god sounds from his
THE BACCHM— TRIUMPH OF DIONYSUS. 42g
prison : " lo, hear ye, hear my song, lo Bacchae ! lo Bacchae ! " An
earthquake shakes the palace and announces the present god ; the
flame blazes up about the tomb of Semele, and the chorus sink to the
ground in terror. Dionysus then enters and describes his escape from
prison. Pentheus had mistaken a bull for his victim, and had bound
him instead of his prisoner, and was trying to tie him when the earth-
quake and flame made him think that the palace was on fire. He
called to the servants for water, and then drawing a sword he had
chased a phantom under the impression that he was killing his prisoner,
who had meanwhile left the king to his furies and had stepped out un-
hurt. Then Pentheus finds him with some surprise, and Dionysus, still
known only as the stranger, explains that the god had helped him.
Then a messenger comes in with a long account of the marvelous
doings of the revelling Theban women ; wine, water, and milk flowed
from the ground when they struck it. Being interrupted in their
sacred rites by herdsmen, they had determined to capture the king's
PENTHEUS TORN TO PIECES.
mother in order to win the king's favor, and they had without difificulty
driven away the intruders, destroyed their herds, ruined everything.
Armed men had been defeated by them. There was no limit to the
wonders they had done. In conclusion, he urges the king not to
oppose this mighty deity. But Pentheus is not moved ; he determines
to quell the scandal, although the stranger assures him of the hopeless-
ness of his attempt. The king declines his offer to bring the women
to the palace, but accepts the proposition that he shall go to see them
for himself, disguised as a woman. When he is gone in to dress himself
in women's garments, the stranger assures the chorus that the king is
now in their toils, and he prays that his wits may leave him as he
comes in the power of Dionysus. After a song from the chorus, the
king comes out, the victim of delusion, imagines that he sees two suns
and two cities of Thebes, and that his escort is a horned bull. The
chorus pray that he may receive his deserts, and presently a messenger
appears to narrate the fate that has befallen Pentheus : He had climbed
43° EURIPIDES.
a fir-tree to observe the revels, when the stranger vanished, and a
voice called forth from heaven, bidding the women to punish
the intruder. Agave mistook her son Pentheus for a beast of
chase, and with the help of the others she uprooted the tree, and
with her sisters tore him to pieces. Agave returns to the city,
bearing the head of her son, which she thinks is that of a
lion, but Cadmus soon undeceives her, and Dionysus appears
to warn that old monarch of the fate that awaits him, for
Dionysus is angry at the treatment he had received at the hands
of the Thebans.
In this description of the play it may yet be possible to see, through
"a gray veil" — as Shelley, with more justice, called a translation —
what it was that the poet wrote, and even this disguise may not wholly
hide the literary art that the poet brought to the composition of this
memorable tragedy. Even if the wonder at the might of Dionysus is
something that has lost religious significance to us, yet its expression,
which' is as genuine and intense as that of those feelings which we can
comprehend, can not fail to impress the least sympathetic reader.
Here science may aid us by showing us that orgies such as are here
described still survive among savage races, and when we read of North
American Indians who carry rattlesnakes in their mouths, we are not
too remote from the crude religious nature-worship that underlay the
Greek religion. That Euripides appealed to a genuine feeling is
obvious, but our lack of sympathy may well explain our failure to com-
prehend the object that the poet had in view in writing this play.
That he had some definite intention is' an obvious and unavoidable
conclusion. It is impossible for us to imagine a man's making a single
statement without a purpose, and a fortiori no one can write a play
without a distinct intention. There is a certain opposition to this
opinion from those who are vexed that men ask solely what was the
moral aim of the author, but even this question is capable of a wider
meaning than it sometimes receives. Euripides could even less have
written the play without a meaning than we can read it without asking
for one. Yet just what meaning it had for him we perhaps can con-
jecture as little as he could have conjectured our wonder at the play,
for wholly apart from the sincere admiration of the author's skill is
the knowledge of the religious feeling that animated Euripides.
Many other things as unlike our current way of regarding things we
understand, if not by personal sympathy, yet by the possession of an
unbroken tradition. Thus many of the forms of medievalism are as
remote from us as the nature-worship which throbs through these won-
derful lines, but we comprehend them as a part of our intellectual in-
heritance from our ancestors ; yet this play reminds us of the abyss
RELIGIOUS SIGNIFICANCE OF THE BACCHyE. 43 1
that separates the Greeks from ourselves, that only patient study of
uncultivated races can ever hope to bridge.
Meanwhile hypotheses abound : some suggest that Euripides in his
old age felt impelled to confess that the path of the skeptic, in which
he had long strayed, was a hopeless one, and that here he renewed his
allegiance to the orthodox faith. To be sure, it is a singular ortho-
doxy ; but it was all that he had. Others have thought that perhaps
he was willing to suggest to the young Macedonian agnostics that
their unripe opposition to religion was not what he could favor,
and that while he reserved his own right of judgment, he condemned
their undue haste. It may be, however, that in an uncongenial place
he was willing to conceal his own opinions and to celebrate a popular
worship, for the Macedonians did not scorn Dionysus. Nothing would
have more endeared him to his new admirers than such conduct. But
by far the most probable explanation is that he set here in dramatic
form the religious reaction against modern learning that developed
itself even earlier than the end of the Peloponnesian war, and that its
fanaticism is to be discerned in the lurid lines of this play. Euripides
felt the change, for no man endures such feeling alone ; the wrath of
any one man iinds its counterpart among other men ; no one ever
curses oppression that others are not muttering their anger, and the
religious excitement in these dark days must have been shared by
most of those who saw ruin falling upon Athens. Superstition was
begotten of terror and despair, as often happens in history, and this
was perhaps the inspiration of the Bacchae. Moreover, the dramatic
capabilities of the subject could not fail to tempt Euripides. Whatever
his purpose, he wrote a play that abounds with fire and enthusiasm
such as carry force even when the religious belief that they expressed
is wholly incongruous and remote. The ancients who clearly compre-
hended the worship of Dionysus greatly admired this play, which left
its mark on much Latin poetry, and was a favorite wherever Greek
literature was known. We read, for example, in Plutarch's life of
Crassus, that the Parthians who defeated and slew that general were
greatly delighted when some one repeated the tragic ending of the
Bacchae when the head of Crassus was brought before them.
No one who reads the play will fail to notice the wonderful way in
which the background of natural scenery is coordinated with the nat-
ural forces that make up the interest of this complex tragedy.
Throughout the plays of Euripides we observe his keen eye for
nature, his susceptibility to the diverse beauty of land and sky, and
often a very modern touch that makes it clear how very much men's
ways of looking at things are the natural result of the measure of civ-
ilization in which they live. Of course the resemblance remains a
432 EURIPIDES.
slight one : medievalism and the spirit of northern nations have
left on the minds of modern men an indelible mark of which the
earlier Greeks were innocent. Homer sees nature, as he sees men,
with direct vision, and it is mainly in comparisons that he draws his
vivid pictures, as here (II. xii. 278) : " But as flakes of snow fall thick
on a winter day, when Zeus the Counsellor hath begun to snow, shoot-
ing forth these arrows of his to men, and he hath lulled the winds, and
he snoweth continually, till he hath covered the crests of the high hills
and the uttermost headlands, and the grassy plains, and rich tillage
of men ; and the snow is scattered over the burns and shores of the
gray sea, and only the wave as it rolleth in keeps off the snow, but all
other things are swathed over, when the shower of Zeus comes heavily,
so from both their sides their stones flew thick," etc.
Sophocles already detects the sympathy which at times nature
appears to have for men, as when Electra wails before the palace-
gates over the woes of her household :
" O holy light of morn !
O air that does the whole earth compass round !
Oft have ye heard my cries of grief forlorn,
And oft the echoing sound
Of blows the breast that smite.
When darkness yields to light.
And lo, I will not fail
To weep and mourn with wailings and with sighs,
While yet I see the bright stars in the skies,
Or watch the daylight glad —
No, no, I will not fail.
Like sorrowing nightingale.
Before the gate to pour my sorrows free.
My woe and sorrow at my father's door."
Yet when she sings these words the Attendant has just said :
" For lo ! the sun's bright rays
Wake up the birds to tune their matin-songs.
And star-deckt night's dark shadows flee away."
And the student will recall the beautiful choral ode in the CEdipus
at Colonus, already quoted, where the beauty of the scene stands in
marked contrast with the melancholy of the play. Very memorable,
too, is the conclusion of Philoctetes when that hero bids farewell to
Lemnos:
Philoctetes.
Come, then, and let us bid farewell
To this lone island where I dwell :
Farewell, O home that still did'st keep
Due vigil o'er me in my sleep ;
Ye nymphs by stream or wood that roam ; , ■
Thou mighty voice of ocean's foam,
DAWNING OF THE MODERN SPIRIT— NATURAL BEAUTY. 433
Where oftentimes my head was wet
With drivings of the South wind's fret;
And oft the mount that Hermes owns
Sent forth its answer to my groans,
The wailing loud as echo given
To me by tempest-storms sore driven ;
And ye, O fountains clear and cool.
Thou Lykian well, the wolves' own pool —
We leave you, yea, we leave at last.
Though small our hope in long years past :
Farewell, O plain of Lemnos' isle,
Around whose coasts the bright waves smile,
Send me with prosperous voyage and fair
Where the great Destinies may bear,
Counsel of friends, and God supreme in Heaven,
Who all this lot of ours hath well and wisely given.
The modernness of Euripides continually appears in his view of the
relation that bridges the gulf between nature and man ; thus, in the
Suppliants, he speaks of " the insatiable joy of grief, that is like the
drop forever oozing from the steep rock." In the same play the cho-
rus says : " Like a wandering cloud, I float before the stormy winds."
There is frequent mention of the yearning that is called up by watch-
ing the flight of birds, but the expression varies from the formality of
the lyric odes to the simplicity of lines and half-lines that merely color
the passage in which they stand, while the more artificial measures rest
upon the long-cultivated melic verse. The brief utterances indicate,
perhaps, a deeper and more widely-spread perception of natural beauty
than do the others, which may owe part of their quality to a long for-
gotten religious significance that had sunk to the state of rhetorical
decoration. In Euripides, too, we see the beginning of a love of lone-
liness, of escape from the confusion of the world ; in a word, he parts
from the simplicity and calmness of classical antiquity, and begins to
share the complexity of modern life.
The Cyclops possesses unusual interest as the sole specimen that has
reached us of the satyric pieces that followed the tragic trilogies, and
were it not for this solitary survival it would have been impossible, it
can not be said to form conjectures, but to form a satisfactory notion
of this form of dramatic composition. As it is, no well-organized mind
can avoid regretting that we have not also one of the satyric plays of
.^schylus, but they were naturally regarded as of far less importance
than the tragedies which they accompanied, and were allowed to dis-
appear without an effort to save them, for the last thing which anti-
quity could have comprehended would have been the modern scientific
curiosity which rejects nothing. Even now there are plenty of people
who fail to understand why students should find an interest in any-
thing but acknowledged masterpieces.
434
EURIPIDES.
From this play, and from what we know of the others of the same
sort, it is clear that the satyric pieces were distinguished from the
comedies by the fact that they had nothing to do with current life, but
drew their subjects from the same stores of myths and legends that
were used for the tragedies. This quality made them act more readily
as a relief to the tragic gloom of the other members of the tetralogy.
After three plays of a serious kind, a short one in which the tense
pathetic interest could find relief was necessary, and a hero who could
be laughed at or with, after a succession of those who appealed to com-
miseration, was required to restore the mental equilibrium of the spec-
tators. Apparently the historic origin of the satyric plays is to be
found, as the name implies, in the old chorus of satyrs that took part
in the Dionysiac festivities, and from their antics arose the merri-
CHORUS IN SATYRIC PIECE.
ment that formed the most prominent quality in these plays. In the
earliest times they presented the ridiculous side of the old legends,
and this they preserved later.
In this play, it is the adventure of Odysseus with the Cyclops that
forms the subject. The story is narrated, it will be remembered, in the
ninth book of the Odyssey, and here it is repeated with only slight vari-
ations. The characters, too, appear as they would in a tragedy on the
same subject, but they are treated with what is almost the spirit of
parody, as the extracts will show. Thus, the play opens with a
speech of Silenus for a prologue, like those of the tragedies of Eurip-
ides, wherein he explains that Dionvsus, having been captured by
THE CYCLOPS— ODYSSEUS AND SILENUS. 435
Tyrrhenian pirates, the satyrs had started under his guidance to
recover him, but that they had been wrecked on this island, where
Polyphemus kept them for his slaves. The young ones
" tend on the youngling sheep,
But I remain to fill the water casks,
Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering
Some impious and abominable meal
To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it ! "
as it is put in Shelley's translation.
After a song of the satyrs, a Greek vessel is seen approaching the
coast, which turns out to be that containing Odysseus.
" Oh ! I know the man.
Wordy and shrewd, the son of Sisyphus,"
says Silenus, and an explanation follows, after the pattern of those
in the tragedies ; Odysseus explains that stress of weather had driven
him thither on his homeward way from Troy, and learns what this
strange land is, and that its inhabitants live, not on corn, but on milk
and cheese and on the flesh of sheep.
" Od. Have they the Bromian drink from the vine's stream }
SiL. Ah ! no; they live in an ungracious land.
Od. And are they just to strangers } — hospitable ?
SiL. They think the sweetest thing a stranger brings
Is his own flesh.
Od. What ! do they eat men's flesh }
SiL. No one comes here who is not eaten up."
But the Cyclops is away, and Odysseus is anxious to get meat
before his return. For it he offers wine, which Silenus drinks with
pleasure before going to fetch the food. Then the satyrs appear and
ask many questions about the siege of Troy, which is treated as an
amusing joke. Helen, Silenus says,
" left that good man Menelaus.
There should be no more women in the world
But such as are reserved for me alone."
But their chatter is interrupted by the return of the Cyclops, and
an echo of the tragedies fills the words of Odysseus when he is bidden
to hide himself:
" That will I never do !
The mighty Troy would be indeed disgraced
If I should fly one man. How many tirnes
Have I withstood, with shield immovable,
Ten thousand Phrygians ! — if I needs must die.
Yet will I die with glory ; — if I live,
The praise which I have gained will yet remain."
436
EURIPIDES.
Probably it was the contrast between these expressions of determin-
ation, common enough in the tragedies, and the frivolity of the gen-
eral tone of the satyric plays, that gave the audience especial delight.
The Cyclops enters, hungry for his dinner, and the satyrs wait upon
him with amusing servility ; suddenly he descries the newly-landed
Greeks and the provisions that had been set aside for them ; and he
fancies that they are thieves. He sees that the face of Silenus is red,
and he takes it for granted that he has been beaten. Silenus does not
disabuse him, and Cyclops announces his determination to eat them :
" Nay, haste, and place in order quickly
The cooking knives, and heap upon the hearth,
And kindle it, a great faggot of wood —
As soon as they are slaughtered, they shall fill
My belly, broiling warm from the live coals.
Or boiled and seethed within the bubbling caldron.
I am quite sick of the wild mountain game.
Of stags and lions I have gorged enough.
And I grow hungry for the flesh of men."
At this statement Odysseus interrupts the monster and Silenus
who is encouraging these cannibalistic
tastes. The wily Greek in vain as-
sures Polyphemus that Silenus gave
him the things. He is not be-
lieved, any more than is the chorus
who in vain assert the truth. Odys-
seus further goes on to explain that he
was returning from Troy, but this is
only an additional argument to him in
favor of exterminating such base men,
whom he bids get into the cave to be
cooked. Odysseus breaks out :
" Ai ! ai ! I have escaped the Trojan toils,
I have escaped the sea, and now I fall
Under the cruel grasp of one impious man.
O Pallas, mistress, Goddess, sprung from Jove,
Now, now, assist me ! Mightier toils than
Troy
Are these ; — I totter on the chasms of peril."
After a grim song of the chorus, in
which the monster's cannibalism is
most grimly and minutely described,
Odysseus comes forth from the cave
and narrates the terrors he has just
seen within, where he had beheld his comrades devoured, and " a
divine thought " had occurred to him : to fill the Cyclops with wine.
ODYSSEUS OFFERING CYCLOPS WINE.
THE CYCLOPS DRUGGED WITH WINE. 437
He tells the satyrs of his further intentions to blind the ogre with a
glowing shaft, a plan which the chorus hear with rapture. Then Odys-
seus goes back into the cave in order to share the danger with his
companions. Soon Polyphemus comes forth,
" With the young feast oversated
Like a merchant's vessel freighted
To the water's edge, my crop
Is laden to the gullet's top.
The fresh meadow grass of spring
Tempts me forth thus wandering
To my brothers on the mountains,
Who shall share the wine's sweet fountains,
Bring the cask, O stranger, bring ! "
As he sings before he lies down on the grass to continue his revels,
Odysseus manages him with characteristic craft, dissuading him from
assembling his brothers, and plying him with the strong wine. When
Cyclops asks Odysseus his name the answer is :
" My name is Nobody. What favor now
Shall I receive to praise you at your hands ? "
Cyclops promises that he shall be the last to be eaten, and mean-
while he continues his debauch. When the monster has fallen asleep
preparations are made for blinding him. Here occurs an unexpected
turn : the satyrs, who have been forever bragging of their bravery, sud-
denly lose heart and proffer feeble excuses when Odysseus asks them
to seize the great stake :
" We are too far ;
We cannot at this distance from the door
Thrust fire into his eye,"
sings one semi-chorus, and the other :
" And we just now
Have become lame; cannot move hand or foot."
The chorus goes on :
" The same thing has occurred to us, — our ancles
Are sprained with standing here, I know not how."
Odysseus asks :
" What, sprained with standing still ?
Chorus. "And there is dust
Or ashes in our eyes, I know not whence.
Od. Cowardly dogs ! ye will not aid me then ?
Cho. With pitying my own back and my backbone.
And with not wishing all my teeth knocked out.
438 EURIPIDES.
This cowardice comes of itself — but stay,
I know a famous Orphic incantation
To make the brand stick of its own accord
Into the skull of this one-eyed son of earth."
Once more, it will be noticed, Euripides sneers at current super-
stitions, and Odysseus can do no more than call on them to sing
inspiring words, which they do, and the stake is plunged in the eye of
Polyphemus. Thereupon there is great uproar; the poor Cyclops
roars and groans ; when the chorus ask if he fell into the fire when he
was drunk, he says nobody blinded him, and he hurls himself about to
catch his persecutors, misled by the words of the jeering chorus.
Odysseus finally tells him his real name, and the play ends with these
words :
Od. " I bid thee weep — consider what I say,
I go towards the shore to drive my ship
To mine own land, o'er the Sicilian wave.
Cyc. Not so, if whelming you with this huge stone
I can crush you and all your men together ;
I will descend upon the shore, though blind,
Groping my way adown the steep ravine.
Cho. And we, the shipmates of Ulysses now.
Will serve our Bacchus all our happy lives."
These last words were probably the customary ending of these
satyric plays which preserved the old worship of Dionysus. The
humor is, doubtless, simple to our taste, but then we can not under-
stand how very many implications of amusement may have lain hidden
in the traditional reputation of the satyrs that their appearance and
cowardliness called forth. Every conventional jest or jester has a
certain authority from association, just as certain opposite objects
invariably evoke gloom. Thus the clown in the circus does not always
depend on the novelty of his witticisms for his success, and the satyrs
were similar licensed merry-makers on whom no restraints were thrown.
The whole question of the Greek humor belongs more properly, how-
ever, to the discussion of the Greek comedy.
Before leaving Euripides it is necessary to mention the Rhesus, a
play always printed in the works of Euripides, although its authorship
is distinctly a matter of uncertainty. Among those to whom it has
been variously assigned are the younger Euripides, the nephew of the
poet ; Sophocles ; an imitator of ^schylus ; an unknown literary forger
who fed the hungry Alexandrian market ; and an equally unknown
writer who anticipated the current fashion by writing for the closet
instead of the stage ; choice between these and the alleged writer is
dif^cult. The opinion is, at least, common among scholars that the
play can not be ascribed with any positiveness to Euripides. The
THE RHESUS.— FRAGMENTS OF EURIPIDES. 439
subject is taken from the tenth book of the Iliad, which describes how
the Greeks sent forth Odysseus and Diomed to examine the Trojan
camp at the same time that Dolon came forth for a similar purpose
from the other side. Dolon is slain, but before his death he makes
some statements that are of great service to the Greeks. The result
is that an attack is made on the band of Rhesus, a young Thracian
who has just joined the Trojan army, and he is slain. Whoever wrote
it, the play lacks the qualities that are to be found elsewhere in the
work of Euripides, and it bears more frequent marks of study of the
Iliad than any other tragedy that has reached us.
Abundant fragments of other plays of Euripides have come down to
us, and in Aristophanes there are many traces of his denunciation of
tragedies that have not survived. Thus a Peleus is ridiculed in the
comedian's Clouds. Mention is made elsewhere of an QEdipus and an
Antigone. In the first of these the old king did not blind himself, as
in the play of Sophocles, but his eyes were put out by the servants of
Laius ; and the Antigone received a joyful termination : the heroine,
after her brother's burial, is led away to death by command of Creon,
but she is rescued by Haemon, and the play ends, like a modern novel,
with their marriage. All the tragedians supplied material for quotation
which was freely practiced in later days, and these extracts often give
us lines of great beauty ; those from Euripides, as Mr. Symonds has
pointed out, lose least by being separated from the context, for his
aim was less the artistic whole than beauty of the separate parts. Of
some of the plays, too, we have fuller accounts than we possess of the
work of certain other tragedians whose names and reputations are
frequently mentioned.
In Mr. Symonds's " Studies of the Greek Poets," vol. ii., is a chapter
on the fragments of ^schylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, where the
reader will find numerous beautiful translations. Here is one from the
Dictys of Euripides :
" Think'st thou that Death will heed thy tears at all,
Or send thy son back, if thou wilt but groan ?
Nay, cease; and, gazing at thy neighbor's grief,
Grow calm : if thou wilt take the pains to reckon
How many have toiled out their lives in bonds.
How many wear to old age, robbed of children.
And all who from the tyrant's height of glory.
Have sunk to nothing. These things shouldst thou heed."
VL
Of the later tragedians little is known except their names. Ion cf
Chios, who was young when ^schylus was writing, and Achaeus of
44° EURIPIDES.
Eretria, a few years the junior of Sophocles, were assigned places little
inferior to that which ^schylus held. The sons of ^schylus, Bion
and Euphorion, and his nephew, Philocles, long held an important
position, in good measure because the family enjoyed the right of
bringing out the plays of their illustrious ancestor. It was as if
the family retained the copyright, or stage-right, of his plays. Of
Philocles we know that he won the first prize over Sophocles with his
King CEdipus, and, to counterbalance this, that he was ridiculed by
Aristophanes. His son, Morsimos, and his grandson, Astydamas,
acquired some reputation as writers of tragedies ; this Astydamas
was also the father of two tragic poets. The fame of Ion of Chios
was, however, much greater; he studied philosophy and rhetoric,
and his first appearance as a tragedian was in the year 452 B.C.
and we hear of him again as a competitor with Euripides and lophon
in 428 B.C. These meagre incidents, with the exception of the fact
that his poetical composition was affected by his rhetorical studies,
are about all that we know. Of Achaeus even less can be said. A
fragment of Neophron's Medea has been given above. Theognis is
called by Aristophanes a cold poet, a fame to which annihilation would
have been preferable. Morychos had an even more unfavorable
renown : stupider than Morychos was a familiar and decisive phrase.
Carcinus and his descendants are embalmed in the plays of Aris-
tophanes as examples of incompetence, but of course that comedian
is not an unbiassed witness. Nothippus, Sthenelus, Melanthius,
Pythangelus, Meletus, are but names without an echo. Of their con-
temporaries Agathon has found him distinctly an object of modern
curiosity. He is supposed to have been born about 447 B.C., and his first
dramatic victory, as well as his first appearance as a tragic writer, took
place in 416 B.C. The scene of the Symposium of Plato is the supper-
party given to celebrate this success. Like Euripides, Agathon visited
Macedonia. The names of only five of his plays are known, but we
have distinct information with regard to the grace and tenderness of
his style. Doubtless, he followed the fashion of which Euripides was
regarded as a representative, and carried further the. modern refine-
ments and delicacies. Of lophon and Ariston, the sons of Sophocles,
and his grandson, Sophocles, scarcely more than the names survive,
lophon, however, was highly regarded.
Later tragedians were numerous who followed with diminishing force
the fashions that once had flourished, and, doubtless, carried them to
the inevitable extreme. Such were Dicaeogenes, Antiphon, Cleophon,
Chaeremon, Diogenes, the later Carcinus and Xenocles, Theodictes,
Aphareus, etc. Of Cleophon we know only that in his eleven plays,
or in some of them at least, he turned his attention to every-day life.
442 EURIPIDES.
which he represented with realistic language, thus, doubtless, forming
a connecting link between the later tragedy and the new comedy.
While the Greek tragedy was thus fading out of existence in Athens,
its influence was spreading throughout Greece and the neighboring
countries, especially in Asia. We have already seen that Euripides
and Agathon visited Macedonia ; later Philip and Alexander showed
their fondness for the theater, and their successors had the same taste.
Alexander, it will be remembered, had three thousand comedians
brought from Greece to celebrate the funeral games in honor of
Hephaestion. In Egypt, at the court of the Ptolemies, the stage was
highly honored. Even into Judea this taste made its way: Herod
had two theaters built there, one in Caesarea, and the other in Jerusalem.
The anecdote quoted above, in the account of the Bacchae, concerning
the incident that took place after the defeat of Crassus, shows how
general was the influence of the Greek stage. Later we shall see its
great influence in Rome, and indeed this extended throughout the
civilized world. The Sanskrit drama was in part indebted to the
influence of that of Greece, knowledge of which was carried to India
by the army of Alexander, besides spreading from simpler causes; and
possibly, through India, it called forth the Chinese drama. And the
fathers of the church saw the masterpieces of tragedy and comedy still
performed.
That the work of the other tragedians has disappeared so utterly
from the face of the earth may be readily explained. Their work
was held, and, doubtless, with justice, to be inferior to that of the
three great men we have been studying, and the taste of the Alex-
andrines exercised absolute exclusion of all work that was held to be
but second-class, and when we remember that what has left has survived
the ruin of two civilizations we need not wonder that so much has been
lost. As Mr. Symonds puts it in his " Studies on the Greek Poets,"
ii. 117:
" What the public voice of the Athenians had approved the scholiasts
of Alexandria winnowed. What the Alexandrians selected found its
way to Rome. What the Roman grammarians sanctioned was carried
in the dotage of culture to Byzantium. At each transition the peril
by land and sea to rare codices, sometimes, probably, to unique auto-
graphs, was incalculable. Then followed the fury of iconoclasts and
fanatics, the firebrands of Omar, the remorseless crusade of churchmen
against paganism, and the then great conflagrations of Byzantium."
It is, indeed, not strange that in so many cases only names have
reached us. These, at least, serve to show us how vast was the bulk
of the Greek civilization, and the extent of its influence is even more
remarkable.
DISINTEGRATION OF GREEK THOUGHT. 443
What most thoroughly survived these many vicissitudes was the
influence of Euripides, who stood then as he stands now, as the repre-
sentative of the disintegration of the Greek thought. .The greatness
of ^schylus and Sophocles was fully acknowledged, but Euripides
had the tone of modernness ; he spoke to his hearers and later spectators
and readers their own language, while the qualities of his predecessors,
although they commanded admiration, were yet remote, as the lan-
guage and inspiration of Shakspere and Milton are remote from us.
The prevalence of his authority is indirect proof of the fact, which is
sufficiently established by history, that the whole course of the modifi-
cation of Greek thought follows the lines on which it began in his time ;
it was a perpetual inquiry concerning men's relations to the gods and
to one another which accompanied the continuous weakening of the
old beliefs. The natural and well-founded pride of the Greeks in their
intellectual superiority over their Macedonian and Roman masters
helped to keep them faithful to the literary traditions of their prime,
and in the confidants of the classical Italian and French tragedies we
see a survival, or petrifaction, of the old Greek methods which forbade
the use of unexpected incident or violent action as a means of arousing
interest. The whole attention was devoted exclusively to the treat-
ment, a custom which has also prevailed in French novels. The
comedy of Greece, at least when it was in the hands of Aristophanes,
knew no such law ; later, the authority of Euripides and the death
of its political influence enforced a similar monotony. It became a
work of art when it ceased to be an expression of political interest,
and as such was subject to this artistic law of universal extent among
the Greeks, as we shall see again in the study of their oratory.
It is perhaps scarcely worth while to insist on another point that
suggests itself; for although, in the absence of full information, every
detail that has reached us is of interest and value, it is very easy to
regard trifles as more important than they really are, yet it is curious
to notice that, according to Athenaius, Euripides was one of the first
of the Greeks to own a large library, and in the Frogs of Aristophanes
(1. 1409) we find another reference to his books, when ^Eschylus con-
sents to have them all thrown into the scale along with Euripides
himself, his wife, children, and his friend and counsellor, Cephisophon,
confident that he will outweigh this feathery load with two of his own
verses. There is no doubt, then, that Ave have in Euripides the first
great poet who was a reader, and among his many anticipations of
modern tastes this may deserve to be counted. Certainly, a Greek
who read at this time was pointing the way for his descendants ; for,
when the active life of that race ceased, it at once began to expound
what had been done in the past.
CHAPTER VI.— THE COMEDY.
I. — Obscurity of its Early History ; its Alleged Origins, in the Dionysiac Festivals,
and in Various Places, as in Sicily, Among the Megarians, etc. — The Early
Writers of Comedy. II.— Aristophanes — Comedy as he Found it ; its Technical
Laws ; the Chorus, etc. — The Acharnians — The Seriousness of All the Com-
edies ; Their Conservatism — The Horse-play. III. — The Knights; its Attack
on Cleon, and General Political Fervor. IV. — The Clouds, with its Derision of
Socrates, and of Modern Tendencies. V. — The Wasps, and its Denunciation of
Civic Decay. VI.— The Peace, and its Political Implications — The Poetical Side
of Aristophanes. VII.— The Birds. VIII. — The Lysistrata, and the Thesmo-
phoriazusge — The Attack on Euripides Directly, and Indirectly on Current
Affairs — Hopelessness of the Position held by Aristophanes. IX. — The Frogs ;
Euripides Again Assaulted, and yEschylus Exalted. X. — The Ecclesiazusas, and
the Plutus — The Altered Conditions — The Unliterary Quality of Attic Comedy in
its Early Days — Importance of Aristophanes as a Mouth-piece of the Athenian
People. XI. — The Later Development of Comedy — Philemon and Menander;
the Contrast between their Work and that of Aristophanes — Its Relation to the
Later Times.
I.
THE early history of the Greek comedy is quite as obscure as that
of the tragedy ; indeed, our knowledge of it is even more limited,
for only seven plays of a single comic writer have been preserved out
of which we may form our notion of the nature of this great division
of Greek literature. To the Greeks themselves the investigation of
the beginning of literary forms was vastly less important than the
study of acknowledged masterpieces. Moreover, the long period in
which the comic poetry held an ignoble position as a gross amusement
of ignorant rustics that only slowly developed into a recognized
branch of literary work, is a satisfactory excuse for their indifference
to the remote beginnings. A race that has grown up without an im-
portant admixture of foreign influence has certainly less impulse to
study its own past than have those that have deliberately imitated
antiquity at almost every step that they have taken. Science, too,
would contemn its own lessons if it failed to remember that its limit-
less curiosity is of only very recent growth.
While the tragedy always maintained the dignity of its serious
religious significance, and celebrated those ancient myths that told
over the painful conflict of heroic strength against indomitable powers,
the comedy for a long time existed as a mere rustic sport of wine-
THE DION Y SI AC FESTIVALS. 445
gatherers who celebrated the joyous side of their divinity. Far from
finding a complicated literary form like the dithyramb to give it
standing, it developed out of the coarse songs which sounded the
fructifying powers of nature, and these were celebrated with all the
THALIA.
( The Muse of Comedy^
frankness and boldness of a half-civilized race whose religion was
simple nature-worship, and who at no period of their history were
under the dominion of what they would have called prudery had the
quality existed. It is in respect of this trait that the chasm between
446 THE COMEDY.
antiquity and modern times is widest, and a full description of the
license of the Dionysiac festivities. They can only be equalled at the
present day by what we read of some of the rites of savage nations.
In Greece, however, this spirit was combined with an intellectual
vivacity that retained this direct combination of thought, impulse and
action to an extent that we can scarcely understand now. It was
among the Dorians that these sports flourished most freely, and that
comedy first appeared, although they never raised it to the highest
literary excellence. The Megarians were the first to lend to the song
scurrility and the quality of personal and political satire ; and possibly
their lack of an outlet in political life concentrated their attention in
this direction. They, apparently, inserted into the Dionysiac song
various references to current events, and in all the early comedy of the
Dorians we find the comic art employed in caricaturing the interests
and manners of every-day life. This was at least the characteristic of
the humble comedy that existed among the Spartans. Something of
the sort seems to have been carried to Sicily. Although ^schylus
visited the court of Hiero, it appears that the Sicilians at the time of
the Peloponnesian war could have had but little definite knowledge of
the growth of the Attic drama than such as they saw in the rendering
of his plays, because at the end of Plutarch's life of Nicias we read
that some of the survivors of the unfortunate Sicilian expedition
" owed their preservation to Euripides. Of all the Grecians, his was
the muse whom the Sicilians were most in love with. From every
stranger that landed in their island they gleaned every small specimen
or portion of his works, and communicated it with pleasure to each
other. It is said that, on this occasion, a number of Athenians, upon
their return home, went to Euripides and thanked him in the most
respectful manner for their obligations to his pen, some having been
enfranchised for teaching their masters what they remembered of his
poems, and others having got refreshments when they were wandering
about, after the battle, by singing a few of his verses. Nor is this to
be wondered at, since they tell us that when a ship from Caunus,
which happened to be pursued by pirates, was going to take shelter
in one of their ports, the Sicilians at first refused to admit her ; upon
asking the crew whether they knew any of the verses of Euripides, and
being answered in the afifirmative, they received both them and their
vessel."
These statements attest not only a most intelligent curiosity but
also the difficulties of gratifying it, and when Plato recommended the
Clouds of Aristophanes to Dionysius, that play could not have been
familiar even to the ruler of Syracuse. In so complete isolation, some-
thing very different from the Attic comedy might well have grown up,
SICILIAN COMED Y—EPICHARMUS—SA TIRE.
447
and in the plays of Epicharmus there was probably a spirit very unlike
that which has immortalized Aristophanes, For a long time the Doric
comedy had prevailed in Sicily, which had been colonized mainly by
Dorians. Selinus, a member of a Megarian colony, Aristoxenes
(about 660 B.C.), Antheas (about 596), are the names of these early
poets who made use of the license of the Dionysiac festivals for more
or less formal expression of satire and personal abuse or caricature, but
it was in the hands of Epicharmus that the Sicilian comedy at last
assumed its definite shape. In his early years he went to Sicily with his
father, and finally established himself in Syracuse, where his talents
were encouraged by the patronage of the tyrants Gelon and Hiero.
His philosophical studies were quite as celebrated as his comedies, but
it is these alone that concern us now. None of them have reached us,
but their fame in antiquity was great enough to secure for their author
a place among the brief list of the greatest writers of comedies. Plato
PARODY OF THE ANTIGONE.
(Vase Painting).
set him at the head of all, and another writer mentioned him with Or-
pheus, Hesiod, Choerilus, and Homer, as the greatest of the Hellenic
poets. Plautus chose him for his model, and Cicero admired his wit
and apt invention. He is said to have left fifty-two plays ; other
authorities mention thirty-five or thirty-seven, and apparently they
were written with considerable literary art. The refinement of the
Syracusan court, when Pindar and iEschylus, his contemporaries, were
welcome and admiring guests, is a fair guarantee of the equivalent
value of his skill. His subjects were frequently taken from the
familiar myths and legends, and it may be conjectured that Epi-
charmus neglected no opportunities to set in a ridiculous light what
other poets had recorded seriously. Thus, in the Busiris, Heracles
appeared as an insatiable glutton ; in a number of the plays the
Homeric myths were caricatured ; in Pyrrha and Prometheus the
448 THE COMEDY.
traditional flood and the creation of mankind is the subject. In other
plays he appears to have chosen ridiculous characters and scenes out
of every-day life, and it was possibly here that Plautus imitated him.
Among those who followed in his footsteps was his son or pupil Dino-
lochus, and Phormus, the tutor of Gelon's children, but soon the Sicil-
ian comedy died out, and was succeeded by a new form called mimes.
These lacked the formal construction of the kind just mentioned, and
consisted merely of farcical presentations of absurd incidents of com-
mon life. Sophron, a native of Syracuse, was the best known writer of
these light compositions. He was a contemporary of Sophocles and
Euripides. Besides the farcical mitnes, he composed serious ones ;
but in both the realism and lack of formality were the striking qual-
ities. They were both inspired by the distinct mimetic skill of the
Sicilians ; indeed their quick-witted conversational flavor is said by
Aristotle to have exerted a direct influence on the growth of the
Socratic dialogue of Plato, who learned to know them when in Syra-
cuse, and carried them to Athens, where he studied them carefully.
An example of one of these is to be found in one of the idyls of
Theocritus, under whose works it will be studied later, when it will be
seen how vivid is the breath of fresh air that it carries into another
form of literature.
Returning to Attica we find that the earliest trace of comedy here,
as elsewhere in the Hellenic world, is to be traced back to Megara, for
it was an inhabitant of that city who, in 578 B.C., introduced comic
choruses into Icaria, the oldest seat in Attica of the worship of Dionysus.
The Bacchic comos, or merrymaking, from which comedy gets its name,
was doubtless much older. What Susarion did was to introduce such
personal and political references as to mould them into something like
dramatic form, though yet very far from any thing like theatrical effect.
Whatever may have been the degree of excellence attained by these
crude beginnings, into which, probably, the general lyrical superiority
of the people brought considerable literary refinement, no great steps
were taken for a long time. The political conditions did not encourage
unbridled license until Athens became democratic and satire became a
common property. These attempts possibly went but little further
than the work of the Megarian Maeson, whose special disguise was
that of a cook or scullion, which h& presented with such skill that his
name became the common title of these people in Athens. The Italian
commedia delf arte is the nearest approach that we find in modern
literature to this sort of typical dramatic effect attained by actors who
caricatured certain familiar types. In fact, however, this comedy pro-
duced no important results, and a Megarian jest was for antiquity a
by-word like Scotch humor in these later days.
ORIGIN OF COMEDY. 449
For the eighty years after Susarion lived there are no traces of
comedy in Attica, but in 487 B.C., three years after Marathon, when
^schylus was laying the foundation of his fame, we hear of Chionides,
Euetes, Euxenides, Myllus, and Magnes, all contemporaries of Epi-
charmus. Of these only the first and last named had even in antiquity
any literary prominence, and but little is known of their work; but it
is easy and, doubtless, right to suppose that the vulgar humor of the
Megarian comedy found less commendations among the swiftly
ripening Athenians than among less cultivated people, and that the
general swift intellectual advance of that city carried with it the
improvement of the comedy. After all, comedy and tragedy are but
different sides of the same shield, and when one side is held aloft the
other can not be left behind. The delight of the Athenians in the
tragedies of ^Eschylus naturally raised the tone of every sort of
dramatic performance, and comedy improved, as in the Renaissance it
improved simultaneously with modern tragedy; in each case, of course,
preserving marks of its origin. The titles of som.e of the plays of
Magnes make it clear that Aristophanes had him in mind when com-
posing his comedies ; for example, the Frogs, Birds, and Gadflies.
Magnes won the first prize in the contest of comedies no less than
eleven times, but he was soon lost sight of in admiration for the work
of his more brilliant successors. There were many others who won
the glorious obscurity of leaving their names in the list of forgotten
Greek comedians. Of these forty immortals one or two — is not that
the usual average? — have left more than their names for the informa-
tion of posterity. Among these is Cratinus, who holds to the Attic
comedy the same position that ^schylus held to the tragedy, although
he was, in fact, a contemporary of Sophocles and Euripides, and, sur-
viving to the great age of ninety-seven, was a frequent rival of Aris-
tophanes, over whom he was victorious with his Winebottle, his latest
work, for he died in 423 B.C. or 422 B.C. He was aroused to the com-
position of this last play by a violent assault which Aristophanes made
upon him in his Knights, possibly under the influence of that feeling
with which the men of every generation regard their immediate predeces-
sors. Moreover, as we shall see, the Attic comedy was always marked
by extravagant license of personal abuse. Cratinus himself won a repu-
tation for violence in this respect, but he has a more honorable claim to
mention as the man who gave artistic completeness to the early simple
comedy.
Another important man is Crates, whose first appearance as a writer
of comedies was in 449 B.C. ; he had previously learned from experience
as an actor what was needed on the stage, and he brought out a number
of comedies in which he seems to have eschewed the personal satire
45° THE COMEDY.
that Cratinus had freely employed, notably against Pericles, and to
have chosen incidents from private rather than from public life for his
subjects. Pherecrates, a contemporary of Aristophanes, appears to
have followed Crates in this respect. Eupolis, born 446 B.C., was for
some time a friend of Aristophanes, and his fellow-worker in the task
of enforcing upon the Athenian public serious ethical and political les-
sons. These he conveyed with literary art and grace.
Yet^of the whole Attic comedy but eleven plays have been left, and
these are all the work of Aristophanes, the acknowledged master of
this form of composition. It was in the year 427 B.C. that this writer
first presented himself to the Athenian public, under another name, out
of diffidence, or, perhaps, out of compliance with a law that forbade
the writing of comedies to men under a certain age. Very soon he
acquired fame by his wit and boldness in attacking the leaders of the
people, and his comedies followed one another in swift succession.
His last appearance was in 388 B.C. Of the facts of his life, it will be
noticed, but little is known. The examination of his plays will serve
to indicate his aim and method, but before studying these it will be well
to examine the formal condition of the Athenian comedy at this time.
Remembering that it grew from the license of the Dionysiac festivals
and their opportunity for wantonness and scurrility, we shall not be
surprised to find traces, and more than traces, of these qualities in the
ripe and perfected work of later times. All serious poetry bears the
mark of its religious origin in its liturgical rhythms and choice of
words, to say nothing of its subjects, and these consequences of its
remote beginning survive even in late days in the frequent aristocratic
aversion of poetry to treat other than certain formal themes. This is
possibly truer of modern than of ancient times. The religious origin
of the art of painting is still an obstacle to its intelligent growth so
long as the public demand from it, not the play of light and shade, but
an indefinable something which remains vague even when it is called
soul. Struggle as we may, the highest flight of the imagination is
nothing more than an impressive arrangement of familiar details, and
no artist can do more than choose among acknowledged facts. When
the Greek tragedians, or Shakspere, or Homer, move us, they do it by
the intelligent handling of familiar material ; yet, in literature and the
arts, we find that the religious significance, that is to say, an impossible
mystery, is often expected. Fortunately, comedy escaped this handi-
capping. It remained a profane weapon for the denunciation of
COMEDY AS AN ORGAN OF CONSERVATISM— THE PAR ABA SIS. 45 1
absurdities ; and since new thoughts are tolerably sure to appear absurd
to those who do not share them, it became a recognized organ of con-
servatism. The steps by which the satyric chorus developed into an
important part of the comedy are obscure, but the importance of the
chorus survived in, at least, one peculiarity of the comedy, the para-
basis (or going aside, digression), which followed the exposition of the
play, or prologue. In this parabasis the poet was able through the
chorus to address the public face to face ; he could explain his inten-
tions, offer any apology or defense that he thought necessary. The
chorus, which previously had stood on the stage to take part in the
play as an actor, would step down into the orchestra, nearer the specta-
FIGURES IN COMEDY.
tors, and utter the parabasis. This division of the play consisted, when
complete, of distinct parts as formal as all Greek lyric verse, in which
invocations to the gods or in defense of the state or city are accom-
panied with political advice or warning. In the later plays it lost its
force, and was succeeded by simpler lyric passages. Gradually, as we
shall see, the value of the chorus evaporated away. The other lyrical
portions of the chorus bore no special names. These were generally
devoted to ridicule of various persons, generally such as had no con-
nection with the play. They were accompanied with music and dance.
The dance of the comedies was the cordax, a licentious performance,
inherited from the earlier rites. Aristophanes condemned it, but,
452
THE COMEDY.
nevertheless, at times, he employed something very like it. Other
dances were also put on the stage by him, although these were pos-
sibly of a less free nature.
The chorus consisted of twenty-four persons, and the expenses of
preparing it were borne by the city, as was the case with the tragedy.
The masks which they wore were naturally different, at least so far as
the expression was concerned, from those worn by the tragic actors.
Different ages and professions were distinguished by various conven-
tional attributes, and prominent people had their personal appearance
caricatured when the play required it. In those plays in which birds
or wasps appeared as characters the mask became a very important
p'art of the disguise, probably surviving
from the animal masks used by many
savage races. Their costumes were in
ordinary cases probably like those of
ordinary citizens, but, doubtless, were
variously modified when extraordinary
circumstances in the play required a
change. In a word, all the resources of
the theater were continually employed to
produce a vivid and life-like impression.
The stage-effects appear to have been
simple. But what is lost in the lapse of
time in the setting of the play on the
stage is even less than is lost in eveiy
translation of Aristophanes. The deli-
cacy and vivacity of his dialogue and the
abundant splendor of his lyrical inter-
ludes receive but scant justice in even
the best English versions.
The whole number of the plays of
Aristophanes was about forty, for authori-
ties vary as to the exact list. Of these,
as has been said, eleven survive in a complete form,, and of the rest
more than seven hundred fragments give us vivid instances of his
boundless wit and invention, though but vague notions of the lost
plots. Fortunately, the plays cover his long career, from 425 B.C., three
years after his first appearance, to 388 B.C., the date when he brought out
his last play, so that we can see many of the variations in his method ;
but there are, of course, plays missing that scholars would very
gladly regain, such as those in which he handled tragic myths.
The earliest of those that survive is the Acharnians, 425 B.C., the third
piece that Aristophanes produced, but the earliest to win the first prize.
ARISTOPHANES.
THE FUNCTION OF COMEDY. 453
It is a political piece, not only full of allusions to contemporary events,
but depending for its main interest on the state of the Peloponnesian
war that was now in its sixth year. Thus the comedy has an interest
for us and a deep significance wholly beside its humorous effect.
Indeed, while every work of art is the resultant of all the forces that
work upon the mind of the artist, we find in the comedy an immediate
presentation of scenes such as is found only with more difificulty in the
tragedy. The comic writer is necessarily near life. A jest that can
only be understood after it is explained by commentators loses its
right to that name, and to the Athenians the writings of Aristophanes
had a vividness that was its most striking quality. With time, of
course, much of this is lost, but enough remains to justify the high
praise that he received. We shall see how grave after all is the come-
dian's -work ; behind the laughing mask is an active, serious brain that
is grappling with momentous questions; the comicality is, as it were,
a literary quality, like eloquence, for the more striking enforcement of
solemn truths. Always humor stands in relief against the tragic
intensity of life ; it continually implies a reference to what we know is
not amusing. It counts by its suggestions of what is left unsaid.
A noticeable thing is this, that in the hands of Aristophanes comedy
was employed as a buttress of society, as a defender of the old tra-
ditions which we have seen attacked and exposed by Euripides,
although it is commonly held that wit is a corrosive that eats only into
venerable absurdities. Yet, as often as not, it is a conservative force,
especially when the attack on society is made by fanatics whose
earnestness and enthusiasm present a ludicrous side. This was the
position of Voltaire in his treatment of Rousseau, as well as of Aris-
tophanes, and if ridicule killed, its victims would have been long since
forgotten ; on the other hand, Erasmus, Rabelais, and Heine were
prominent among those who helped to bring about a change by the
application of their wit to contemporary affairs, so that it appears
impossible to make any general statement as to the side on which the
wits shall enlist. Like every one else, they decide that for themselves,
and every quality may be found on both sides of the continual con-
troversy between conservatism and radicalism that forever agitates the
world. When even wealth and position fail to secure men's loyalty to
tradition, how can intelligence be expected to count?
Yet nowhere do we find greater conservatism than in the apparatus
of humor and ridicule ; even coronations are tainted with modernness
by the side of the machinery of comedy. We detect this antiquity
not only in the mouldy jests that have come down to us from the flint
period, but in the painted cheeks of the circus clown, who probably
represents the survival of an earlier civilization than any to be observed
454
THE COMEDY.
elsewhere in the community, and in the fool's cap that still lingers in
the schoolroom for the correction of careless boys. Punch himself, the
fantastic figure of fun that we see every week, carries us back by his
uniform to a very remote past. Aristophanes shows us the venerable
forms of what was already antiquity in the allegorical personifications
that crowd his pages, and in the conventional merry-making of his
plays, his drastic rendering of old jokes by living beings who act them
out. The tragedy outgrew its inheritance from older times in its swift
development from ^schylus to Euripides, and became, as it were, the
organ of progress, the outlet for the expression of the new thought that
made its home in Athens, while the comedy retained its old forms and
became a strictly conservative force, its literary method remaining the
contemporary of the thought that it uttered.
GRECIAN FARMERS.
In the Acharnians one will find few traces of subtle work ; no other
play of Aristophanes is fuller of roaring horse-play than this, — horse-
play tempered with corrosive satire that must have burned into some
of the objects of his condemnation, — and its abundant and vivacious
merriment may well serve to indicate to what an extent the old comedy
was untrammeled by literary traditions. In this play the author set
before his public a serious thought, but he clothed it in a form which
is neither comedy nor farce, as we understand those words, but rather
with bubbling, over-running freedom and extravagance and the most
lavish invention. The subject is a denunciation of the Peloponnesian
war, which had been raging for five years and had done great mischief
to the regions lying outside of Athens. The Athenians maintained
their courage in spite of all their reverses ; a few years earlier the
THE ACHARNIANS— OPPOSITION TO THE WAR. 455
plague had raged in the over-crowded city and carried away Pericles,
who had been succeeded by the demagogue Cleon. Yet, it was against
the military spirit that Aristophanes made bold to speak, and in
selecting the Acharnians he chose the most vigorous supporters of the
war as the object of his satire. The suburb in which they lived lay
about eight miles from Athens, and every year it had been exposed to
the ravages of the enemy ; but their spirit was unbroken, and these
charcoal burners (for preparing charcoal was their main occupation),
formed a large part of the military contingent. The leading character
Dicaeopolis, or good citizen, is a farmer who has been driven from the
country to seek protection within the walls of the city, and is anxious
for the restoration of peace. At the opening of the play he is found
sitting in the Pnyx, where the citizens are accustomed to hold their
public meetings, and there he waits for them to assemble. Meanwhile,
he recounts his joys and sorrows, and the dramatist's tongue begins its
lashing :
" How oft have I been vexed to the very soul !
How seldom had a treat ! A brace, perhaps ;
Two brace, at most — and then my disappointments —
Oh, they were miUions, bilHons, — sea-sand-illions.
Come, then : What did I really enjoy ?
Yes : one sight fill'd my soul with delectation,
Cleon disgorging those five talents. Ah,
How I enjoy'd it ! How I love the Knights
Still for that deed, one worthy Hellas thanks.
But then, per contra stands that stage surprise
Most shocking, when I sat with mouth agape
Waiting for ^schylus, and the crier called —
' Theognis, bring your chorus on '; just fancy
The shock it gave me."
Here we have the earliest extant reference of Aristophanes to Cleon,
between whom waged bitter strife, and the scratch at the frigid trage-
dies of Theognis, but these are only introductory to the complaint of
the hero over the dilatoriness of the citizens, and especially of the
presidents, who only come in at the last minute :
" Pushing and crushing
To get at the best seats, like streams they roll on !
For peace they never care."
Dicaeopolis, however, has chosen a good place from which he can
howl down all those who shall speak of anything but peace. When
the meeting is opened Amphitheus, a demi-god, announces himself
with a formality parodying the tragic manner of Euripides, and asserts
that the gods have given him a special license to make a peace with
Sparta ; he would be grateful, however, for a small contribution from
456 THE COMEDY.
the presiding officers. He is instantly dragged away, and the Persian
ambassadors appear upon the stage. Curiously enough, in a single
line which they utter, later Orientalists have discovered fairly good
ancient Persian, which had proved a stumbling-block to those who
tried to interpret it as bad Greek. These men are represented as
ridiculous creatures ; their words are translated into a promise of
money, and the accompanying Greeks give absurd excuses for the long
time they have been absent, drawing pay. The ambassadors are in-
vited to a public dinner, which incident gives the last touch to the
wrath of Dicaeopolis, so that he at once asks of Amphitheus a peace
for himself and family with Sparta. Then Theorus enters to report
upon his success in seeking alliance with Thrace. He brings an army
on the stage that can be compared only with Falstaff's forces. Al-
though the native troops are not paid, these worthless allies are almost
engaged, when Dicaeopolis breaks up the meeting and their acceptance
is postponed.
Immediately Amphitheus returns, having narrowly escaped mobbing
at the hands of the Acharnians, with three samples of peace in wine-
jars for Dicaeopolis to choose from. The five and ten years' truce he
rejects, but the thirty years' truce contents him and off he goes. No
sooner is he away than the chorus of Acharnians comes on, in search
of the peace-loving rascal. Here the old form of the comedy survives:
Dicaeopolis sings a phallic hymn in praise of the joys of peace and in
condemnation of the horrors of war, and then afterward he discusses
with the angry chorus what he has just done. How full the humor of
Aristophanes is of malicious invention may be seen from the fact that
he caricatures here a play of Euripides, who, in his Telephus, now
lost, had let one of the characters produce a royal infant whom he
threatened to kill with his sword if he were not granted a hearing ;
Dicaeopolis brings forward a coal-scuttle wrapped up in long
clothes and threatens to run it through. This overwhelms the
Acharnians :
" We are done for! Do not kill him ! Our own demesman! Oh, forbear!
Oh, that scuttle ! Do not harm him ! Spare him, we beseech thee, spare !
Die. Bawl away, for I shall slay him, I'll not hear you, on my soul.
Chor. Oh, mine own familiar comrade ! Oh, my noble heart of coal !
Die. But just now you would not hear me speak a word about the peace.
Chor. Speak it now, and praise the Spartans to the top of your caprice !
For 1 never will prove traitor to my little scuttle here ! "
Before getting to the argument, Dicaeopolis wishes to make the
most complete preparations, and for this purpose he seeks the aid of
Euripides, going to his house to borrow some of the tattered garments
in which that poet's heroes were accustomed to be arrayed. He asks
EURIPIDES IN THE ACHARNIANS. 457
for one thing and another until finally he accumulates nearly all the
tragedian's pathetic properties.
He asks if Euripides is in :
Ceph. Even so.
His soul's abroad collecting versicles ;
His bodily presence here play-mongering
In a garret.
Die. Happy, happy, happy poet !
Whose slave can logic chop so learnedly :
Summon him.
Ceph. But I could not.
Die. But you must.
I will not go away : I'll keep on knocking.
Euripides, my sweet Euripides !
Open to me, if ever you admitted
A mortal man. I'm Dicasopolis
Of Chollid ward.
Eur. This is no holiday.
Die. Well, bid them turn the house-front and display
Th' interior.
Eur. But I could not.
Die. But you must.
Eur. I'll do, then, as you ask, but won't come down.
Die. Euripides !
Eur. What screamest.''
Die. Why not write
Down here, instead of perching in that cockloft ?
That's why your characters go lame before
They come to us. And what's the use of all
These sorry weeds and stage rags .'* That is why
You put so many beggars on the stage.
But I beseech you, for sweet pity's sake.
Give me some rag from some old worn-out play,
For to the Chorus I am bound to make
A speech ; and if I fail, 'twill cost my life.
Eur. Rags, and what rags ? Those in which Oeneus here
Erst played, that " very feeble, fond old man " .'*
Die. Not Oeneus, no. There was a worse than that.
Eur. Phoenix, blind Phoenix .''
Die. No, not his; there was
A character more ragged still than Phcenix.
Eur. What " thing of shreds and patches " would'st thou have .''
Is it the beggar Philoctetes' rags .''
Die. No. Something far more beggarly than his.
Eur. What, then "> The squalid tatters of the lame Bellerophon .-*
Die. No, lame he was indeed.
And used to beg, and well could wag his tongue.
Eur. I know the one you think of: Telephus,
The Mysian king.
Die. The very man.
Eur. Here, boy !
Bring me the tattered garb of Telephus;
It lies upon the Thyestean rags,
'Twixt them and Ino's. Take them, there they are.
Die. O, Zeus, that lookest down on everything.
And seest through them ail, may I succeed
In garbing me in guise most miserable.
458 THE COMEDY.
And since you've been so kind, Euripides,
Lend me the other properties that go
Along with these : I mean the Mysian cap,
" For I this day must play the beggar here —
Be what I am, but other far appear."
The house must recognize me as myself —
The Chorus standing by like fools, that I
At the old cocks may poke my quiddities.
Eur. Here. "Thy device is shrewd, and right thy rede."
Die. Oh, blessings on you ; " and on Telephus —
What's in my thoughts." Bravo, I'm getting full
Of quibbles. But I want a beggar's staff. '
Eur. Take, then, the staf¥, and leave the " marble halls."
Die. My soul, thou seest how I'm driven forth.
Though many properties I lack. But thou
Be in thy begging whine importunate.
{To Euripides) Lend me a basket that the lamp has burn'd
A hole in.
Eur. Of this wicker thing, poor wretch,
What need hast thou }
Die. Need have I none, but wantit.
Eur. I tell you, you annoy me, and must go.
Die. Ah ! may God bless you — like your blessed mother.
Eur. Now pray be off.
Die. Well, give me just one thing —
A little cup with broken rim.
Eur. Oh, take it.
A murrain with it ! You're a bore, I tell you.
Die. Thou knowest not yet what mischief thou art doing.
But, sweet Euripides, just one thing more.
A pipkin with a hole in't, plugg'd with sponge.
Eur. You're robbing me of all my tragic art.
Take it and go.
Die. I will. And yet, how can I !
One thing I need, and if I get it not
I'm ruined. Listen, dear Euripides ;
If I get this I'll go and come not back : —
Some refuse cabbage leaves to fill my basket.
Eur. You'll ruin me : there ! — now you've taken all
My tragic genius.
With this aid DicaeopoHs is able to make so moving an appeal in
behalf of peace, and so effective a defense of the Spartans, that he
secures the favor of half the chorus ; the other half invoke the aid of
the warlike Lamachus, a famous general. Lamachus vows a renewal
of hostilities, while Dicaeopolis offers free trade to Megara, Boeotia,
and the whole Peloponnesus.
At this point comes the parabasis, in which Aristophanes directly
addressed the audience and defended himself from the charge of libel-
ing the state. Afterward the chorus complained of the way in which
old servants were neglected, and the extent to which they were ill-
treated in courts of law, and no contrast is greater than that between
the reveling of the rest of the play and these serious addresses to the
Athenians.
ANIMATION AND HUMOR OF THE ACHARNIANS.
459
When the play begins again, people have begun to arrive at Dicae-
opolis's market in order to trade. A Megarian brings his daughters
to sell as pigs, and Dicaeopolis purchases them for some salt and gar-
lic, and saves the Megarian from an informer. Then a Boeotian comes
with an abundance of valuable things which he sells for one obnoxious
informer, namely, Nicharchus, who threatened to denounce the
stranger for bringing a wick into the city, wherewith he might have
burned down the dockyard. The chorus sing a lyric in praise of
peace, and then appears a herald who promises a skin of wine to
MARKET SCENE.
the most successful tippler. Dicaeopolis makes his preparations, and
gives to no one a taste of his precious wine except to a bride who
wants a drop in order to keep her husband at home. Lamachus
receives orders to go out into the snow on military service, and Di-
caeopolis receives an invitation to dinner ; finally they both return, the
general wounded and wretched, and Dicaeopolis drunk and happy.
Thus the advantages of peace are most vividly portrayed, for the far-
cical contrast between the bruised soldier and the wine-flown lover
of peace gives an impressive close to the play. Its vinous flavor
belongs to it as a part of the worship of Dionysus, and the final
absurdity keeps it well in the region of comedy.
No one has ever worked with a broader brush than has Aristophanes
in this play and the next one, the Knights. They are both compact
with life. The humor moves in a great current that drags with it the
direct inculcation of the sweetness of peace, contempt for ambitious
leaders and perpetual reproof of Euripides. The play is full of lines
that caricature and parody lines from his Telephus ; a messenger comes
in and mocks the long speeches of the tragic bearers of evil tidings;
46o THE COMEDY.
the informers, a class that poisoned the political life of Athens at its
roots, are denounced most bitterly. The play abounds with life ; it is
magnificently rich in reality, a vast outbreak of tumultuous emotion,
not a mere tender stream of acid comment or ill-natured sarcasm. Only
Rabelais comes so near being an elemental force.
III.
The Knights, which appeared in the next year, 424 B.C., bears many
marks of likeness to the Acharnians, and this time it is Cleon, the
demagogue, who is marked for slaughter. All the earlier plays of
Aristophanes had been brought out by some one else ; for what reason
is not known, although it has been suggested that perhaps the youth
of the author stood in the way of his undertaking the task. He not
only brought out this play, he also took the part of Cleon, and since
no one was willing to make a mask that should represent the features
of that well-known man, Aristophanes appeared without a mask, but
with his face smeared with the lees of wine, after the old Bacchic
custom, in such a way, however, as to suggest the man whom he was
caricaturing. Nowhere is Cleon's name mentioned, possibly out of
deference to some law forbidding that irreverent assault, but the attack
lost none of its point by that prohibition; a joke is not injured by
being hidden, and skating on thin ice always attracts attention. The
play is an improvement on the Acharnians ; Aristophanes had a single
object in view, and every thing is brought to bear on that, and certainly
it required much courage for a young author to attack, single-handed,
the most powerful man in Athens. Cleon had made an enemy of the
poet, not only by his political position, but also by trying to disprove
the claims of Aristophanes to Athenian citizenship, in his wrath against
the lost play, the Babylonians. The poet escaped legal defeat, but he
maintained his grudge against the demagogue. One can not but feel
an admiration for a state that permitted such absolute freedom as
Athens enjoyed ; no comic poet ever had half such license as abounds
here. An American political contest is coldly conventional by the side
of it. Witty as Aristophanes was, it will, of course, be understood that
the position which he held as a fearless opponent of what he regarded
as serious political errors did not depend on his personal audacity
alone, for he would have been powerless if he had not expressed a
wide-spread feeling, and he would not have spoken so frankly if the
condition of Athens had not been one that permitted the utmost free-
dom of speech. Comedy existed, not as one form of literary amuse-
ment, or even as a corrective for the universal weaknesses of human
LICENES OF THE DRAMA— POLITICAL CRITICISM. 461
nature, but as a direct expression of the keen political interest of an
eager people, and it was this quality that it possessed as an exponent
of public life that gave it its importance at the time and makes it
valuable to us as a record of the people speaking through their favorite
mouthpiece on current events. Only in freedom can such license
exist, when there are no panicky terrors about propriety or safety.
Long custom secured the writer from the charge of indecorum or
undue harshness, and the result is that we see in his comedies the
failures, or what were considered the failures, of Athens, as we see the
lofty and noble aims in the tragedies. At no time in the world's history
have there been known such vividness and intensity.
The Knights opens with the grumbling of two distinguished generals,
Nicias and Demosthenes, who are represented as slaves, over the
unreasonableness of their master, Demos, in whom is personified the
Athenian public, just as John Bull and Brother Jonathan respectively
personify all Englishmen and all Americans. Demos has just been
thrashing them when they run forth complaining and whimpering.
Immediately a distinction is drawn between the two men : Demos-
thenes is the bolder, and Nicias is less positive, an echo of his compan-
ion, and these characteristics are maintained throughout. This is the
way in which Demosthenes describes Demos, and pays his respects to
Cleon, who is mentioned as the Paphlagonian. Demos, he says, is
" a man in years,
A kind of bran-fed, husky, testy character.
Choleric and brutal at times, and partly deaf.
It's near about a month now, that he went
And bought a slave out of a tanner's yard,
A Paphlagonian born, and brought him home,
As wicked a slanderous wretch as ever lived.
This fellow, the Paphlagonian, has found out
The blind side of our master's understanding,
With fawning and wheedling in this kind of way :
' Would not you please go to the bath, sir } surely
It's not worth while to attend the courts to-day.'
And, ' Would not you please to take a little refreshment ?
And there's that nice hot broth — and here's the threepence
You left behind you — And would not you order supper ? '
Moreover, when we get things out of compliment
As a present for our master, he contrives
To snatch 'em and serve 'em up before our faces.
I'd made a Spartan cake at Pylos lately.
And mixed and kneaded it well, and watched the baking;
But he stole round before me and served it up.
if. -if. if. Up. ^ -if.
Sometimes the old man falls into moods and fancies.
Searching the prophecies till he gets bewildered ;
And then the Paphlagonian plies him up, —
Driving him mad with oracles and predictions.
And that's his harvest."
462 THE COMEDY.
The Spartan cake refers to the success of Cleon in suddenly accepting
command and capturing a number of Spartans at Pylos when he was
urged to make good his statement of what the generals should do.
Certainly, demagogues who do what they promise can afford to endure
ridicule.
Then, when Demosthenes gets hold of some wine, he finds some
reports of the oracles which declare that Pericles shall have such and
such successors, who shall be followed by
" a viler rascal
. . . In the person of a Paphlagonian tanner,
A loud, rapacious, leather-selling ruffian."
He, in his turn, is to be superseded by a sausage-seller. Thereupon
there appears a sausage-seller to whom Demosthenes communicates
the words of the oracle.
Naturally the humble vendor of sausages is as much confused as
elated at this swift promotion, and naturally has some doubts about
his capacity.
There is nothing easier, Demosthenes assures him :
" Stick to your present practice : follow it up
In your new calling. Mangle, mince, and mash.
Confound and hack, and jumble things together !
And interlard your rhetoric with lumps
Of mawkish sweet and greasy flattery.
Be fulsome, coarse, and bloody ! — For the rest,
All qualities combine, all circumstances.
To entitle and equip you for command ;
A filthy voice, a villainous countenance,
A vulgar birth, and parentage, and breeding.
Nothing is wanting — absolutely nothing."
The sausage-seller still hesitates, saying :
" For all our wealthier people are alarm 'd
And terrified at him ; and the meaner sort
In a manner stupefied, grown dull and dumb."
Demosthenes says :
" Why there's a thousand lusty cavahers
Ready to back you, that detest and scorn him ;
And every worthy, well-born citizen ;
And every candid, critical spectator ;
And I myself ; and the help of Heaven to boot : —
And never fear ; his face will not be seen.
For all the manufacturers of masks,
From cowardice, refused to model it.
It matters not ; his person will be known :
Our audience is a shrewd one — they can guess."
RIDICULE OF CLEON BY ARISTOPHANES.
463
Certainly the entrance of Cleon could not be more cleverly pre-
pared, and he comes blustering on the stage, denouncing treachery
and plots, so that the sausage-seller starts to run off, but Demosthenes
encourages him, and the chorus of knights appears and begins to
denounce Cleon :
" Close around him, and confound him, the confounder of us ail.
Pelt him, pummel him and maul him ; rummage, ransack, overhaul him,
Overbear him and outbawl him ; bear him dow^n and bring him under.
Bellow like a burst of thunder, robber ! harpy ! sink of plunder ! " etc.
The choice of the knights for the chorus was most discreet, for this
class represented the bitterest opposition to Cleon, and felt the strong-
est yearning for his overthrow and the restoration of an oligarchy in
PEDAGOGUE.
which they should be powerful. Cleon had offended them by his
devotion to the baser populace, and what we have already seen of
the play shows that the fundamental discord is the familiar conflict
between an antiquated aristocracy and a vulgar democracy. As we
go on we shall see how the knights consented to overthrow their
present antagonist by joining hands with a yet lower man, for political
science teaches that men's actions at different periods of the world's
history are apt to move in similar circles.
464 THE COMEDY.
The chorus tell the sausage-seller that if he will outdo Cleon in
impudence the victory is his, and the fight begins and rages with
the excess of violence which two such blackguards would naturally
exhibit when entirely free from literary conventions. There is no
limit to their foul-mouthed abuse of each other. Thus :
Cleon. Dogs and villains, you shall die !
S. S. Ay ! I can scream ten times as high.
Cl. I'll overbear ye, and outbawl ye.
S. S. But I'll outscream ye, and outsquall ye.
Cl. I'll impeach you, whilst abroad.
Commanding on a foreign station.
S. S. I'll have you sliced, and slashed, and scort(!.
Cl. Your lion's skin of reputation.
Shall be flay'd off your back and tanned.
S. S. I'll take those guts of yours in hand.
Cl. Come bring your eyes and mine to meet !
And stare at me without a wink !
S. S. Yes ! in the market-place and street,
I had my birth and breeding too ;
And from a boy to blush or blink,
I scorn the thing as much as you."
And so the two exchange the compliments of Billingsgate, rolling
in the mire which serves as a magazine of offensive missiles, until Cleon
hurries to the Senate to make short work of his adversary with all
manner of accusations.
At this point occurs the parabasis, in the more important part of
which Aristophanes takes occasion to denounce Magnes, Crates, and
Cratinus. His insults to Cratinus brought swift punishment, for in
the next year, as has been said above, the old veteran woke up and
wrote a play that won for him the first prize over the Clouds of Aris-
tophanes. The poet also asks the favor of the gods and sounds the
praises of the knights. When the play begins again the sausage-seller
recounts how he got ahead of Cleon in securing the favor of the Sen-
ate. Cleon, it seems, had burst in with the statement that the fisher-
men had just landed with the largest haul of pilchards that had been
known since the war began, and had proposed that they buy the fish
while they were cheap. Then he moved that a general thanksgiving
be proclaimed and a hundred oxen sacrificed. This was the bid of
a demagogue, because it was well understood by the audience that
only the thighs and fat were offered to the gods, and that all the rest
fell to the poor citizens. Consequently the sausage-seller proposed a
sacrifice of two hundred oxen, and so outdid Cleon. That baffled
leader then proposed that the Senate delay their purchase of the fish
to hear news of peace brought from Lacedaemon by a herald, but the
Senate think it no time to listen to talk about peace when fish are so
MEANING OF THE ACHARNIANS— PRAISE OF THE PAST. 465
cheap — a pleasing slur on Athenian politics — and they adjourn. The
sausage-seller bought all the fennel in the market to present to the
populace for their fish-sauce, and so won their warm gratitude. The
chorus are loud in their encouragement :
" With fair event your first essay began,
Betokening a predestined happy man.
The villain now shall meet
In equal war
A more accomplished cheat,
A viler far ;
With turns and tricks more various.
More artful and nefarious.
— But thou !
Bethink thee now ;
Rouse up thy spirit to the next endeavor !
— Our hands and hearts and will.
Both heretofore and ever
Are with thee still."
The sausage-seller calls out :
" The Paphlagonian ! Here he's coming, foaming
And swelling like a breaker in the surf.
With his hobgoblin countenance and look ;
For all the world as if he would swallow me up."
Not that Cleon was a Paphlagonian, but the word accused him of
foreign birth, the charge he had brought against Aristophanes, and
carried with it besides that insult — and the Paphlagonians bore an ill
name — a punning allusion to his foaming, sputtering manner of speak-
ing. Here he undertakes to browbeat the man who begins to appear
like a formidable rival. He appeals to Demos himself, and it is
decided that they shall settle their superiority before the people. Then
there is no limit to their extravagance ; each tries to outdo the other
with flattery of Demos, who is soon won by the sausage-seller's inge-
nious pertinacity. Cleon in despair asks leave to get some oracles that
support him, and his rival starts off to get his own, and they both
return staggering under their loads. There is an amusing match
between them that well illustrates the credulity of the people, and
then the sausage-seller renews his bidding for the popular favor and
the play ends with his unworthy triumph. The sausage-seller, or
Agoracritus, according to his name, which is at last announced, makes
Demos over anew by boiling him, and the Demos comes upon the
stage in his rejuvenescence, determined that justice shall be done and
peace made. This conclusion brings out clearly the serious meaning
of the play, and the hopefulness of the conservative who sees the sole
chance for the future in the glory of the past. Yet where else could
466 THE COMEDY.
he look for it ? The present, even allowing for violent exaggeration
in his presentation of it, was enough to fill any one with despair.
The question of the justice of Aristophanes will be decided by every
one according to his feelings, so that any final judgment is impossible.
Circumstances, at least, allow us to approve the clearness of his per-
ceptions, for the glory of Athens died from the disease which he por-
trayed. The vividness of his drawing needs no comment ; right or
wrong, his political feeling and enthusiasm have remained unequaled.
The Athenians could laugh at this rendering of their infamous weak-
ness, and yet give him the first prize, a sure test of fair-mindedness or,
possibly, of cynical indifference.
Whatever the emotion by which the populace was swayed, the lines
of Aristophanes, at least, show us the hot conflict that was waging
between what was deemed venerable in the past and what was thought
to be revolutionary in the present ; and the mirror that Aristophanes
held up before his audience did not offend on the side of flattery. The
play shows us how great was the commotion caused by the struggle
between old principles and new methods, and indeed, to leave the
political questions that it invokes, we may see in its composition the
curious juxtaposition of Cleon and the allegorical figure of the people,
personified as Demos, which bears witness to the preservation of an
earlier literary form in their most vivid application to current events.
Only in Shakspere can we find such indifference to literary by-laws,
and even he did not enjoy the same absolute freedom that distinguishes
Aristophanes, for whom no rules exist. The allegorical figure was, to
be sure, a part of his inheritance, but the uses to which it was put
must have been new, because never before had Athenian life known
the intensity of its mingling glory and decay. Never were the heat
and confusion of actual events so caught and set down as in his
pathetic pages. While the tragedy preserves the remoteness of a
ritual, the comedy is rank with life ; we see Athens as we see no other
city of the past. Elsewhere we may behold the court, the church, or
a mass of refined people; here we see the place itself.
IV.
His next play, the Clouds, is not so easily placed. It was brought out
in 423 B.C., fourteen months after the Knights, and is devoted to turning
Socrates to contempt. It failed of success on the stage, as has been
noted above, and the text which has come down to us is a modified
form of that in which it originally appeared. It is uncertain whether
this failure was due to its unjust treatment of the great Greek philo-
sopher or, as has been suggested, to mere lack of interest in a remote
CONTEMPTUOUS TREATMENT OF SOCRATES— ITS CAUSE. 467
theme or in its presentation. The first suggestion is an unlikely one ;
that the Athenian public should have been sensitive to a contemptuous
treatment of Socrates, when it laughed at a much more violent attack
on a trusted leader like Cleon, appears impossible. There is no good
reason to suppose that Socrates was in any way popular. He was,
doubtless, a man of influence among a chosen band, but even in Athens,
in spite of the exaggerations of its modern admirers, a man so full of
the new spirit must have held the position which a philosopher always
holds in a community that is vain of its own intelligence. His death
was but the natural end of a life that aroused wrath whenever it
emerged from total obscurity. No play of Aristophanes has proved
so unfavorable as this to the fame of its author, who has appeared to
posterity as the wilful calumniator of an honorable man. It was in
this light, too, that he appeared in antiquity to the friends of Socrates.
Plato, in his Apology, states that the fatal accusation that was brought
against Socrates was prepared by Aristophanes twenty-four years
before. Yet, even he brings Aristophanes into his Symposium among
the friends of Socrates, with whom he discusses the nature of love.
Although Plato would have no comic writers in his ideal state, he seems
to have been able to endure them in actual life and to see in Aris-
tophanes something more than the calumniator of his friend. It is
said of Socrates that he attended the performance of the Clouds and
watched with anger the way in which he was caricatured. What
these statements establish is the intelligent comprehension that these
distinguished men had of the nature of the comedy, as well as their
superiority to personal malice. There can be but little doubt that
Aristophanes, who was a firm conservative, meant to make a violent
attack upon Socrates, and that he regarded the philosopher as a foe to
the state. We must not forget that Socrates was not surrounded by
that atmosphere of sanctity through which posterity sees him ; he was
to Aristophanes but a fellow-citizen, and a dangerous one, and there is
no hatred deeper than that which men feel for those of their con-
temporaries whom they regard as bigoted conservatives or fantastic
radicals, as the case may be.
We must also make great allowance for the form of expression which
lay ready to the hand of Aristophanes. What appears to us injustice
and virulence was part of the game, was a legitimate and generally
understood method of attack. We see something of the same kind in
our political contests, and, to a much slighter extent, in the current
badinage between men, which is always incomprehensible to those
people who are accustomed to regard even jesting as a deadly insult.
What is permissible in serious or humorous reproach is always a matter
of convention, and probably nowhere has there been greater freedom
468 THE COMEDY.
than among the Greeks. Even with all allowance, it is hard to argue
from our habits to the license of the old comedy ; we are so accustomed
to the rule of literary decorum, to a keen sense of personal dignity
which could never have been understood by an ancient Greek, to an
artificial etiquette, that the difference appears insurmountable. The
heat of the discussions between Milton and Salmasius, or between
Bentley and his foes, is nearly beyond our comprehension, how much
more the scorn of Aristophanes. The comedy was yet near its begin-
ning when license was absolutely unbridled ; the utmost extravagance
was its conventional language. So much was, perhaps, clear to all the
men of that time, who saw and regretted that Socrates was attacked,
but distinguished between that fact and the permissible exaggeration
of the comedian's language.
If we grant that Aristophanes enjoyed almost perfect freedom,
we must in justice confess that he did not abuse it in this play.
That it gives a faithful presentation of Socrates can not be affirmed.
Yet we do not turn to modern burlesques for photographic likenesses
of men who are caricatured in them. The well-known Pinafore can
not be the only authority consulted by the future historian of the Eng-
lish navy, and even the eccentricities of modern society are exagger-
ated in Patience. In the same way, to compare great things with
small, Aristophanes has misrepresented Socrates. The plot of the
Clouds is very simple. Strepsiades, a dull-witted rustic, has a son
Pheidippides — a name that suggests the greater elegance of that day,
as the English names of streets and apartment houses suggest the cur-
rent Anglomania — who has nearly ruined his father by his extrava-
gance. The poor old man determine^ to visit Socrates, to learn from
that inventor of novelties how he may overreach his creditors, for Soc-
rates was famous for confounding those who would argue with him,
and bringing forth the most unexpected results. The interest which
some of the philosophers took in the study of physical science is here
inaccurately ascribed to Socrates and turned to ridicule. Socrates
himself, after a common fashion of Aristophanes — that of representing
figures of speech by concrete images — is represented as suspended in
a basket above the things of this world, and the companion of the
Clouds, who form the chorus. The accusation of blasphemy which
inevitably awaits men who try to give a scientific explanation of phe-
nomena, is brought against Socrates. Strepsiades asks what moves
the clouds. Is it Zeus? " Not at all," answers the philosopher, " it
is ethereal Vortex." '' Vortex? " says Strepsiades. "It had escaped
my notice that Zeus did not exist and that Vortex now ruled in his
stead." The humor here is certainly not gross, and inasmuch as in
the existing parabasis the poet apologizes for his failure to win the
THE DETERIORATION OF ATHENS. 469
prize when the play was brought out, and makes a great point of his
superiority in refinement to other writers of comedies, it is not impos-
sible that his play failed from a very different cause than that which
occurs to modern commentators, and that his jests were too subtle
and too free from extravagance to please an audience that delighted
in a seasoning of rank wantonness. Even Strepsiades is unable to
profit from the teachings of Socrates, so he sends his son to learn the
modern arts. Before he appears, a discussion, not unlike that in a
mediaeval morality, takes place between the unjust and the just cause,
personifications respectively of the new and the old manners. The
young man proves an apt pupil, and when Strepsiades drives away
his creditors with blows and fanciful arguments, he is himself beaten
by Pheidippides, who proves conclusively that he is right, inas-
much as Strepsiades beat him when a child. Strepsiades suggests that
he may thrash his boy if he should ever have one ; " but," says Phei-
dippides, " if I should not have one, I shall have wept for nothing, and
you will die laughing at me." The end of the business is that Strep-
siades burns down Socrates's " thinking-shop," and nearly kills the
philosopher.
Throughout the play much humor is devoted to attacks on the mod-
ern thought. Many charges are unjustly laid on Socrates ; his teach-
ing is confounded with that of the Sophists whom he detested, but the
accusations of word-splitting and logic-chopping were doubtless not
wholly without grounds. It is a very old-fashioned conservatism that
inspired Aristophanes with the contempt that appears in the question
of Strepsiades : " Do you think that Zeus always sends us new rain,
or that the sun is always drawing the same water up again ? " and the
answer of the money-lender that he neither knows nor cares. The
allusions of Strepsiades to the unholiness of interest show us that the
reformers of two thousand years ago were much like those of to-day.
We see, too, the father's preference for ^schylus, and his scorn for
the modern taste that preferred the duhioiis morality of Euripides ;
everywhere Aristophanes strove to check the current ; he saw that the
real grandeur of Athens was past, and that the condition of things in
his own days was almost hopeless, but the cure that he advised was
simply to do the impossible thing — to go back.
V.
The Wasps, 422 B.C., is a bold attack upon the decay of civic virtue
among the author's fellow-citizens. The especial evil that Aristophanes
denounced was one of growing mischief, namely, the way in which the
administration of justice debauched the Athenians. The system was
470
THE COMEDY.
a peculiar one : out of the twenty thousand, more or less, free citizens,
there were always six thousand chosen by lot to form the ten tribunals
before which all legal questions were brought for settlement.
When Solon established this custom as a part of the close
connection between citizenship and civic government, the
judges or jurymen — for they in fact united both functions —
were not paid. The position was both a duty and a privi-
lege, and was often neglected in order to prevent the inev-
itable waste of time, interruption of business, etc., which
likewise in these later days seriously modify men's opinions
of the advantages of trial by jury when they are so unfortu-
nate as to be drawn to listen to tedious pleadings. To obviate this
reluctance, the jurymen were paid first one obol, then two, and
OBOL WITH
HERA HEAD.
ATHENIAN DEKADRACHMON.
finally three a day. The obol was a little more than a cent, and the
triobolus consequently less than four cents, but this sumi, small as it
AxriENIAN TETRADRACHMON.
sounds, was probably equal to at least a dollar at the present day ; it
was certainly an amount that satisfied the men who received it. It
was, to be sure, not enough to tempt the richer citizens, but it tempted
the lower classes, and threw the administration of justice into their
hands. The demagogues who disposed of this sum naturally secured
THE WASPS— JURY SYSTEM OF ATHENS. 47 1
thereby the popular favor which they desired. The populace was
enabled to live without other work than listening to the arguments
in which it delighted, and its welfare depended on the growth of liti-
gation. The play shows these things clearly, and adds an additional
sting by charging the demagogues who pretended to spend a tenth
part of the revenues of the state in paying the jurymen, with devoting
only three-quarters of the sum to this end and keeping the rest.
By the Wasps Aristophanes means these jurymen and judges, the
dicasts, with their stings for inscribing their verdicts on the wax tablets
as well as the whole populace, buzzing and idle; and in one part of the
play, to avoid offense, he speaks of them as symbols to express the
bravery and patriotism of the Athenians.
The leading character of the play is Philocleon, or friend of Cleon,
the familiar demagogue who had raised the pay of the dicasts to three
obols. His son is Bdelycleon, or foe of Cleon ; his right to this name
will soon be made clear. The play opens with two slaves, Sosias and
Xanthias, who are keeping guard, each armed with a spit, over the
house of Philocleon, by order of his son, to keep the father from going
to court. Bdelycleon, who is within, soon appears at a window and
tells them that the old gentleman is trying to crawl through the hole
of the kitchen boiler. In a moment his head appears there, and when
they ask who's there, he answers, " I am smoke coming out." They
stop up the chimney hole and lean against the door. Philocleon in
vain appeals to them, urging that a certain man will be acquitted : they
are obdurate. Then he pretends that he wants to get out in order to
sell his ass, but, says Bdelycleon, " Could I not sell it as well ? " " Not
as I could," answers the father. Bdelycleon replies, " No better,"
and leads the ass out. The ingenious Philocleon is, however, discov-
ered concealing himself beneath the ass's belly. They ask him who
he is ; he answers, imitating the adventure of Odysseus, " Nobody,"
but they drag him forth and thrust him back into the house. In a
moment he is on the roof, and again they have to drive him in from
there. At this point appears the chorus of waspish dicasts, trudging
along before daybreak to their sitting; they are almost all old men,
the younger ones being employed in military service. They are
amazed at the tardiness of Philocleon, who was always prompt before
this,and they propose to call him out by singing in front of his door:
" Why comes he not forth from his dwelling ?
Can it be that he's had the misfortune to lose
His one pair of shoes ;
Or, striking his toe in the dark, by the grievous
Contusion is lamed, and his ankle inflamed ?
Or, his groin has, it may be, a swelling.
He of all of us, I ween,
472 THE COMEDY.
Was evermore the austerest and most keen.
Alone no prayers he heeded :
Whene'er for grace they pleaded,
He bent (like this) his head,
You cook a stone, he said.
Is it all of that yesterday's man who cajoled us.
And slipped through our hands, the deceiver.
Pretending a lover of Athens to be,
Pretending that he
Was the first of the Samian rebellion that told us }
Our friend may be sick with disgust at the trick,
And be now lying ill of a fever."
He would be just that sort of man, they add.
Philocleon peeps out of a window above, however, and confesses
that he has been pining to get to them while listening through a crack,
but that although he wishes to join them he can not get away ; that
his son, who has fallen asleep at last, keeps him in confinement. The
leader of the chorus asks if there is no hole through which he might
escape, disguised in rags, like Odysseus, — a jest at Euripides. There
is none, and, encouraged by the chorus, the old man tries to let himself
•down from the window by a cord. At the last moment Bdelycleon
awakes and once more drives his father back. There is a fight between
Bdelycleon and his forces and the chorus of dicasts, in which the wasps
are unsuccessful. They give orders that Cleon be told, and accuse
Bdelycleon of establishing a tyranny — the customary form of abuse.
Bdelycleon retorts : Oh yes, everything you do not like is tyranny.
Fifty years ago we never heard of it, but now it's cheaper than salt-
fish. If any one prefers buying anchovies to buying sprats, the sprat-
seller says : This fellow is buying sauce for his tyranny ; if any one
asks for a leek to eat with his anchovies, the woman who sells herbs
asks if it is for a tyranny ?
This passag-e must have cut into the spectators of the play. At this
point follows a long and important scene, in which the son urges his
father to discontinue his work as a dicast and to live in comfort at
home. He proves that the dicasts receive but one hundred and fifty
out of two hundred talents, and that the rest lines the pockets of the
demagogues. He promises his father to let him exercise his judicial
functions in his own household, and, the chorus itself relenting,
Philocleon yields to his son's arguments. A grotesque law-suit at
once presents itself: The dog Labes has just stolen a Sicilian cheese,
— a thin disguise of what was then a recent incident of the war, namely,
that Laches, the commander of a fleet sent to Sicily, had embezzled a
large sum of money, — and the trial goes on. Labes is acquitted by a
mistake, and the unhappy Philocleon faints.
In the parabasis Aristophanes recalls the old-time glory of the
THE WASPS— ITS INOFFENSIVE SATIRE. 473
Athenians in the Persian wars, when their stings were deadly weapons,
" so that even now among the barbarians nothing has a braver name
than the Athenian wasp." In those happy days things were very
different :
" 'Twas not then our manhood's test,
Who can make a fine oration ?
Who is shrewd in litigation ?
It was, who can row the best ? "
The rest of the play is made up with a representation of the pleasures
of Philocleon, now that he has retired from his labors, and has become
a fashionable creature. This gives Aristophanes an opportunity to
offer the spectators the sort of merry-making and highly-seasoned
revelry which formed an important part of the old comedy. The
absence of this attraction from the Clouds may have contributed to
its failure, and thus the author may have learned very vividly not to
deny his audience the entertainment they required. The play ends
with the most extravagant dancing. This termination had another
advantage in softening any indignation that might have been felt with
the more serious part of the comedy. Everywhere the fault-finding is
enveloped with such an air of grotesqueness and good-humor that
indignation would have been difificult. From the time when Philocleon
says that he is the smoke trying to get out of the chimney,to the very
end of the play, the serious motive of Aristophanes is enveloped in
farce and caricature in such a way that serious opposition would have
seemed pedantic and absurd. The earnestness and the facile invention
of Aristophanes are most prominent in the play.
VI.
In the Peace, as its title shows, the author returns to his favorite
subject, the mischief wrought by the Peloponnesian War. The play
was brought out in 421 B.C., and secured only the second prize, Eupolis
obtaining the first. The reader will readily comprehend the compar-
ative failure of the play, for toward the end there appears a confusion
which can be accounted for only on the supposition that we have in
our possession a later version of the play which leaves many things
unexplained, and even the first part, amusing as it is, is not so over-
whelmingly rich in invention as the best of the work of Aristophanes ;
it is the difference between what is good and what is very good. It is
to be borne in mind that the play was acted just before a truce inter-
rupted the war, and that it expressed the longing of the Athenians
for a cessation of their miseries. Certainly these were not exaggerated
474
THE COMEDY.
by the dramatist. The play opens with a countryman named Trygaeus
making ready to ascend to heaven on a dung-butte. His purpose is
to learn from Zeus himself why he has for so long a time afflicted the
Athenians, and to remonstrate with him on his cruelty. For this pur-
pose he gets on the back of the butte, thus caricaturing the tragedians,
and notably Euripides, who in his Bellerophon employed a somewhat
similar mechanical device. The daughters of Trygaeus, who find
him in mid-air, in vain entreat him to return ; he spurs on his Pegasus
and continues his ascent. Almost at once the scene changes, and he
is found at the gates of heaven, where he confronts Hermes, who is at
first disposed to harshness, but speedily relents on being bribed with
some meat. The god, being thus appeased, readily answers the ques-
THE SACRED MYRTLE.
LAUREL DEDICATED TO ARTEMIS.
EMBLEMS OF PEACE.
tions of Trygaeus, and informs him that the gods, in their wrath at the
unwisdom of Greece, have moved away to the remotest part of heaven
and have left him there in charge of the pots and pans of the celes-
tial housekeeping. They have left in their place War, to harry the
Greeks as may to him seem good ; as for themselves, they want to
get out of the way of seeing any more fighting and listening to
supplications. This is not all. War has cast Peace into a deep
cave and buried her beneath a huge pile of stones, and has further-
more got a large mortar in which to bray the Hellenic cities. All
that he lacks is a pestle, and he calls to his servant Tumult to fetch
him one. Tumult hastens after one to Athens, but Cleon, the Athen-
ian pestle, is dead — he fell at the battle of Amphipolis, as did Brasi-
THE PEACE— ITS BEAUTY AND FRESHNESS.
475
das, the Lacedaemonian — so that
Sparta is also unable to supply
one. War and Tumult then go
within in order to make a pestle,
and Trygaeus takes advantage of
their absence to summon the cho-
rus to set Peace free. He fur-
ther secures the silence of Her-
mes by giving him a gold cup,
and after strenuous exertions,
Peace, Oporia, the goddess of
fruits, and Theoria, the deity of
processions and festivities, all come
out from the cave, bringing with
them the savors of autumn, of fes-
tivals, fruits, comedies, strains of
Sophocles, half-lines of Euripides,
bleating sheep, and all the bless-
ings of tranquillity. The makers
of weapons are in despair, but all
others are delighted. Trygaeus,
who represents the countrymen
whose farms had been every year
devastated by the Spartans, longs
to get out into the fields again,
and to break up the ground anew.
He appeals to the chorus to re-
member their old course of life,
the preserved fruits, the figs, the
myrtles, the sweet new wine, the
violet bed by the side of the well,
and the olives they long for. It
is these vivid little touches in
Aristophanes that with their eter-
nal beauty and freshness forever
charm the reader, as they must
have given the intensest delight
to the Athenians themselves.
Elsewhere in this play we find a
similar passage, where the chorus
expresses its joy at the chance to
lay aside the helmet and to give up
cheese and onions. "For I do not
476 THE COMEDY.
care for battles, but what I like is to sit at the fireside and drink with my
companions, after lighting the dryest of last season's wood, roasting
pease and putting acorns on the fire, at the same time kissing the Thracian
maid while my wife is washing. And when the seed is in the ground,
and the rain is falling, then is the time for some neighbors to look
in and ask what we shall do. * I have a mind to drink,' he proposes.
' Come, wife, roast some kidney beans, and mix some wheat with them,
and bring out some figs, and let the girl call in Mauro from the field,
for it's too wet to-day for him to be trimming the vines or grubbing at
the roots. And I want some one to fetch from my house a thrush
and the two spinks. And there was some beestings there, and four
pieces of hare, unless the marten (the cat of antiquity) carried them off
last evening — for I certainly heard something racketing about there.
Give one of the pieces to my father and bring us the other three, and
ask yEschinades to let us have some fruit-bearing myrtles, and at the
same time, for it's just on the way, let some one ask Charinades to
come and drink with us, while the weather is so favorable to the
crops." In a similar fashion the joys of a warm, bright summer
day are described, and are set in contrast to the odious incidents
of war, when the husbandman sees his name down on the list for
to-morrow's sally. Nothing is more noticeable than the charm of
these passages except their rarity in all literature. The play ends with
Trygaeus giving himself up to pleasure with Peace. Aristophanes
obeyed the unwritten law that demanded scenes of revelry, though
here they are half-hearted and comparatively cold. The best part
of the play is already told. The lesson, though veiled in broad
comedy, had been given.
VII.
The Birds, which won the second prize in 414 B.C., appeared, it will
be noticed, after a long interval, concerning which we have no informa-
tion. At the time it was brought out, the affairs of the Athenians had
only gone from bad to worse, but their hopes were now centered on
the expedition to Sicily, which they trusted would restore and extend
their power. In this fantastic play we see a caricature of extravagant
plans and hopes, and a representation of the inevitable evils that
accompanied the Greek civilization. Yet throughout the author is
good-humored and gentle ; his bitterness is in perfect control.
The play opens with two Athenian citizens, Peisthetairus and Euel-
pides, wandering in a wild, remote region, carrying respectively a raven
and a jackdaw, the motions of which they are observing as directions
of their steps. Soon both the birds point upward, and they guess that
THE BIRDS— SELECTIONS. 477
they have arrived at the place where they wish to be ; consequently
they knock. The door is opened by Trochilus, whose appearance star-
tles them very much, and they are even more amazed when the royal
hoopoe comes forth and asks their business, which is to find some
country where the cares of life shall lie light upon them. The hoopoe
suggests various places, which, however, the men object to, when sud-
denly Euelpides asks how life is among the birds.
" Pretty fair ;
Not much amiss. Time passes smoothly enough,
And money is out of the question. We don't use it."
It at once occurs to Peisthetairus that it would be an excellent plan
for them to build a city in mid-air. They can intercept the offerings
of men to the gods from the commanding position : in short, it is an
excellent plan. The hoopoe determines to consult the other birds to
learn their opinion, and for this purpose he retires behind the scene,
whence this song to the nightingale is heard to issue :
" Awake ! awake !
Sleep no more, my gentle mate !
With your tiny tawny bill.
Wake the tuneful echo shrill,
On vale or hill ;
Or in her airy rocky seat,
Let her listen and repeat
The tender ditty that you tell.
The sad lament,
The dire event.
To luckless Itys that befell.
Thence the strain
Shall rise again.
And soar amain.
Up to the lofty palace gate.
Where mighty Apollo sits in state
In Jove's abode, with his ivory lyre,
Hymning aloud to the heavenly quire ;
While all the gods shall join with thee
In a celestial symphony."
This is followed by a flute solo imitation of the nightingale's call,
and then by the hoopoe's summons to the whole feathered tribe to
assemble :
" Hoop ! hoop !
Come in a troop.
Come at a call
One and all,
Birds of a feather.
All together.
Birds of a humble gentle bill
Smooth and shrill.
478
THE COMEDY.
§
1
1
Q
§
Q
1
1
1
S
1
1
Q
§
1
i
Q
Q
il
Dieted on seeds and grain,
Rioting on the furrow'd plain,
Pecking, hopping,
Picking, popping.
Among the barley newly sown," etc., etc.
The birds gather in great numbers,
and naturally, when they see the two
men, imagine themselves entrapped ;
the men are quite as much alarmed,
but at length the truth is made
known, and Peisthetairus expounds
his plan. He explains to them with
ready ingenuity that the birds are
the earliest beings in the world, older
than the gods themselves, and are
powerful, although now shamefully
maltreated :
" Weak, forlorn, exposed to scorn,
Distress'd, oppress'd, never at rest.
Daily pursued with outrage rude.
With cries and noise of men and boys,
Screaming, hooting, pelting, shooting," etc.
But with the city once built, they
will send a herald to Zeus forbidding
the gods to pass through their terri-
tory, and to men in order to secure a
good share of the sacrifices. They
will also be able to aid the human race
by devouring insects, telling secrets,
which even in these later days are
known to the little birds. The picture
tempts them and the plan is swiftly
carried out. The name of Cloud-
cuckooland is given to the projected
city, and at once a mockery of impor-
tant ceremonies begins ; a sacrifice is
caricatured ; a starving poet is on
hand with his ready-made congratula-
tory odes ; a soothsayer comes with
vague oracles that might mean any
thing, although they close with an
order for a coat and shoes for the
man who brings them : he is met.
FERTILE IMAGINATIVE POWERS OF ARISTOPHANES. 479
however, by opposition oracles that command that he shall be given a
drubbing ; a ridiculous astronomer appears to make fantastic measure-
ments ; absurd laws are proposed, and during all this turmoil the com-
pletion of the city is suddenly announced. Then Iris appears on her
way to command that men should sacrifice to Zeus ; she is turned
back, and the city begins its municipal life. A young scapegrace is
the first to appear, who is disappointed to find that he can not beat
his father and thus lay his hands on his expected property ; a poet is
denied a pair of wings with which to soar ; a sycophant is dismissed ;
the gods themselves, who are starving, now that the sacrifices that
they once received are, as it were, blockaded, have to come to terms,
and the play ends with an epithalamium on the marriage of Peisthe-
tairus with Basileia, or royalty, who manages the thunderbolts of Zeus,
and controls every form of good government.
The copiousness of the imagination of Aristophanes is certainly
evident even in this cold outline ; quite as striking is the movement
of the play, which knows no modification from the beginning to the
end. These qualities have given it a fame in modern times greater
than perhaps any other of this writer's comedies. Yet, possibly,
although it is full of allusions that carried swift and clear meaning to
the Athenians, its artificial and fantastic setting has given it a higher
place in modern opinion than it won at home. We are so accustomed
to having our literature different from life that we are disposed to
admire less the vividness of Aristophanes and his pictures of every-
day incidents than a carefully built-up vision of impossibilities such as
this play presents. Yet, what the Athenians enjoyed here was prob-
ably the vision of Athens that stood out even in cloudland. Even
when most fantastic Aristophanes was true to life.
J
VIII.
In the Lysistrata, 411 B.C., we find him returning to his old subject,
the desirability of peace, and he preaches the familiar doctrine in the
most grotesque fashion. Lysistrata, the heroine, is disgusted with the
unending martial zeal of the men, and summons the women together
to take measures to bring the contestants to terms. Delegates
assemble from Attica, Boeotia and the Peloponnesus, whom she per-
suades to swear a solemn oath that they will live apart from their
lovers and husbands until they consent to make peace. Meanwhile
the women take possession of the Acropolis and lay hands on the
treasury of the state, so that the men may be the sooner brought to
terms. The chorus of aged Athenian men assembles with all sorts of
combustibles in order to burn the women out from their stronghold ;
48o
THE COMEDY.
but they fail completely. All sorts of ludicrous and indescribable
scenes follow until finally the men yield and Lysistrata is enabled
to conclude a peace amid the general rejoicing of Spartans and
Athenians.
In the Thesmophoriazusae, or the Women at the Festival of Demeter,
Aristophanes attacks his old enemy, Euripides, with as much venom
as he had shown against those whom he had regarded as the open
foes of the state. Whatever the rea-
son, this play contains no allusion to
politics — although, or possibly because,
the condition of Athens was then, 410
B.C., most unfortunate — it is a liter-
ary warfare with which Aristophanes
amused his fellow-citizens. Yet it is
not without a serious purpose that he
chose what might at first sight appear
to be a trivial subject, for in his eyes
Euripides was the exponent of the new
false learning which cut into the very
heart of Athenian life, and, farther than
this, the play gave him an opportunity
to draw a picture of the condition of
women, a subject always attractive to
any one with powers of invective.
The plot of the play is ingenious. At
the festival in celebration of the two
goddesses, women from every tribe used
to assemble to perform the mysterious
rites. Men were carefully excluded, and
the performances were kept a profound
secret, but the poet ventures to sug-
gest that they at least on this occasion are busying themselves about
how they shall revenge themselves on Euripides for speaking ill of the
sex in his tragedies. This at least is the fear that inspires Euripides
to try to persuade his colleague, Agathon, to take advantage of his
effeminate appearance and to join them at the festival where he may
overcome the women's arguments. At the very beginning of the play
Aristophanes ridicules Euripides as a student of the new learning, by
representing him as a pedantic, logic-chopping sophist. His father-in-
law, Mnesilochus, says, " You tell me that I must neither hear nor see ";
to which Euripides makes answer, " The nature of each is distinct, of
not hearing, and of not seeing." "How so?" asks Mnesilochus,
COLOSSAL STATUE OF DEMETER.
THE WOMEN AT THE FESTIVAL OF DEMETER. 4^1
" They were formerly distinguished in this way. For Ether, when it
was first separated, and bore moving animals in itself, first contrived
an eye for what should see, modeled after the face of the sun, and
bored ears like a funnel." This is doubtless meant as a caricature of
the new gropings after a scientific explanation of things, in which
Euripides was much interested. It is all forgotten, however, as the
play goes on, and Agathon first comes in for a good deal of contempt-
uous treatment for his effeminacy. He absolutely declines to do what
Euripides desires, so the tragic poet turns to Mnesilochus and asks him
to disguise himself as a woman and go to the festival. Euripides has
already rejected Agathon's proposal that he should go himself, on the
grounds that he is well-known, is gray-haired, and wears a beard, but
he has no mercy for Mnesilochus, whom he compels to array himself
like a woman, and to shave himself ; all of which preparations are made
with abundant farcicality upon the stage. Mnesilochus, after he is
made ready, consents to go, after he has secured a promise of aid from
Euripides whenever it should be necessary.
The next scene is at the temple of Demeter, where the women are
assembled and soon begin to discuss the misdeeds of Euripides. He
has aroused the evil suspicions of men, so that they are prone to put
the worst interpretation on the most trivial circumstances ; the old
men, warned by one of his lines, no longer marry young girls ; they
all put seals and bolts on the women's apartments; in short, he has
made women's'lives intolerable, and the question before the meeting
is what shall be done with this arch-enemy. Other women have their
say ; they accuse him of teaching that there are no gods, so that the
business of making myrtle-wreaths is ruined. There is nothing but
denunciation of the unhappy poet until Mnesilochus undertakes his
defense. He tells a long story which is cunningly devised to point
out how many peccadilloes had escaped the notice of Euripides ; in a
word, how much worse women were even than he had described them,
and argues that they have no reason to be angry with the poet, since
they have done so much worse. His words excite a great deal of con-
fusion, and the women at once begin to suspect some treachery, and
that he is a man in disguise. Mnesilochus, when he is once started,
pours out a long list of black crimes, how the women give their lovers
the broken victuals and say the cat ate them, etc. He only infuriates
his hearers, and when Clisthenes, who is permitted to be present, such
is his effeminacy, brings them the news that Euripides has sent his
father-in-law to be with them, they are beside themselves with wrath.
It is with extreme jollity that they detect the trick of Mnesilochus,
and swear vengeance. They determine to burn him alive, and in order
to secure a hostage against ill-treatment, he seizes a child that one of
4^2 THE COMEDY.
the women is carrying, which turns out to be a wine-skin dressed up to
resemble a baby — an unfortunate discovery, for on this day abstinence
from wine was enforced upon the celebrants — and drains it himself.
He is at their mercy, and tries to devise some plan of escape from his
recollection of similar difficulties in the plays of his son-in-law. In the
parabasis, the leader of the chorus of women praises her own sex at
the expense of the men, but this forms but a brief interruption.
Mnesilochus pretends that he is Helen in the tragedy of Euripides
already discussed, and there is a curious jumble of lines parodying that
play ; and when Euripides, who appears as Menelaus in the Helen, tries
to lead his father-in-law off, he is stopped by the entrance of the police-
man who comes to fasten the aged offender to a plank. Then, while
Mnesilochus is secured like Andromeda, Euripides comes in disguised
as Perseus, but he can do nothing, and he tries once more in the form
of Echo, in which he repeats the words of his relative and of the police-
man, who is much baffled. Finally, the poet comes back as an old
woman in company with a dancing-girl, who by her wiles distracts the
policeman, so that Mnesilochus can be freed and escape. This device
also serves to give the end of the play its rollicking sportiveness.
A more absurd play was never written ; it is a farce from beginning
to end, and one abounding with the happiest invention and the most
remorseless caricature. As political references became dangerous, and
the peril of Athens muzzled Aristophanes and prevented him from
referring to the rulers and their misdeeds, he was yet free to attack
the modern spirit as this was illustrated by Euripides. In his hope-
less struggle to make time stand still, he saw no difference between
political decay and the general movement of literature. Certainly
this error, if it was an error, was a natural one ; the confusion of
Athenian politics, the lack of lofty principles, the desperate though
hopeless groping for any means to attain success, were certainly
marks of degeneracy. And just as the sublimity of the tragedies of
-^schylus was the literary expression of the old-time hopefulness, the
more complicated interests of the later days found their expression
in the drama of Euripides, who developed the notion of individu-
ality — which was the disintegration of the former intellectual and social
unity — and represented the pathetic incidents of the old myths as if
the simpler statement of them could no longer interest his audience.
His devotion to the humble beginnings of science, that put physical
cause and effect in the place of divine control, seemed to Aristophanes
as wrong as his interest in the new-fangled rhetoric which succeeded
the former majesty and directness. Yet what we can see in the per-
spective of more than two thousand years was invisible to Aristo-
phanes, who beheld the firm ground slipping from beneath his feet,
EFFECT OF ARISTOPHANES' SATIRE— THE FROGS.
483
and who saw no other hope than in restoring, or trying to restore, the
old convictions that had made Greece great. These had done a great
work ; experiments were perilous. In fact, however, his attempt was
the most hopeless of experiments, and his endeavors to restore the
vanished past remain as the most tragically sad appeals that Greek
literature knows. Wit, pathos, earnestness, were powerless to stop the
stream of time. The denunciations of Aristophanes, though power-
less to check the current of contemporary thought, at least besmirched
the reputation of Euripides for a long time. Even now, or at any rate
until very recently, his shoulders were burdened with the whole
responsibihty for the swift decay of Hellenic principles.
IX.
In the Frogs we find Aristophanes still pursuing the same foe with
relentless energy. Whereas in theThesmophoriazusae he had attacked
SCENE FROM THE FROGS.
him with all the revelry of a farce, here he constructs a comedy with
the utmost care for the purpose, not of merely ridiculing him, but of
destroying his reputation. It is a serious onslaught that he makes
with the aid of his incomparable humor.
The play was brought out in 405 B.C., shortly after the death of
both Sophocles and Euripides, when the tragic stage had lost both
the writers who alone formed its glory ; Dionysus is represented as
mourning the absence of deserving competitors, and determined to
try to bring back from the lower regions a poet who should renew
the ancient successes. The play opens with Dionysus, arrayed like
4^4 THE COMEDY.
Heracles, in company with his slave Xanthias entering before the
temple of Heracles, and exchanging gentle jokes over the poor jests
of the other writers of comedy. When they have called forth Her-
acles, Dionysus announces his intention to fetch Euripides from the
other world, and asks Heracles, who is familiar with the way, which is
the best road to take ; Heracles recommends hanging, poison, or leap-
ing from a high place. In the next scene they are on the banks of the
Styx, which they cross with an accompaniment of ludicrous adven-
tures. Once on the other side their fate is even more absurd ; Diony-
sus appears as a coward and makes Xanthias put on the lion's robe and
take the club — both formed the distinguishing guise of Heracles —
while he appears as a slave ; all of which is a caricature of the tragedies
that dealt with journeys to the nether regions, besides being capital
farce. It all brings them to the abode of the dead, where a public con-
test is to decide the relative superiority of ^schylus and Euripides.
./Eschylus had held the position which was now disputed by Euripides,
who had roused the interest of the mob in his behalf. Sophocles was
content with a seat by the side of ^schylus. There is a great deal of
clapper-clawing on the part of Euripides, who speaks of his predeces-
sor's frequent habit of introducing a character who long remained silent,
and then, after long songs from the chorus, would utter a dozen words
as big as bulls wearing bows and crests, tremendous fellows of terrific
aspect, wholly unfamiliar to the spectators ; he then boasts the supe-
riority of his own method, when he used to let some character explain
everything in a prologue, and employing plain language so that any one
could understand him, instead of using monstrous words. ^Eschylus
makes a comparison between the Athenians of his time and those
whom Euripides had left, greatly to his own advantage, and claims for
himself and his work the merit of forming better citizens: in his Seven
against Thebes, he says,
" Inspired each spectator with martial ambition,
Courage, and ardor, and prowess, and pride."
Now Euripides has altered all this :
" He has taught every soul to sophisticate truth ;
And debauched all the bodies and minds of the youth ;
Leaving them morbid, and pallid, and spare ;
And the places of exercise vacant and bare :
The disorder has spread to the fleet and the crew ;
The service is ruined, and ruined by you —
With prate and debate in a mutinous state ;
Whereas, in my day, 'twas a different way ;
Nothing they said, nor knew nothing to say.
But to call for their porridge, and cry ' Pull away.' "
. METHOD AND DESIGN OF THE ATTACKS ON EURIPIDES. 485
From general denunciations they soon come to special criticisms o\
each other's work, ^schylus quotes a few lines of his own work :
" From his sepulchral mound I call my father
To listen and hear "
" There's a tautology,
' To listen and hear,' " —
cries Euripides.
Then the later poet brings examples of his own superiority, which
yEschylus criticises in his turn. Then they exchange abuse of each
other's musical powers. Finally, Dionysus produces a huge pair of
scales to weigh the sentences of the two combatants, and those of
^schylus tip the scale, so that Dionysus decides to carry ^schylus
back with him and to leave Euripides in the nether world. Thus the
inferiority of the later poet is distinctly shown, or at least his inferi-
ority in the estimation of Aristophanes.
The care which the author has shown in his attack on Euripides is
certainly interesting, and his bitterness in carrying on his warfare after
his antagonist had died has been much blamed in modern times. It
is probable, however, that this objection could not have been felt so
keenly by Aristophanes, or he would not have prejudiced his own
cause by hounding the dead. Just as he enjoyed unequaled freedom
in abusing the living, he doubtless was at liberty to speak his mind
about those in the grave, for it must be remembered that these were
not supposed to be lifted above discussion by removal to a happier
land. However this may be, the fact that Aristophanes made this
deliberate and careful onslaught upon Euripides, and, instead of con-
tenting himself, as he had done previously, with mere farcical ridicule,
gave his reasons, with a show of impartiality letting Euripides defend
his work, seems to show, what in fact we know, that this tragedian held
a high place in the public estimation ; possibly his recent death at a
foreign court had reminded the Athenians how great a man they had
lost, and had given them a vivid sense of the injustice of his foes. To
counteract this feeling, it may be supposed, Aristophanes wrote the
Frogs, which is perhaps the most carefully contrived of all his plays.
Nowhere else is the main design of the comedy less entrusted to mere
high spirits and ridicule.
The chorus of frogs, it should be added, were not seen ; the proper
chorus consisted of the votaries of Dionysus. This last-mentioned
body had a meaning for the Greeks, who understood allusions to the
initiated and to the mysteries that are obscure to us.
It is to be noticed, also, that Aristophanes is by no means dis-
posed to give .^schylus undiscriminating praise ; he points out
486 THE COMEDY.
that poet's faults, without virulence, but with a manifest desire for
impartiality.
Scene. — EURIPIDES, BACCHUS, yESCHYLUS.
Eu. Don't give me your advice, I claim the seat
As being a better and superior artist.
B. What, ^schylus, don't you speak? You hear his language,
Eu. He's mustering up a grand commanding visage
— A silent attitude — the common trick
That he begins with in his tragedies.
B. Come, have a care, my friend — You'll say too much.
Eu. I know the man of old — I've scrutinized
And shewn him long ago for what he is,
A rude unbridled tongue, a haughty spirit;
Proud, arrogant, and insolently pompous ;
Rough, clownish, boisterous and overbearing.
.^S. Say'st thou me so ? Thou bastard of the earth,
With thy patch'd robes and rags of sentiment
Raked from the streets and stitch'd and tack'd together !
Thou mumping, whining, beggarly hypocrite !
But you shall pay for it.
B. {in addressing JSschylus attempts to speak in more elevated style'). There
now, JEschylus,
You grow too warm. Restrain your ireful mood.
yEs. Yes ; but I'll seize that sturdy beggar first.
And search and strip him bare of his pretensions.
B. Quick ! Quick ! A sacrifice to the winds — Make ready ;
The storm of rage is gathering. Bring a victim.
yEs. A wretch that has corrupted every thing ;
Our music with his melodies from Crete ;
Our morals with his incestuous tragedies.
B. Dear, worthy yEschylus, contain yourself,
And as for you, Euripides, move off
This instant, if you're wise ; I give you warning.
Or else, with one of his big thumping phrases.
You'll get your brains dash'd out, and all your notions
And sentiments and matter mash'd to pieces.
— And thee, most noble ^schylus {as above), I beseech
With mild demeanour, calm and affable
To hear and answer. — For it ill beseems
Illustrious bards to scold like market-women.
But you roar out and bellow like a furnace.
Eu. {in the tone of a town blackguard working himself up for a quarrel).
I'm up to it. — I'm resolved, and here I stand
Ready and steady — take what course you will ;
Let him be first to speak, or else let me.
I'll match my plots and characters against him ;
My sentiments and language, and what not :
Ay ! and my music too, my Meleager,
My ^olus and my Telephus and all.
B. Well, .(Eschylus, — determine. What say you ?
.^S. {speaks in a tone of grave manly despondency).
I wish the place of trial had been elsewhere,
I stand at disadvantage here.
B. As how.?
iEs. Because my poems live on earth above.
And his died with him, and descended here,
And are at hand as ready witnesses ;
But you decide the matter: I submit.
EXTRACT FROM THE FROGS. 4^7
B. (with official pertness and importance).
Come — let them bring me fire and frankincense,
That I may offer vows and make oblations
For an ingenious critical conclusion
To this same elegant and clever trial —
( To the Chorus?)
And you too, — sing me a hymn there. — To the Muses.
Chorus.
To the Heavenly Nine we petition,
Ye, that on earth or in air are for ever kindly protecting the vagaries of learned
ambition.
And at your ease from above our sense and folly directing, (or poetical contests
inspecting.
Deign to behold for a while as a scene of amusing attention, all the struggles of style
and invention,)
Aid, and assist, and attend, and afford to the furious authors your refined and
enlighten 'd suggestions ;
Grant them ability — force and agility, quick recollections, and address in their
answers and questions.
Pithy replies, with a word to the wise, and pulling and hauling, with inordinate uproar
and bawling,
Driving and drawing, like carpenters sawing, their dramas asunder :
With suspended sense and wonder.
All are waiting and attending
On the conflict now depending !
B. Come, say your prayers, you two before the trial.
{/Eschylus offers incense.
^S. O Ceres, nourisher of my soul, maintain me
A worthy follower of thy mysteries.
B. {to Euripides?) There, you there, make your offering.
Eu. Well, I will ;
But I direct myself to other deities.
B. Heh, what ? Your own .-' Some new ones?
Eu. Most assuredly !
B. Well ! Pray away, then — to your own new deities.
{^Euripides offers incense.
Eu. Thou foodful Air, the nurse of all my notions;
And ye, the organic powers of sense and speech,
And keen refined olfactory discernment.
Assist my present search for faults and errors.
Chorus.
Here beside you, here are we.
Eager all to hear and see
This abstruse and mighty battle
Of profound and learned prattle
— But, as it appears to me.
Thus the course of it will be ;
He, the junior and appellant,
Will advance as the assailant,
Aiming shrewd satyric darts
At his rival's noble parts ;
And with sallies sharp and keen
Try to wound him in the spleen,
While the veteran rends and raises
Rifted, rough, uprooted phrases,
Wielded like a threshing staff
Scattering the dust and chaff.
THE COMEDY.
B. Come, now, begin, dispute away, but first I give you notice
That every phrase in your discourse must be refined, avoiding
Vulgar absurd comparisons, and awkward silly joking.
Eu. At the first outset, I forbear to state my own pretensions ;
Hereafter I shall mention them, when
his have been refuted ;
After I shall have fairly shown how
he befool 'd and cheated
The rustic audience that he found,
which Phrynichus bequeathed
him.
He planted first upon the stage a figure
veil'd and mufifled.
An Achilles or a Niobe, that never
show'd their faces ;
But kept a tragic attitude, without a
word to utter.
No more they did; 'tis very true.
— In the meanwhile the Chorus
Strung on ten strophes right-on-end,
but they remain'd in silence.
I liked that silence well enough, as
well, perhaps, or better
Than those new talking characters —
That's from your want of judg-
ment.
SERVANT MASK.
B.
Eu.
B.
Eu.
Eu.
yEs.
B.
Eu.
B.
Eu.
Believe me.
B. Why, perhaps it is ; but what was his intention }
Eu. Why, mere conceit and insolence : to keep the people waiting
Till Niobe should deign to speak, to drive his drama forward.
B. O what a rascal ! Now I see the tricks he used to play me.
[ To yEschylus, who is showing signs of indigttafion by various contortions.
— What makes you writhe and wince about ? —
Because he feels my censures.
— Then having dragg'd and drawl'd along, half-way to the conclusion,
He foisted in a dozen words of noisy boisterous accent.
With lofty plumes and shaggy brows, mere bugbears of the language,
That no man ever heard before. —
Alas ! alas !
{to ALschylus'). Have done there !
He never used a simple word.
{to ^schylus). Don't grind your teeth so strangely.
But " Bulwarks and Scamanders " and " Hippogrifs and Gorgons."
" On burnish'd shields emboss'd in brass ; " bloody, remorseless phrases
Which nobody could understand.
Well, I confess, for my part,
I used to keep awake at night, with guesses and conjectures
To think what kind of foreign bird he meant by griffin-horses.
A figure on the heads of ships; you goose, you must have seen them.
Well, from the likeness, I declare, I took it for Eruxis.
So ! Figures from the heads of ships are fit for tragic diction.
Well then — thou paltry wretch, explain. What were your own devices 7
Eu. Not stories about flying-stags, like yours, and griffin-horses ;
Nor terms nor images derived from tapestry Persian hangings.
When I received the Muse from you I found her puff'd and pamper'd
With pompous sentences and terms, a cumbrous huge virago.
My first attention was applied to make her look genteelly ;
And bring her to a slighter shape by dint of lighter diet :
I fed her with plain household phrase, and cool familiar salad.
With water-gruel episode, with sentimental jelly,
B.
B.
Eu.
EXTRACT FROM THE FROGS. 489
With moral mincemeat ; till at length I brought her into compass ;
Cephisophon, who was my cook, contrived to make them relish.
I kept my plots distinct and clear, and, to prevent confusion.
My leading characters rehearsed their pedigrees for prologues.
.^S. 'Twas well, at least, that you forbore to quote your own extraction.
Eu. From the first opening of the scene, all persons were in action ;
The master spoke, the slave replied, the women, young and old ones,
All had their equal share of talk —
^S. Come, then, stand forth and tell us,
What forfeit less than death is due for such an innovation ?
Eu. I did it upon principle, from democratic motives.
B. Take care, my friend — upon that ground your footing is but ticklish.
Eu. I taught these youths to speechify,
its. I say so too. Moreover
I say that — for the public good — you ought to have been hang'd first.
Eu. The rules and forms of rhetoric, — the laws of composition,
To prate — to state — and in debate to meet a question fairly :
At a dead lift to turn and shift — to make a nice distinction.
.^S. I grant it all — I make it all — my grounds of accusation.
Eu. The whole in cases and concerns occurring and recurring
At every turn and every day domestic and familiar.
So that the audience, one and all, from personal experience.
Were competent to judge the piece, and form a fair opinion
Whether my scenes and sentiments agreed with truth and nature.
I never took them by surprise to storm their understandings.
With Memnons and Tydides's and idle rattle-trappings
Of battle-steeds and clattering shields to scare them from their senses ;
But for a test (perhaps the best) our pupils and adherents
May be distinguish'd instantly by person and behaviour ;
His are Phormisius the rough, Meganetes the gloomy.
Hobgoblin-headed, trumpet-mouth'd, grim-visaged, ugly-bearded ;
But mine are Cleitophon the smooth, — Theramenes the gentle.
B. Theramenes — ^. clever hand, a universal genius,
I never found him at a loss in all the turns of party
To change his watch-word at a word or at a moment's warning.
Eu. Thus it was that I began.
With a nicer, neater plan ;
Teaching men to look about.
Both within doors and without ;
To direct their own affairs.
And their house and household wares ;
Marking every thing amiss —
" Where is that ?" and — " What is this.?"
" This is broken — that is gone,"
'Tis the modern style and tone.
B. Yes, by Jove — and at their homes
Nowadays each master comes.
Of a sudden bolting in
With an uproar and a din ;
Rating all the servants round,
" If it's lost, it must be found.
Why was all the garlic wasted .-*
There, that honey has been tasted :
And these olives pilfer'd here.
Where's the pot we bought last year ?
What's become of all the fish ?
Which of 3'ou has broke the dish ? "
Thus it is, but heretofore.
The moment that they cross'd the door.
They sat them down to doze and snore.
49° THE COMEDY.
Chorus
" Noble Achilles ! You see the disaster,
The shame and affront, and an enemy nigh !"
Oh, bethink thee, mighty master,
Think betimes of your reply ;
Yet beware, lest anger force
Your hasty chariot from the course ;
Grievous charges have been heard.
With many a sharp and bitter word.
Notwithstanding, mighty chief,
Let Prudence fold her cautious reef
In your anger's swelling sail ;
By degrees you may prevail,
But beware of your behaviour
Till the wind is in your favour :
Now for your answer, illustrious architect.
Founder of lofty theatrical lays !
Patron in chief of our tragical trumperies !
Open the floodgate of figure and phrase !
^S. My spirit is kindled with anger and shame.
To so base a competitor forced to reply.
But I needs must retort, or the wretch will report
That he left me refuted and foil'd in debate ;
Tell me then. What are the principal merits
Entitling a poet to praise and renown ?
Eu. The improvement of morals, the progress of mind.
When a poet, by skill and invention.
Can render his audience virtuous and wise.
iEs. But if you, by neglect or intention,
Have done the reverse, and from brave honest spirits
Depraved, and have left them degraded and base.
Tell me, what punishment ought you to suffer ?
B. Death, to be sure ! — Take that answer from me.
^S. Observe then, and mark, what our citizens were.
When first from my care they were trusted to you ;
Not scoundrel informers, or paltry buffoons,
Evading the services due to the state ;
But with hearts all on fire, for adventure and war,
Distinguish'd for hardiness, stature, and strength.
Breathing forth nothing but lances and darts.
Arms and equipment, and battle array.
Bucklers, and shields, and habergeons, and hauberks,
Helmets, and plumes, and heroic attire.
B. There he goes, hammering on with his helmets,
He'll be the death of me, — one of these days.
Eu. But how did you manage to make 'em so manly.
What was the method, the means that you took ?
B. Speak, ^schylus, speak and behave yourself better.
And don't in your rage stand so silent and stern.
. B.C. with a book written by
Ctesias, a physician at the Persian court, who remained for seventeen
years in that country. He appears to have expressed great contempt
for the assertions of Herodotus, who had made but a brief stay in Per-
sia, whereas he himself was familiar with the language, had access to
the royal archives, and hence was able to correct his rival's errors. It
has been maintained by some that Ctesias merely substituted mis-
statements of his own for those of Herodotus, but although direct tes-
timony is unfortunately lacking, it seems more likely that his fuller
opportunities could not have failed to have lent his book much greater
authority. The loss of his book is consequently much to be lamented ;
the rare scraps that have reached us in no way enable us to determine
his accuracy with anything like certainty. Ctesias furthermore wrote
about the other Oriental monarchies, and in a separate book he
described India, thus giving to the Greeks their earliest information
about that country.
It should be said, however, that the information that Ctesias gave
would not now pass muster with any one. Whatever his accuracy
about Persian affairs, his report concerning East India would shatter
the most venerable reputation, although his experience was that which
has often repeated itself with the first travelers in new countries : thus>
he saw the men with dogs' heads that Mandeville describes, who dwell
in the mountains (possibly they are Buddhist adepts), the pigmies,
who may have belonged to some early race, as well as the one-legged
people ; and the Sciopodce, who used their large feet as sunshades,
" and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders,"
all of whom have acquired literary rather than scientific standing,
probably by exercise of the habit, not unknown even to students of
522 HERODOTUS.
science, of indiscriminate copying from one's predecessors, so that in
reading Mandeville we have the ghosts of the lies of Ctesias, almost
sanctified by the authority of Pliny, who quoted them and thereby
made them a part of mediaeval folk-lore — and from folk-lore, probably,
they took their remote start. Yet while Ctesias fathered a mass of
inexactness about the distant and almost fabulous Indians, what he
had to say about things Persian carried more weight; and the report
of Herodotus, in spite of the charm of his style, a most powerful sup-
port, was often doubted by the ancients.
Although his attack on Herodotus damaged that historian's reputa-
tion, his own accounts were doubted by Aristotle and Plutarch. An-
other writer, the Pseudo-Plutarch, accused Herodotus of malignity
and gross inaccuracy, but he merely injured his own fame and convicted
himself of those faults. What probably was a sufificient cause for the
subsequent neglect of Herodotus was the swift growth of the new
spirit that found no charm in his simple narrative and greatly de-
spised his ready credulity. No one is so sure to be disliked as the
man whose faults are those that any given generation or period has
just outgrown. Real antiquity can be appreciated at its proper worth
and be admired without rancor, but belated antiquity has no mercy
shown it. A generation that has thrown off the authority of its im-
mediate predecessors cannot judge these with anything like fairness.
We see examples of this in the feeling about Pope when modern
poetry began to be written, and in the feeling of Pope's contempo-
raries for the writers of conceits. The days of the Ionic prose were
gone when the rhetorical prose of Athens began to flourish.
Among the other historians of whom but little or nothing has sur-
vived, was Hellanicus of Mitylene, whose work is frequently men-
tioned by Greek writers. He appears to have written histories of the
separate Greek states and of the establishment of the colonies. Frag-
ments are left of the memoirs of Stesimbrotus and of sketches of
travel and of persons by Ion of Chios, who is better known for his
tragedies. In general, however, these literary ruins are mere dust.
HERODOTUS. Book VII —Chapters 100-105.
Ch. 100. — Now when the numbering and marshalling of the host was
ended, Xerxes conceived a wish to go himself throughout the forces, and
with his own eyes behold everything. Accordingly he traversed the ranks
seated in his chariot, and, going from nation to nation, made manifold in-
quiries, while his scribes wrote down the answers ; till at last he had
passed from end to end of the whole land, among both the horsemen and
likewise the foot. This done, he exchanged his chariot for a Sidonian
galley, and, seated beneath a golden awning, sailed along the prows of all
his vessels (the vessels having now been hauled down and launched into the
XERXES PREPARES TO ATTACK THE GREEKS.
523
sea), while he made inquiries again, as he had done when he reviewed the
land-forces, and caused the answers to be recorded by his scribes. The
captains took their ships to the distance of about four hundred feet from
the shore, and there lay to, with their vessels in a single row, the prows
ASIATIC WARRIOR IN CHARIOT.
facing the land, and with the fighting-men upon the decks accoutred as if
for war, while the king sailed along in the open space between the ships
and the shore, and so reviewed the fleet.
BOAT WITH AWNING.
Ch. ioi. — Now after Xerxes had sailed down the whole line and was gone
ashore, he sent for Demaratus the son of Ariston, who had accompanied him
in his march upon Greece, and bespake him thus :
'' Demaratus, it is my pleasure at this time to ask thee certain things which
524 HERODOTUS.
I wish to know. Thou art a Greek, and, as I hear from the other Greeks
with whom I converse, no less than from thine own lips, thou art a native of
a city which is not the meanest or the weakest in their land. Tell me, there-
fore, what thinkest thou ? Will the Greeks lift a hand against us ? Mine
own judgment is that, even if all the Greeks and all the barbarians of the
West were gathered together in one place, they would not be able to abide
my onset, not being really of one mind. But I would fain know what thou
thinkest hereon."
Thus Xerxes questioned ; and the other replied in his turn, — " O king, is
it thy will that I give thee a true answer, or dost thou wish for a pleasant
one ? "
Then the king bade him speak the plain truth, and promised that he
would not on that account hold him in less favour than heretofore.
Ch. I02. — So Demaratus, when he heard the promise, spake as follows: —
" O king ! since thou biddest me at all risks speak the truth, and not say
what will one day prove me to have lied to thee, thus I answer. Want has
at all times been a fellow-dweller with us in our land, while Valor is an ally
whom we have gained by dint of wisdom and strict laws. Herald enables us
to drive out want and escape thraldom. Brave are all the Greeks who dwell
in any Dorian land, but what I am about to say does not concern all, but
only the Lacedaemonians. First then, come what may, they will never
accept thy terms, which would reduce Greece to slavery ; and further, they
are sure to join battle with thee, though all the rest of the Greeks should
submit to thy will. As for their numbers, do not ask how many they are,
that their resistance should be a possible thing ; for if a thousand of them
should take the field, they will meet thee in battle, and so will any number,
be it less than this, or be it more."
Ch. 103. — When Xerxes heard this answer of Demaratus, he laughed and
answered, —
'' What wild words, Demaratus ! A thousand men join battle with such
an army as this ! Come then, wilt thou — who wert once, as thou sayest,
their king — engage to fight this very day with ten men ? I trow not. And
yet, if all thy fellow-citizens be indeed such as thou sayest they are, thou
oughtest, as their king, by thine own country's usages, to be ready to fight
with twice the number. If then each one of them be a match for ten of my
soldiers, I may well call upon thee to be a match for twenty. So wouldest
thou assure the truth of what thou hast now said. If, however, you Greeks,
who vaunt yourselves so much, are of a truth men like those whom I have seen
about my court, as thyself, Demaratus, and the others with whom I am wont
to converse, — if, I say, you are really men of this sort and size, how is the
speech that thou hast uttered more than a mere empty boast ? For, to go to
the very verge of likelihood, — how could a thousand men, or ten thousand, or
even fifty thousand, particularly if they were all alike free, and not under
one lord, — how could such a force, I say, stand against an army like mine?
Let them be five thousand, and we shall have more than a thousand men to
each one of theirs. If, indeed, like our troops, they had a single master ;
their fear of him might make them courageous beyond their natural bent,
or they might be urged by lashes against an enemy which far outnumbered
them. But left to their own free choice, assuredly they will act differently.
For mine own part, I believe that if the Greeks had to contend with the
THE BATTLE OF THERMOPYL^. 525
Persians only, and the numbers were equal on both sides, the Greeks would
find it hard to stand their ground. We too have among us such men as those
of whom thou spakest — not many indeed, but still we possess a few. For
instance, some of my body-guard would be willing to engage singly with
three Greeks. But this thou didst not know ; and therefore it was thou
talkedst so foolishly."
Ch. 104. — Demaratus answered him, —
" I knew, O king ! at the outset, that if I told thee the truth, my speech
would displease thine ears. But as thou didst require me to answer thee
with all possible truthfulness, I informed thee what the Spartans will do.
And in this I speak not from any love that I bear them — for none knows
better than thou what my love towards them is likely to be at the present
time, when they have robbed me of my rank and my ancestral honours, and
made me a homeless exile, whom thy father did receive, bestowing on me
both shelter and sustenance. What likelihood is there that a man of under-
standing should be unthankful for kindness shown him, and not cherish it
in his heart ? For mine own self, I pretend not to cope with ten men, or
with two, — nay, had I the choice, I would rather not fight even with one.
But, if need appeared, or if there were any great cause urging me on, I
would contend with right good will against one of those persons who boast
themselves a match for any three Greeks. So likewise the Lacedaemonians,
when they fight singly, are as good men as any in the world, and when they
fight in a body, are the bravest of all. For though they be free men, they
are not in all respects free ; Law is the master whom they own ; and this
master they fear more than thy subjects fear thee. Whatever he commands,
they do ; and his commandment is always the same : it forbids them to flee
in battle, whatever the number of their foes, and requires them to stand
firm, and either to conquer or die. If in these words, O king ! I seem to
thee to speak foolishly, I am content from this time forward evermore to
hold my peace. I had not now spoken unless compelled by thee. Certes,
I pray that all may turn out according to thy wishes."
Ch. 105. — Such was the answer of Demaratus, and Xerxes was not angry
with him at all, but only laughed, and sent him away with words of kindness.
HERODOTUS. The Battle of Thermopyl^.— Book VIL
Chapter 207. — The Greek forces at Thermopylae, when the Persian army
drew near to the entrance of the pass, were seized with fear, and a council
was held to consider about a retreat. It was the wish of the Peloponnesians
generally that the army should fall back upon the Peloponnese, and there
guard the Isthmus. But Leonidas, who saw with what indignation the
Phocians and Locrians heard of this plan, gave his voice for remaining
where they were, while they sent envoys to the several cities to ask for help,
since they were too few to make a stand against an army like that of the
Medes.
Ch. 208. — While this debate was going on, Xerxes sent a mounted spy to ob-
serve the Greeks, and note how many they were and see what they were doing.
He had heard, before he came out of Thessaly, that a few men were assembled
at this place, and that at their head were certain Lacedaemonians, under
THE GREEKS REPEL THE MEDES. 527
Leonidas, a descendant of Hercules. The horseman rode up to the camp,
and looked about him, but did not see the whole army; for such as were on
the further side of the wall (which had been rebuilt and was now carefully
guarded) it was not possible for him to behold; but he observed those on
the outside, who were encamped in front of the rampart. It chanced that at
this time the Lacedaemonians held the outer guard, and were seen by the
spy, some of them engaged in gymnastic exercises, others combing their
long hair. At this the spy greatly marvelled, but he counted their number,
and when he had taken accurate note of everything, he rode back quietly ;
for no one pursued after him, or paid any heed to his visit. So he returned,
and told Xerxes all that he had seen.
Ch. 209. — Upon this, Xerxes, who had no means of surmising the truth —
namely, that the Spartans were preparing to do or die manfully — but thought
it laughable that they should be engaged in such employments, sent and
called to his presence Demaratus the son of Ariston, who still remained
with the army. When he appeared, Xerxes told him all that he had heard,
and questioned him concerning the news, since he was anxious to understand
the meaning of such behaviour on the part of the Spartans. Then Demaratus
said —
" I spake to thee, O king, concerning these men long since, when we had
but just begun our march upon Greece ; thou, however, didst only laugh at
my words, when I told thee of all this, which I saw would come to pass.
Earnestly do I struggle at all times to speak truth to thee, sire; and now
listen to it once more. These men have come to dispute the pass with us,
and it is for this that they are now making ready. 'Tis their custom, when
they are about to hazard their lives, to adorn their heads with care. Be
assured, however, that if thou canst subdue the men who are here and
the Lacedaemonians who remain in Sparta, there is no other nation in all the
world which will venture to lift a hand in their defense. Thou hast now to
deal with the first kingdom and town in Greece, and with the bravest men."
Then Xerxes, to whom what Demaratus said seemed altogether to pass
belief, asked further, " how it was possible for so small an army to contend
with his ? "
" O king ! " Demaratus answered, " let me be treated as a liar, if matters
fall not out as I say."
Ch. 210. — But Xerxes was not persuaded any the more. Four whole days
he suffered to go by, expecting that the Greeks would run away. When,
however, he found on the fifth that they were not gone, thinking that their
firm stand was mere impudence and recklessness, he grew wroth, and sent
against them the Medes and Cissians, with orders to take them alive and
bring them into his presence. Then the Medes rushed forward and charged
the Greeks, but fell in vast numbers. Others however took the places of
the slain, and would not be beaten off, though they suffered terrible losses.
In this way it became clear to all, and especially to the king, that though he
had plenty of combatants, he had but very few warriors. The struggle,
however, continued during the whole day.
Ch. 211. — Then the Medes, having met so rough a reception, withdrew
from the fight ; and their place was taken by the band of Persians under
Hydarnes, whom the king called his "immortals": they, it was thought,
528
HERODOTUS.
would soon finish the business. But when they joined battle with the
Greeks, 'twas with no better success than the Median detachment — things
went much as before — the two armies fighting
in a narrow space, and the barbarians using
shorter spears than the Greeks, and having no
advantage from their numbers. The Lacedaemo-
nians fought in a way worthy of note, and showed
themselves far more skilful in fight than their
adversaries, often turning their backs, and making
as though they were all flying away, on which the
barbarians would rush after them with much noise
and shouting, when the Spartans at their approach
would wheel round and face their pursuers, in
this way destroying vast numbers of the enemy.
Some Spartans likewise fell in these encounters,
but only a very few. At last the Persians, finding
that all their efforts to gain the pass availed
nothing, and that whether they attacked by divis-
ions or in any other way, it was to no purpose,
withdrew to their own quarters.
Ch. 2 12. — During these assaults, it is said that
Xerxes, who was watching the battle, thrice leaped
from the throne on which he sate, in terror for
his army.
Next day the combat was renewed, but with no
better success on the part of the barbarians. The
Greeks were so few that the barbarians hoped to
find them disabled, by reason of their wounds, from offering any further
resistance ; and so they once more attacked them. But the Greeks were
drawn up in detachments according
to their cities, and bore the brunt of
the battle in turns, — all except the
Phocians, who had been stationed on
the mountain to guard the pathway.
So when the Persians found no differ-
ence between that day and the prece-
ding, they again retired to their
quarters.
Ch. 213. — Now, as the king was in
a great strait, and knew not how he
should deal with the emergency, Ephi-
altes, the son of Eurydemus, a man
of Malis, came to him and was ad-
mitted to a conference. Stirred by
the hope of receiving a rich reward
at the king's hands, he had come to
tell him of the pathway which led
across the mountain to Thermopylae ;
by which disclosure he brought de-
struction on the band of Greeks who had there withstood the barbarians.
A PERSIAN WARRIOR.
PERSIAN SOLDIERS.
THE PERSIANS SURPRISE THE PHOCIANS. 529
This Ephialtes afterward, from fear of the Lacedaemonians, fled into
Thessaly; and during his exile, in an assembly of the Amphictyons held at
Pylae, a price was set upon his head by the Pylagorae. When some
time had gone by, he returned from exile, and went to Anticyra, where he
was slain by Athenades, a native of Trachis. Athenades did not slay him for
his treachery, but for another reason, which I shall mention in a later part
of my history : yet still the Lacedaemonians honored him none the less.
Thus then did Ephialtes perish a long time afterwards.
Ch. 214. — Besides this there is another story told, which I do not at all
believe — to wit, that Onetas the son of Phanagoras, a native of Carystus,
and Corydallus, a man of Anticyra, were the persons who spoke on this
matter to the king, and took the Persians across the mountain. One may
guess which story is true, from the fact that the deputies of the Greeks, tVie
Pylagorae, who must have had the best means of ascertaining the truth, did
not offer the reward for the heads of Onetas and Corydallus, but for that of
Ephialtes of Trachis; and again from the flight of Ephialtes, which we know
to have been on this account. Onetas, I allow, although he was not a
Malian, might have been acquainted with the path, if he had lived much
in that part of the country ; but as Ephialtes was the person who actually
led the Persians round the mountain by the pathway, I leave his name oft
record as that of the man who did the deed.
Ch. 215. — Great was the joy of Xerxes on this occasion ; and as he ap-
proved highly of the enterprise which Ephialtes undertook to accomplish,
he forthwith sent upon the errand Hydarnes, and the Persians under him.
The troops left the camp about the time of the lighting of the lamps. The
pathway along which they went was first discovered by the Malians of these
parts, who soon afterward led the Thessalians by it to attack the Phocians,
at the time when the Phocians fortified the pass with a wall, and so put them-
selves under covert from danger. And ever since, the path has always been
put to an ill use by the Malians.
Ch. 217. — The Persians took this path, and, crossing the Asopus, con-
tinued their march through the whole of the night, having the mountains of
(Eta on their right hand, and on their left those of Trachis. At dawn of
day they found themselves close to the summit. Now the hill was guarded,
as I have already said, by a thousand Phocian men-at-arms, who were placed
there to defend the pathway, and at the same time to secure their own
country. They had been given the guard of the mountain path, while the
other Greeks defended the pass below, because they had volunteered for
the service, and had pledged themselves to Leonidas to maintain the post.
Ch. c?i8. — The ascent of the Persians became known to the Phocians in
the following manner : —
During all the time that they were making their way up, the Greeks re-
mained unconscious of it, inasmuch as the whole mountain was covered with
groves of oak ; but it happened that the air was very still, and the leaves
which the Persians stirred with their feet made, as it was likely they would,
a loud rustling, whereupon the Phocians jumped up and flew to seize their
arms. In a moment the barbarians came in sight, and perceiving men arm-
53P HERODOTUS.
ing themselves, were greatly amazed; for they had fallen in with an enemy
when they expected no opposition. Hydarnes, alarmed at the sight, and
fearing lest the Phocians might be Lacedaemonians, inquired of Ephialtes
to what nation these troops belonged. Ephialtes told him the exact truth,
whereupon he arrayed his Persians for battle. The Phocians, galled by
the showers of arrows to which they were exposed, and imagining them-
selves the special object of the Persian attack, fled hastily to the crest of the
mountain, and there made ready to meet death ; but while their mistake
continued, the Persians, with Ephialtes and Hydarnes, not thinking it worth
their while to delay on account of Phocians, passed on and descended the
mountain with all possible speed.
Ch. 219. — The Greeks at Thermopylae received the first warning of the
destruction which the dawn would bring on them from the seer Megistias,
who read their fate in the victims as he was sacrificing. After this deserters
came in, and brought the news that the Persians were marching round by
the hills : it was still night when these men arrived. Last of all, the scouts
came running down from the heights, and brought in the same accounts,
,when the day was just beginning to break. Then the Greeks held a council
to consider what they should do, and here opinions were divided : some
were strong against quitting their post, while others contended to the con-
trary. So when the council had broken up, part of the troops departed and
went their ways homeward to their separate states ; part, however, resolved
to remain, and to stand by Leonidas to the last.
Ch. 220. — It is said that Leonidas himself sent away the troops who de-
parted, because he tendered their safety, but thought it unseemly that either
he or his Spartans should quit the post which they had been especially sent
to guard. For my own part, I am inclined to think that Leonidas gave
the order, because he perceived the allies to be out of heart and unwilling
to encounter the danger to which his own mind was made up. He there-
fore commanded them to retreat, but said that he himself could not draw
back with honor ; knowing that, if he stayed, glory awaited him, and that
Sparta in that case would not lose her prosperity. For when the Spar-
tans, at the very beginning of the war, sent to consult the oracle con-
cerning it, the answer which they received from the Pythoness was, " that
either Sparta must be overthrown by the barbarians, or one of her kings
must perish." The prophecy was delivered in hexameter verse, and ran
thus : —
" Oh ! ye men who dwell in the streets of broad Lacedcemon !
Either your glorious town shall be sacked by the children of Perseus,
Or, in exchange, must all through the whole Laconian country
Mourn for the loss of a king, descendant of great Heracles.
He cannot be withstood by the courage of bulls or of lions,
Strive as they may; he is mighty as Jove ; there is naught that shall stay him,
Till he have got for his prey your king, or your glorious city."
The remembrance of this answer, I think, and the wish to secure the whole
glory for the Spartans, caused Leonidas to send the allies away. This
is more likely than that they quarreled with him, and took theii departure
in such unruly fashion.
DEFEAT OF THE GREEKS AT THERMOPYL^. 53 1
Ch. 221. — To me it seems no small argument in favour of this view, that
the seer also who accompanied the army, Megistias, the Acarnanian, — said
to have been of the blood of Melampus, and the same who was led by the
appearance of the victims to warn the Greeks of the danger which threatened
them, — received orders to retire (as it is certain he did) from Leonidas, that
he might escape the coming destruction. Megistias, however, though bidden
to depart, refused, and stayed with the army; but he had an only son present
with the expedition, whom he now sent away.
Ch. 222. — So the allies, when Leonidas ordered them to retire, obeyed
him and forthwith departed. Only the Thespians and the Thebans remained
with the Spartans ; and of these the Thebans were kept back by Leonidas
as hostages, very much against their will. The Thespians, on the contrary,
stayed entirely of their own accord, refusing to retreat, and declaring that
they would not forsake Leonidas and his followers. So they abode with the
Spartans, and died with them. Their leader was Demophilus, the son of
Diadromes.
Ch. 223. — At sunrise Xerxes made libations, after which he waited until
the time when the forum is wont to fill, and then began his advance.
Ephialtes had instructed him thus, as the descent of the mountain is much
quicker, and the distance much shorter, than the way round the hills, and the
ascent. So the barbarians under Xerxes began to draw nigh ; and the
Greeks under Leonidas, as they now went forth determined to die, advanced
much further than on previous days, until they reached the more open portion
of the pass. Hitherto they had held their station within the wall, and from
this had gone forth to fight at the point where the pass was the narrowest.
Now they joined battle beyond the defile, and carried slaughter among the
barbarians, who fell in heaps. Behind them the captains of the squadrons,
armed with whips, urged their men forward with continual blows. Many
were thrust into the sea, and there perished ; a still greater number were
trampled to death by their own soldiers ; no one heeded the dying. For
the Greeks, reckless of their own safety and desperate, since they knew that,
as the mountain had been crossed, their destruction was nigh at hand, exerted
themselves with the most furious valour against the barbarians.
Ch. 224. — By this time the spears of the greater number were all shivered,
and with their swords they hewed down the ranks of the Persians ; and here,
as they strove, Leonidas fell fighting bravely, together with many other
famous Spartans, whose names I have taken care to learn on account of their
great worthiness, as indeed I have those of all the three hundred. There
fell too at the same time very many famous Persians : among them two
sons of Darius, Abrocomes and Hyperanthes, his children by Phratagune,
the daughter of Artanes. Artanes was brother of King Darius, being a son
of Hystaspes, the son of Arsames ; and when he gave his daughter to the
king he made him heir likewise of all his substance ; for she was his
only child.
Ch. 225. — Thus two brothers of Xerxes here fought and fell. And now
there arose a fierce struggle between the Persians and the Lacedaemonians
over the body of Leonidas, in which the Greeks four times drove back the
enemy, and at last by their great bravery succeeded in bearing off the body.
532 HERODOTUS.
This combat was scarcely ended when the Persians with Ephialtes
approached ; and the Greeks, informed that they drew nigh, made a change
in the manner of their fighting. Drawing back into the narrowest part of
the pass, and retreating even behind the cross wall, they posted themselves
upon a hillock, where they stood all drawn up together in one close body,
except only the Thebans. The hillock whereof I speak is at the entrance
of the Straits, where the stone lion stands which was set up in honour of
Leonidas. Here they defended themselves to the last, such as still had
swords using them, and the others resisting with their hands and teeth; till
the barbarians, who in part had pulled down the wall and attacked them in
front, in part had gone round and now encircled them upon every side,
overwhelmed and buried the remnant left beneath showers of missile
weapons.
Ch, 226. — Thus nobly did the whole body of Lacedaemonians and Thes-
pians behave ; but nevertheless one man is said to have distinguished himself
above all the rest, to wit, Dieneces the Spartan. A speech which he made
before the Greeks engaged the Medes remains on record. One of the
Trachinians told him, " Such was the number of the barbarians, that when
they shot forth their arrows the sun would be darkened by their multitude."
Dieneces, not at all frightened at these words, but making light of the
Median numbers, answered, " Our Trachinian friend brings us excellent
tidings. If the Medes darken the sun, we shall have our fight in the shade."
Other sayings, too, of a like nature are reported to have been left on record
by this same person.
Ch. 227. — Next to him two brothers, Lacedaemonians, are reputed to have
made themselves conspicuous : they were named Alpheus and Maro, and
were the sons of Orsiphantus. There was also a Thespian who gained
greater glory than any of his countrymen : he was a man called Dithyrambus,
the son of Harmatidas.
Ch. 228. — The slain were buried where they fell, and in their honour, nor
less in honour of those who died before Leonidas sent the allies away, an
inscription was set up, which said, —
" Here did four thousand men from Pelops' land
Against three hundred myriads bravely stand."
This was in honour of all. Another was for the Spartans alone :
" Go, stranger, and to Lacedasmon tell
That here, obeying her behests, we fell."
This was for the Lacedaemonians. The seer had the following : —
" The great Megistias' tomb you here may view,
Whom slew the Medes, fresh from Spercheius' fords.
Well the wise seer the coming death foreknew.
Yet scorned he to forsake his Spartan lords."
These inscriptions, and the pillars likewise, were all set up by the Amphic-
tyons, except that in honour of Megistias, which was inscribed to him (on
account of their sworn friendship) by Simonides, the son of Leoprepes.
CHAPTER II.— THUCYDIDES.
I. — The Vast Difference between Herodotus and Thucydides, The Life of Thu-
cydides. His Conception of the Historian's Duty. His Modernness. His Lan-
guage, n. — His Use of Speeches. His Self-control. III. — The Fame of his
History. Its Presentation of Political Principles. IV. — The Sicilian Expedition.
I.
WHILE Herodotus, with his simplicity and credulity, thus belongs
to a remote generation and has his roots in a period that had not
broken with the mythical past, Thucydides stands as perhaps the
most remarkable representative of the swiftly but thoroughly matured
Athenian intellect. In fact, however, the two men, like Sophocles
and Euripides, were very nearly contemporaries, Herodotus having been
born about 484 B.C., and Thucydides probably not far from 471 B.C. ;
yet this coincidence in time in no way expresses an identity of beliefs.
When we read the younger historian we find a man who has broken
loose from the old-fashioned notions that had prevailed from imme-
morial time, and is eager to let his reason take the place of credulous
imagination. The vastness of the change may be compared only with
those that have taken place during the last half-century in some of
the branches of science.
Of the life of Thucydides but very little is definitely known. The
varying dates of his birth rest on meager authority; further than that
he tells us himself that he suffered from the plague which ravaged
Athens during the Peloponnesian war, that he held military command
in the same conflict, and that he was banished in 424 B.C., for twenty
years, direct information is lacking. The statement that he was assas-
sinated in Thrace, where he owned gold-mines, completes the bio-
graphic details that have come down to us.
His mental attitude is, however, of far more importance, and with
regard to this we have fortunately abundant means of judging. As
has been indicated, the most striking thing about this is the complete
rupture with the unscientific past ; it was the aim of Thucydides to
describe things as they were, not to record them as they seemed to
men who were trained for many generations to detect divine inter-
534 THUCYDIDES.
ference throughout the course of events. The omnipresence of this
view among the poets is very evident ; we continually observe Pindar
seizing a myth with which to adorn his odes, or Euripides introducing
a god to adorn the end of his plays, as we now see novelists overriding
probability and the truth to provide a loving couple with a fortune
and a happy marriage. The whole history of Herodotus is an exposi-
THUCYDIUES.
tion of the ways of the divine beings in their control of human affairs.
Of all this there is no sign in Thucydides ; he looks at the mythical
past as many years of study have taught the men of the present day
to look at it, not with contempt, but with the desire to find the facts
that were hidden beneath the fantastic shapes and inventions that hid
the early days. Thus, at the very beginning of the history, he says :
THUCYDIDES' VIEW OF ANCIENT SOCIETY. 535
" Judging from the evidence which I am able to trust after most careful
inquiry, I should imagine that former ages were not great either in their
wars or in anything else.
" The country which is now called Hellas was not regularly settled in
ancient times. The people were migratory, and readily left their homes
whenever they were overpowered by numbers. There was no commerce,
and they could not safely hold intercourse with one another either by land
or sea."
In this way he goes on, showing the uncivilized condition of the
country in early times, and finally, on reaching the end of the sketch,
he says :
" Such are the results of my inquiry into the early state of Hellas.
They will not readily be believed upon a bare recital of all the proofs of
them. Men do not discriminate, and are too ready to receive ancient tra-
ditions about their own as well as about other countries. . . , Yet, any one
who upon the grounds which I have given arrives at some such conclusion
as my own about these ancient times would not be far wrong. He must not
be misled by the exaggerated fancies of the poets, or by the tales of
chroniclers who seek to please the ear rather than to speak the truth. Their
accounts can not be tested by him ; and most of the facts in the lapse of
ages have passed into the region of romance. At such a distance of time
he must make up his mind to be satisfied with conclusions resting upon the
clearest evidence which can be had. And, though men will always judge
any war in which they are actually fighting to be the greatest at the time,
but, after it is over, revert to their admiration of some other which has pre-
ceded, still the Peloponnesian, if estimated by the actual facts, will certainly
prove to have been the greatest ever known."
It would be hard to exaggerate the importance of this change in the
point of view of the historian, which substituted the direct examination
of evidence for the accumulation of poetical fancies. It is really the
triumph of the intellect over the imagination which here finds expres-
sion in these utterances of Thucydides. By a wonderful anticipation
of the work of modern science, his vision of the early times as a period
of crudity and barbarism is a direct contradiction of the fabulous
stories of divine origin, of the worship of heroes, of the fanciful
genealogies, which had long been celebrated in poetry, religious rites,
and the fine arts. When we reflect how great has been the authority
of these poetic conceptions over the imagination of subsequent genera-
tions, so that even now Greece calls up to our minds the vision of
beautiful unrealities, which archaeology is fast undoing, and when we
consider the opposition that is felt to what is deemed irreverence
towards the fascinating stories of the poets, and a still lurking feeling
that archaeology may work everywhere else, but that here is sacred
ground ; that the stone age of the Greeks was very different from the
stone age of other races, that they were never real savages, but always
536 THUCYDIDES.
a somewhat exalted, half-inspired race, — when we consider all these
things we can only give greater admiration to a people that could so
swiftly develop and so speedily apply an intellectual test to the beliefs
of centuries. No god-given superiority is greater than the power of
using the intelligence ; and this quality is what made the Greeks great,
not the divine interference which they were fond of picturing.
Nothing in the history is more striking than the promptness with
which Thucydides attained the position which we have only tardily
reached, and it forms a most marked instance of the completeness as
well as the rapidity of the intellectual development of the Greeks after
the Persian war. That this rupture of the firm confidence in the
stories of the poets could not happen without a diminution of the
general trust in the religious myths is very obvious, and in this treat-
ment of the past we see a distinct instance of the scepticism which
soon pervaded Greek thought in many directions ; here, however, we
may examine its first effect in furnishing the beginning of an accurate
method of historical research. Not all that he says has received
absolute approval in later times, yet there are many sentences that
have a distinctly modern sound, as when, for example, he makes men-
tion of the early pirates.
" They were commanded," he says, "by powerful chiefs, who took this
means of increasing their wealth and providing for their poorer followers.
They would fail upon the unwalled and straggling towns, or rather villages,
which they plundered, and maintained themselves by the plunder of them ;
for, as yet, such an occupation was held to be honourable and not disgraceful.
This is proved by the practice of certain tribes on the mainland who, to the
present day, glory in piratical exploits, and by the witness of the ancient
poets, in whose verses the question is invariably asked of newly-arrived
voyagers, whether they are pirates ; which implies that neither those who are
questioned disclaim, nor those who are interested in knowing censure the
occupation. The land, too, was infested by robbers. . . . The fashion of
wearing arms among these continental tribes is a relic of their old predatory
habits. For in ancient times all Hellenes carried weapons because their
homes were undefended and intercourse was unsafe ; like the Barbarians,
they went armed in their every-day life. And the continuance of the
custom in certain parts of the country proves that it once prevailed
everywhere."
Might one not be reading a book published only the day before
yesterday? This application of the intelligence to facts and the
observation of the value of custom as a proof of earlier habit have
certainly a very modern sound, and are very unlike the smooth gossip
of Herodotus. They are very satisfactory indications of the scientific
spirit applying itself to the discussion of historical problems. Those,
and they are many, who suffer from the fear that this spirit is destruc-
NOVELTY OF THUCYDIDES' TREATMENT OF HISTORY. 537
tive of poetry, will do well to remember that Thucydides was the
contemporary of Sophocles and Euripides, that Shakspere was the
contemporary of Bacon, and Milton of Harvey. If they are right in
their fears, and poetry exists only in conjunction with unquestioning
credulity, its fate is certain and desirable. As it is, poetry has never
yet been injured by an excess of real wisdom. They may also console
themselves for the inevitable by recalling the fact that music has not
been ruined by the application of scientific treatment.
Whatever may be the future fate of poetry, there can be no doubt
that history has a higher value when subjected to scientific treatment;
the capacity of listening to both sides, and the readiness to examine
all testimony by the laws of evidence, is sure to produce better work
than will blind confidence in mere report. Thucydides himself was by
no means unconscious of the change that he was making in his treat-
ment of history. Thus, in the same introductory pages from which
quotations have been already made, he says :
"Of the events of the war I have not ventured to speak from any chance
information, nor according to any notion of my own ; I have described
nothing but what I either saw myself, or learned from others from whom I
made the most careful and particular inquiry. The task was a laborious
one, because eye-witnesses of the same occurrences gave different accounts
of them, as they remembered or were interested in the actions of one side
or the other. And very likely the strictly historical character of my narra-
tive may be disappointing to the ear. But if he who desires to have before
his eyes a true picture of the events which have happened, and of the like
events which may be expected to happen hereafter in the order of human
things, shall pronounce what I have written to be useful, then I shall be sat-
isfied. My history is an everlasting procession, not a prize composition,
which is heard and forgotten."
This explicit statement, with its half apology, makes it clear that
Thucydides was aware of the novelty of the step he was taking, and of
the criticism that was probably awaiting him. Herodotus supplied
entertainment ; he would give exact information, and with the per-
formance of this plan scientific history was begun, and Athens showed
that it had reached maturity in prose as well as in poetry and art. The
style of Thucydides, to be sure, is harsh and confused, as is natural ;
for only practice can give grace and smoothness. The orators had
this practice, and thus earlier acquired the facility which was made
easier for them by the example of the dramatists, who put into the
mouths of their characters long pleadings that reflected the Athenian
love of argument and discussion. Thus Antiphon, Andocides and Lysias
are not at all obscure. In Thucydides, however, we often find a cumbrous,
awkward movement which is thus described and explained in the intro-
duction to Jowett's translation : " He who considers that Thucydides
538 THUCYDIDES.
was a great genius writing in an ante-grammatical age, when logic was
just beginning to be cultivated, who had thoughts far beyond his con-
temporaries, and who had great difficulty in the arrangement and ex-
pression of them, who is anxious but not always able to escape tau-
tology, will not be surprised at his personifications, at his confusion of
negatives and affirmatives, of consequents and antecedents, at his im-
perfect antitheses and involved parentheses, at his employment of the
participle to express abstract ideas in the making, at his substitution
of one construction for another, at his repetition of a word, or unmean-
ing alteration of it for the sake of variety, at his over-logical form, at
his forgetfulness of the beginning of a sentence before he arrives at
the end of it. The solecisms or barbarisms of which he is supposed to
be guilty are the natural phenomena of a language in a time of transi-
tion. . . . They are also to be ascribed to a strong individuality,
which subtilizes, which rationalizes, which concentrates, which crowds
the use of words, which thinks more than it can express."
Many of the characteristics of his language are, moreover, such as
belonged to the general form of the new prose which, as will be seen
later, was now establishing itself in Athens ; and some of its peculiar-
ities were due, perhaps, to his long absence from that city, which de-
prived him of the opportunity of acquiring the rapidly developing per-
fection which it then assumed. He carried away with him a crude
instrument and was compelled to model it in shape after his own
devices, and possibly in his perpetual antitheses and harsh construc-
tions gives us the outline which the Athenians enriched with many
graceful forms. Few, however, put language to so severe a test as he ;
and throughout one of the main causes of his obscurity was his desire
to avoid clouding his meaning by an excessive use of words. The
compactness of the sentences makes them hard to understand, and it
is not the degenerate moderns alone who have found him difficult:
even the ancients complained of his abstruseness.
II.
One of the striking things about his method is the custom of placing
speeches in the mouths of different characters, in such a way that much
of the story is set in a dramatic form before the reader. We find a
similar device frequently employed by Homer, who faithfully reports
the speeches at the councils of the heroes, instead of merely narrating
what was done ; and Herodotus continues the same practice. Its ad-
vantage in the way of vividness is very evident ; and to those who
were accustomed to listen rather than to read, its merits were most
conspicuous. Thucydides inherited the plan from good sources, and
{From Temple of Nike, Memorial of Persian Wars.)
54° THUCYDIDES.
SO well-established a device had to be put into use, exactly as every
old relic has to have a place provided for it by thrifty heirs. What he
did was to give the reader not so much exactly what the characters
said as what they might have said under the given conditions. He is
careful, however, to explain his course of action, stating that it would
have been very difficult for him to report the exact language of either
what he had heard with his own ears, or what had. been reported to
him by credible witnesses, and that consequently he decided to put
down what, all things considered, was most likely to be said, always
adhering as closely as possible to the general sense of the words used.
" As to the speeches," to quote his own language, ** which were made
either before or during the war, it was hard for me, and for others who re-
ported them tp me, to recollect the exact words. I have therefore put into
the mouth of each speaker the sentiments proper to the occasion, expressed
as I thought he would be likely to express them, while at the same time I
endeavoured, as nearly as I could, to give the general purport of what was
actually said."
Undoubtedly then he treated the inherited custom with new ex-
actitude.
We shall see later convincing proof of the general accuracy of his
statement about the speeches, and the whole book stands as a justifica-
tion of his boast that he had written an everlasting composition. The
momentou.sness of the war which he undertook to describe found a fit
chronicler in Thucydides, and his seriousness is amply proved by the
extracts given above. Quite as remarkable is his impartiality, his
freedom from personal feeling. This quality shows itself in various
ways : the manner in which he speaks of Cleon is a marked instance
of his continual self-control ; less than half a dozen times does he have
occasion to characterize that notorious demagogue, and then his harsh-
est condemnation is to call him violent, " the most violent of the citi-
zens," who " at that time exercised by far the greatest influence over
the people," and elsewhere he merely says .that he was " a popular
leader of the day who had the greatest influence over the multitude."
In another place he says that Cleon hated peace, " because he fancied
that in quiet times his rogueries would be more transparent and his
slanders less credible." Contemporary judgment is not always so
calm, as those who saw the plays of Aristophanes would have been
willing to testify. Even more remarkable is his unflinching devotion
to the duty of a historian to record events and not to treat the world
to his views about them. If he does this faithfully, he is safe in leav-
ing the facts to produce the desired result without aid from him, and
if he fails to record accurately, no amount of enthusiasm will long im-
IMPARTIALITY AND SELF-CONTROL OF THUCYDIDES. 541
pose upon the world ; yet too often historians, like their brother-
writers, the novelists, appeal to their readers by exaggeration and
eloquence instead of their legitimate weapons, description and nar-
ration. We notice especially in Thucydides the absence of expression
of moral judgments, yet in the pages of no other historian does the
truth burn so vividly into the heart of the reader as in his, which are
carefully kept free from praise or blame. Thus, when Plataea surren-
dered to the Lacedaemonians, its inhabitants were put to death by
their conquerors. Thucydides, following his usual fashion, lets them
plead for mercy ; and these are some of the words that he places in
their mouths :
" Yet once more for the sake of those gods in whose name we made a
league of old, and for our services to the cause of Hellas, relent and change
your minds, if the Thebans have at all influenced you : in return for the
wicked request which they make of you, ask of them the righteous boon
that you should not slay us to your own dishonour. Do not bring upon
yourselves an evil name merely to gratify others. For, although you may
quickly take our lives, you will not so easily obliterate the memory of the
deed. We are not enemies whom you might rightly punish, but friends who
were compelled to go to war with you; and therefore piety demands that you
should spare our lives. Before you pass judgment, consider that we surren-
dered ourselves, and stretched out our hands to you ; the custom of Hellas
does not allow the suppliant to be put to death. Remember, too, that we
have ever been your benefactors. Cast your eyes upon the sepulchres of
your fathers slam by the Persians and buried in our land, whom we have
honoured by a yearly public offering of garments, and other customary gifts.
We were their friends, and we gave them the first-fruits in their season of
that friendly land in which they rest ; we were their allies too, who in times
past had fought at their side ; and if you now pass an unjust sentence, will
not your conduct strangely contrast with ours ? Reflect : when Pausanias
buried them here, he thought that he was laying them among friends
and in friendly earth. But if you put us to death, and make Plataea one
with Thebes, are you not robbing your fathers and kindred of the
honour which they enjoy, and leaving them in a hostile land inhabited by
their murderers? Nay, more, you enslave the land in which the Hellenes
won their liberty ; you bring desolation upon the temples in which they
prayed when they conquered the Persians ; and you take away the sacri-
fices which our fathers instituted from the city which ordained and estab-
lished them.
These things, O Lacedaemonians, would not be for your honor. They
would be an offense against the common feeling of Hellas and against your
ancestors. You should be ashamed to put us to death, who are your bene-
factors and have never done you any wrong, in order that you may gratify
the enmity of another. Spare us, and let your heart be softened toward us ;
be wise and have mercy upon us, considering not only how terrible will be
our fate, but who the sufferers are ; think, too, of the uncertainty of fortune,
which may strike any one, however innocent. We implore you, as is becom-
ing and natural in our hour of need, by the gods whom the Hellenes wor-
ship at common altars, to listen to our prayers. We appeal to the oaths
542
THUCYDIDES.
which our fathers swore, and entreat you not to forget them. We kneel
at your fathers' tombs," etc.
Do these passionate appeals, these solemn invocations, need any
exposition on the part of Thucydides to show us how wicked he
thought treachery to be, how repulsive cold-blooded slaughter ?
Then he goes on to let the Thebans point out instances of similar
ill-treatment of their prisoners by the Plataeans :
" Now we do not so much complain of the fate of those whom you slew
in battle — for they suffered by a kind of law — but there were others who
stretched out their hands to you ; and although you gave them quarter, and
then promised to us that you would spare them, in utter defiance of law you
took their lives — was not that a cruel act ? "
HONORING THE TOMBS OF THE HEROIC DEAD.
When he says this, there is no room for impertinent judgment ; the
story is told, and he has only to record that they took out each man
separately, asked him if he had done any service to the Lacedaemo-
nians and their allies in the war.
" When he said no, they took him away and slew him; no one was spared.
They put to death not less than two hundred Plataeans, as well as twenty-
five Athenians who had shared with them in the siege ; and made slaves of
the women."
A similar absence of praise or blame marks the whole book ; we
see, we are not told to admire, the bravery and military skill of Bras-
RETICENCE OF THE HISTORIAN IN PASSING JUDGMENT. 543
idas, the Spartan commander ; the pernicious course of Alcibiades is
set before us without superfluous comment, and in the account, given
below, of the Sicilian expedition, we behold the Athenian general
Nicias letting everything go amiss by his dilatoriness and incompe-
tence, without having the obvious lessons pointed out by the writer.
In other words, he thoroughly respects his readers ; he does not find
it necessary to tell them what they ought to think, but he rather
exercises the reasonable flattery of supposing that they will be able
to draw right conclusions from the facts if these are properly set
before them.
With regard to Antiphon, the head of a dangerous revolution, he
observes his usual reticence, or indeed something more than his usual
reticence, and the question of the guilt of that leader remains unde-
termined. A more striking instance of his reserve is in his avoidance
of partisanship with regard to the great conflict between Athens and
Sparta, between what we may call the new and the old spirit of Greece,
between the disposition to form a union and the aversion to any aban-
donment of the principle of separate municipal independence. What
Thucydides felt in the matter is known ; but he tells the story with-
out adjudging praise or blame, showing the merits as well as the de-
fects of both sides with unequalled impartiality. This is his claim to
the admiration of all his readers : he told his story, we are free to
form our opinions as we please. There are, at least, the facts with
which our opinions must finally conform.
The matter of the immortal book of Thucydides belongs rather
to Greek history than to the study of literature, for it is a thorough
chronicle of warlike events narrated in chronological order, year by
year, and presenting a most vivid picture of that miserable war. Cer-
tain chapters burn themselves strongly on the memory, as, for exam-
ple, those describing the plague that devastated Athens in the second
year of the war. The wretched citizens were closely confined within
the walls, and the pest had full sway among a populace wholly igno-
rant of sanitary principles. Thucydides himself was attacked by it,
and he was also an eye-witness of all its horrors.
" At the very beginning of the second summer the Peloponnesians and
their allies, with two-thirds of their forces, as on the first occasion, invaded
Attica, under the command of Archidamus, the son of Zeuxidamas, king of
the Lacedsemonians ; and after encamping, they laid waste the country.
When they had not yet been many days in Attica, the plague first began to
show itself among the Athenians, though it was said to have previously smitten
many places, about Lemnos and elsewhere. Such a pestilence, however,
and loss of life as this were nowhere remembered to have happened. For
neither were physicians of any avail at first, treating it, as they did, in igno-
rance of its nature — nay, they themselves died most of all, inasmuch as
544 THUCYDIDES.
they most visited the sick — nor any other art of man. And as to the sup-
plications that they offered in their temples or the divinations, and similar
means that they had recourse to, they were all unavailing ; and at last they
ceased from them, being overcome by the weight of the calamity."
" The disease then, to pass over many peculiar traits, as it differed in
different cases, was in general such as I have described. And none of the
usual diseases prevailed at the same time ; or if they did appear, they turned
into this. And of those who were attacked by the plague, some died in
neglect, others encompassed by every attention. And there was no settled
remedy which brought relief, for what was good for one wrought harm to
another. And no constitution, whether strong or weak, was secure against
it, but it attacked all alike, even those who were most careful about their
diet. But the most terrible part of the whole misery was the despair that
seized every one who felt himself sickening — for by yielding to this despair
they gave way without resistance to the disease — and the fact that they
carried the contagion from one to another and so died like sheep. This
caused the greatest mortality among them, for if from fear they were averse
to visiting one another, they perished from being left untended, and many
houses were emptied for want of some one to wait on the sick ; and if they
did visit them, they came to their death, and especially such as were reputed
to be kind, for shame made them tireless in visiting the houses of their
friends, since even the members of the family were at last worn of mourning
for the dying, and were overwhelmed by their excessive misery. Those
who had recovered from the plague showed still more pity for the sick and
dying, both because they knew from their own experience what they felt, and
because they no longer felt any fear, for the disease never attacked them
twice, so as to prove fatal. Such persons were congratulated by others, and
in the excess of their joy, they nourished a vain hope for the future that they
were now secure against every form of disease."
Even more interesting is the account of the recklessness that the
plague produced :
" Things which before men did secretly, not daring to give full rein to their
lusts, they now did freely, seeing the swift change in the case of those who were
rich and died suddenly, and of the poor who succeeded to their wealth. So
they determined upon swift enjoyment and immediate gratification, regarding
life and wealth as things of a day. As for exertion in behalf of honourable
things, no one cared for it, in view of the uncertainty whether he might not
be cut off before he attained it, but everything that was immediately
pleasant or led to it in any way whatsoever, was held to be honourable and
expedient. Fear of the gods or law of men there was none to restrain them :
in the one case they thought it all the same whether they worshiped them
or not, inasmuch as all perished alike, in the other none expected to live
long enough to be tried and punished, but that a severe penalty hung over
them and that they should have some enjoyment of life before it fell."
Then he goes on to mention an old saying, that a Dorian war should
come, and a plague with it ; there was some uncertainty, however,
HIS MODERNNESS— ABSTENTION FROM EMBELLISHMENT. 545
whether it was a plague or a famine — the words in Greek being very
similar — that should accompany the war.
" Now," Thucydides said, " the opinion prevailed that a plague had been
mentioned, many adapting their recollections to their experience. But if at
any time in the future there should be a Dorian war and a famine at the
same time, in all probability they will quote the line to that effect."
It is these touches of impassibility that give this historian his air of
modernness and mark the enormous stride made in the few years that
had elapsed since Herodotus wrote. This change, indeed, is obvious
in every page as one notices the firm grasp that Thucydides had of his
subject and his omission of all extraneous matter. Nothing can exceed
his grim exclusion of all the decorative part of historical writing; it
almost seems as if he felt that the facts of life were of too vast impor-
tance to be hidden beneath fine writing. This serious view of the
solemnity of history was of influence in limiting his attention to the
military events of the great war. He did his best, one might almost
say, to write a log-book of the long contest, carefully omitting those
general views regarding society which later times have learned to
notice in proportion as they have recognized the fact that life is a unit,
that war, peace, art, letters, religion, society, are but different, though
interwoven, manifestations of the greater human life that can not be
studied exclusively in any one of its numberless forms. Even now
this is barely accepted as a theory and still less in practice, and it has
required for its statement many centuries of experience, so that there
is no cause for wonder that it should have escaped Thucydides.
Moreover, the narrowness of Greek interests and the exclusiveness of
political life which only seldom looked beyond the walls of a single
city, blinded even the most intelligent to the wider view.
It is moreover obvious that in writing a chronicle of contemporary
events the historian takes it for granted that those for whom he writes
are perfectly familiar with all that we may call the atmosphere of the
surrounding conditions. Any references that he might have made to
the intellectual or artistic interests of the time in which he lived, how-
ever much they would have gratified our curiosity, which by education
: concerns itself mainly about the writings and works of art of the Greeks,
[would have blurred the distinctness of the picture which he undertook
|to draw of the political and military events. These alone formed his
bubject, to which he confined himself with strict care, with this single
fobject in view, and the result is a justification of his dignified boast
^that he was preparing an everlasting possession. Like every really
Igreat book, it repels everything but the most exalted curiosity ;
linferior work always tempts our idle moments ; only a high enthusiasm
546 • THUCYDIDES.
can keep us alert for what is best, in literature or art, as in conduct.
Hence, the history of Thucydides is in no way popular, but for those
who study its powerful pages, full of compressed truth, it is full of the
most valuable lessons.
In the speeches we find a full exposition of the political principles
that inspired the war. Everything in Greece, it will be remembered,
at least every public act, was the object of discussion on the part of
the whole assembly of free citizens, and it was by presenting the various
arguments and explanations of the leading men under the form of
speeches that Thucydides made what he had to say most intelligible
to his public, and employed the form that doubtless first suggested
itself to his mind. For just as now the newspapers maintain a per-
petual comment on public affairs and exercise an enormous influence
on men's minds, so then it was oral discussion, argument in the form
of speeches, that formed and expressed public opinion. It was not
precisely what we should understand as oratory that distinguished
these speeches, for that word conveys to our minds a vague notion of
an artificial, conventional form of more or less imaginary entertainment,
and these discussions had a direct practical value as the mechanism of
politics. These speeches then are not fantastic oratorical utterances,
they are rather full of the forcible and eloquent treatment of political
questions.
Even if we have not the exact words of the various speakers, what
is put in their mouths thus possesses great historical value, for in a
contemporary history Thucydides must have kept very near the exact
truth. Even if we imagine him to have discarded what would have
seemed to him such over-precision as the observance of dialectic pecu-
liarities, the dramatic vividness that he retained is most valuable.
Thus the speech of Alcibiades, in the sixth book, can be only the
statement of facts familiar to all the historian's fellow-citizens.
" Athenians, I have not only a better title than others to the command —
a topic with which, attacked as I have been by Nicias, I am compelled to
commence — but I also consider myself personally worthy of it ; since the
very qualities for which I am denounced not only reflect honour on myself
and my ancestors, but are of positive advantage to my country. In proof
of this latter assertion, I need only remind you that the Greeks, who had
previously hoped that the resources of our capital had been pulled down by
the war, were induced even to overrate them by the magnificent style in
which I represented Athens at the Olympic festival, when I sent down seven
chariots to the lists — more than any private citizen had ever entered — gain-
ing a first, a second, and a fourth prize : nor did the style of my equipments
disparage the lustre of my triumph. Public opinion honours trophies such as
these : and the pageantry itself creates an impression of power. Again, the
distinction with which, within the city, I have served the ofifice of choregus,
among other public functions, though it may naturally excite the envy of a
THE SPEECHES— ALCIBIADES.
547
fellow-citizen, is, to the eye of a foreigner, eloquent of large resources. My
wild extravagance, then, as you call it, is not devoid of use, when its votary
serves the public as well as his personal interests at his own cost. And it
certainly is not unfair that a man who is proud of his wealth and station
should repudiate equality with the mass ; society acts on this principle every
day : the man of broken fortunes, for instance, finds none to share his
calamity. On the contrary, just as people take no notice of us in our hour
of adversity, must they, when their turn of misfortune comes, brook the
disdain of prosperity; they can only expect others to make no differ-
ence toward them when they deal
with them on that principle."
Certainly one has here, if not
the words, at least the thoughts
of the speaker, uttered with a
vigour and air of reality that the
actual scene could not have sur-
passed. Whatever may have been
the characteristics of Greek elo-
quence, it had the advantage of
being practical, and in some of
the later passages of this speech
we find the serious consideration
of important questions. This is
the way in which he urged the
Athenians to the ill-fated Sicilian
expedition :
" What excuse can we plead to our
Sicilian allies for failing to succour
them ? We certainly ought to aid
them, especially as we have actually
sworn to do so, instead of content-
ing ourselves with the counterplea
that they have never aided us. For,
when we espoused their alliance, it
was not with the view of their rev-
turning the favour by coming here
to fight for us : we hoped they
would keep our Sicilian foes con-
stantly embroiled, and prevent their assailing us at home. Besides, it
was by a policy of intervention that we, in common with all who ever
won dominion, acquired our empire ; it was by heartily assisting com-
munities, whether Greek or barbarian, which from time to time invoked
our aid. Indeed, if there were no dissensions to interfere in, and if
distinctions of race were made in choosing whom to succour, the exten-
sion of our empire would be a very slow process ; or, rather, we should
run a risk of losing it altogether. For every state is on the watch not only
to repel the aggression of a superior power, but to defeat, by anticipation,
ALCIBIADBS.
(Busi in the Chiaramonti Museum in Rome.')
548 THUC YD IDES.
the possibility of such aggression. And it is out of the question for us to
cut and carve at pleasure the area of our rule : we are compelled, by our
position as an imperial city, to intrigue systematically for the subjection of
one state, while we tighten our rein upon another : threatened as we are
with the risk of foreign subjugation, should we halt in our career of aggran-
dizement. In your situation, you cannot regard political quietism from
the same point of view as other communities, unless, at the same time, you
choose to recast your national character and pursuits on the model of
theirs."
Whether Alcibiades actually used these arguments is certainly an
important question, but even if he did not, the fact that a contempo-
rary could utter them in this form is also important. It may be un-
certain which deserves the credit, the brilliant leader or the historian ;
it is at least sure that it was possible for a man of this time to see the
condition of things and to represent it in this form. Just as an intel-
ligent statement about human nature is one that enforces its truth
upon every one that hears it, so these vivid political controversies
remind the modern reader quite as much of recent as of ancient
history, for the ambitions of men, and the arguments by which they
defend them, are the same at all times: the main difference lies in
the quality of the words in which they disguise or express them. The
firmness with which Thucydides sets the condition of things before
those who study his immortal book justifies his method ; the speeches
are full of lessons, they make clear the enthusiasm that called the
history " the eternal manual of statesmen." His own essential quality
is to be seen in the exclusion of everything that is trivial and com-
monplace. Yet the fashion that he set was one that helped to produce
much inaccurate work in later times. Livy and Tacitus, as Sir G. C.
Lewis said, regarded " a deliberation in a popular body, or a military
harangue, as an opportunity for rhetorical display, and composed
speeches in prose with as much freedom as a dramatist would in
verse," Indeed, they often abandoned the texts that lay at hand for
speeches of their own invention, which they much preferred. His-
tory has always suffered from being misplaced among the fine arts,
instead of being treated as a science.
Later, the reader will find some examples of the eloquence that is
reported by Thucydides — with what exactness can not now be defi-
nitely ascertained — but this is not all on which his fame rests. The
strict impartiality of his chronicle, the dignified avoidance of partisan-
ship, have won all praise. The chronological division of events lends
a monotony, a lack of picturesqueness, to the style of the book, but its
veracity overcomes this slight objection. The history consists of
eight books, although this division was not made by Thucydides him-
COMPOSITION AND ARRANGEMENT OF THE HISTORY.
549
self ; the first is of the nature of a general introduction, in which the
author expresses his opinion of the magnitude and importance of the
war which he had undertaken to describe, and he tries to show by a
brief recital of the traditions of antiquity and a fuller exposition of
recent events how it was that the war broke out. For some time after
the Trojan war, the importance of which he thought to have been
naturally much exaggerated by the poets, the migrations of the Greek
peoples went on ; finally
matters settled them-
selves, and the Greeks
began to send out colo-
nies. Meanwhile, as the
colonies spread among the
islands and in Asia Minor,
the Persian Empire arose,
and conquered these
Greek neighbors. Greece
itself was pitiably enfee-
bled by the power of the
tyrants who held the vari-
ous cities in subjection and
prevented all common ac-
tion ; Sparta alone escaped
this oppressive form of
government. The way in
which the mother-country
aided the colonists when
defeated, attracted the at-
tention of the Persians and
evoked the great wars, in
which the Athenians were
first victorious at Mara-
thon. Ten years later
Xerxes came with his
huge host to destroy
Greece. The Athenians
defeated him by sea, and
the Lacedaemonians by land, and the country was saved. For a
short time afterward the confederacy held together, but then the
Lacedaemonians and Athenians, the strongest members, one by land,
the other by sea, quarreled and fought. A thirty years' truce, how-
ever, put an end to th'is state of things, until natural jealousies again
aroused them, and they fell apart over the controversies of the Corin-
THEMISTOCLES.
55° THUCYDIDES.
thians and Corcyreans concerning the city of Epidamnus ; the Corcy-
reans found support in Athens, and the Corinthians, in revenge, per-
suaded Potidaea to revolt, and induced the Lacedaemonians to declare
their belief that the peace was broken, and that war should begin.
Then Thucydides explains how Athens had attained its leadership
after the Persian wars, in part by the merits of Themistocles, in part
by the treachery of Pausanias, whose stories are told at some length.
Finally the Lacedaemonians sent an embassy to announce that they
would abstain from war if the Athenians would leave the Greeks inde-
pendent, and an assembly of the people was called, in which Periales
induces the Athenians to prefer war to such a concession. Thus the
actual story of the war begins only with the second book. The
account of the hostilities up to the time of the peace of Nicias occu-
pies about half the space, while the rest is taken up with an account
of the five years' truce, the Sicilian expedition, and the later occur-
rences to the battle of Cyzicus, in the twenty-first year of the war. His
death prevented the completion of the whole story ; indeed, it is said
that the eighth book was brought out by Xenophon ; the exact amount
of his work is not to be determined.
in.
This history early found, not popularity, but enthusiastic admira-
tion from competent judges among the ancients. It was said that
Thucydides imitated ^schylus, Pindar, Antiphon, Prodicus, Euripides,
and Homer, a statement which shows conclusively what authors were
most esteemed by the utterer of this lavish outburst of praise. Quin-
tilian made an intelligent comparison between the fluent, easy, con-
versational grace of Herodotus and the brevity of Thucydides which
sounds as if he were speaking in a deliberate assembly. Cicero called
him a great historian, and said that he was weighty in words, rich in
thoughts, but sometimes obscure from compression. Dionysius of
Halicarnassus, however, expressed the opinion that has been echoed
by countless students, when he said that the style of Thucydides was
affected, hard, confused, childish, and puzzling. The laudation, it must
be remembered, was the exception, for he was never popular. Not
every one cares most for precious metals in nuggets. Yet those who
admired him more than made up for the lack of general applause
which a man who strives to be impartial never expects to receive.
The history was said by the ancients to be like a tragedy, a com-
parison which shows what was regarded by them as the highest lite-
rary product, for it was the sequence of events that made the resem-
blance to the tragedy, quite as much as the execution of the book.
MEMORIAL SPEECH BY PERICLES.
551
A certain similarity is to be found, it is true, in the form that Thu-
cydides adopted, that of letting the speeches elucidate the actions, but
just as now any picture, poem, or what not, is said to be like a piece
of music, so then resemblance to a tragedy was the expression of the
highest praise.
As a further example of the eloquence of the speeches that he
introduces into his
book, no better ex-
ample can be found
than the funeral
speech uttered by, or
invented for Pericles.
It was spoken in
honor of the Athe-
nian citizens who had
fallen in battle in
the first year of the
war, B.C. 431.
" Most of the previ-
ous speakers on these
occasions have com-
mended the statesman
who made an oration
a part of the funeral
ceremony, considering
its delivery a fitting
tribute to the brave
men who have fallen
in battle, and are
brought here for burial.
In my opinion, how-
ever, it would have
been well that the
honours due to men
who have proved their
valour by their deeds in
arms should be paid in
deeds rather than in
words ; such, for in-
stance, as the public
celebration of this
funeral, instead of stak-
PERICLES.
(From the bust in the Louvre.)
ing the reputation of
many on one man, so
as to make it depend
on his speaking well
or ill. It is a hard
task to hit the mean;
when there is a special
difficulty in impressing
the audience with a
conviction of the
truth of what is told
them. An audience
favorably disposed and
familiar with the sub-
ject, naturally thinks
the picture feebly
drawn, compared with
its own wishes and
convictions ; while per-
sons unacquainted with
the facts even suspect
exaggeration, their
jealousy being aroused,
when they hear any-
thing that transcends
their own capacity.
The fact is, eulogies of
other men are toler-
able only when the
individuals addressed
believe themselves able
to achieve some of the
feats attributed to
others ; the moment
they are surpassed they
begin to be jealous,
and then they disbe-
lieve. However, as
this branch of the sol-
emnity has been delib-
erately approved by our forefathers, I must endeavor, in conforming, like
my predecessors, to the ordinance, to meet the wishes and sentiments of each
of you as nearly as I can.
" Our ancestors claim my earliest praise ; for it is only just, and it is quite
in harmony with the present occasion, that a tribute of honourable remem-
552 THUCYDIDES.
brance should be offered them, whose virtues maintained and handed down
to our own days, through a long line of successors, the purity of their race
and the integrity of their freedom. But, worthy of eulogy as they are, our
fathers are still more so. Not content with maintaining the territory they
inherited, they acquired and bequeathed to us of this generation our exist-
ing dominion, the fruit of many struggles. That dominion, however, has
been largely aggrandized by our own efforts : by the efforts of the men now
before you, still, for the most part, in the prime of life : and our country has
been richly endowed with all the appliances of perfect independence,
whether for war or peace. The military achievements of these heroes,
whereby the several accessions of territory were won, and the threatened
invasions, foreign or Greek, which our fathers or ourselves have bravely
repulsed from our shores, I will not now detail, as I have no desire to be
prolix before an audience so familiar with our history. I must, however,
dwell for a moment on the training which gained us empire, on the form of
government, the habits and the principles which raised that empire to great-
ness, before I proceed with my panegyric, believing the topic at once con-
genial to the occasion, and suited to the whole of my audience, whether
Athenians or strangers.
" The constitution we enjoy is not copied from a foreign code : we are
rather a pattern to, than imitators of, other states. It goes by the name of
a democracy, because it is administered for the benefit of the many, not of
the few. It is so constituted, that, if we look to the laws, we shall find all
Athenians on a footing of perfect equality as to the decision of their private
suits ; if we look to the popular estimate of political capacity, distinction in
the public service will be found to depend on merit, weighed by a man's emi-
nence in his own calling, not on caste. Nor again is poverty any exclusion,
when a man, however humble his rank, is able to serve his country. A
spirit of freedom regulates alike our public and our private life : we tol-
erate, without a particle of jealousy, varieties in each other's daily pursuits :
we are not angry with our neighbour for following the bent of his humour ; nor
do our faces wear censorious looks, harmless, perhaps, but odious. In pri-
vate society, our politeness insures harmony : in public life, fear is our prin-
cipal check on illegal acts : we obey the magistrates who are from time to
time in authority, and the laws, especially those enacted to protect the
oppressed, and that unwritten code whose sanction is a common sense of
shame.
''Abundant recreation, too, to recruit our spirits, when jaded by the cares of
business, is supplied by the very festivals which the Dorians ridicule, and
the customary solemnities of sacrifice throughout the year, as well as by the
splendour of our private establishments, our daily enjoyment of which scares
melancholy away. Owing to the magnitude of our capital, the luxuries of
every clime pour themselves into our hands, and it is our good fortune to
enjoy the products of other realms as familiarly as the fruits of our own
soil.
" Another remarkable contrast between ourselves and our rivals lies in the
difference of our methods of training for war. The following are the salient
points : We throw open our gates to all the world ; no alien acts exclude
any of our foes from learning or seeing anything, the revelation of which
may be of any service to them : for we do not trust so much to precon-
certed stratagems as to that courage in action which springs from our own
nature. Again, in education, our rivals set out in pursuit of manly qualities
554 THUCYDIDES.
by a laborious course of training commenced in childhood : yet we, though
living at our ease, are perfectly ready to encounter dangers quite as great
as theirs, — an assertion I can prove by facts ; when the Lacedaemonians in-
vade our realm, it is never with mere detachments, but at the head of their
collective force. In our case, when we march against their territory, it is
with Athenian troops only, with whom, though struggling on a foreign soil
against men who are fighting for their own hearths, we generally gain an
easy victory. In fact, not one of our enemies has ever yet encountered our
united force, because we have to provide for our navy as well as our army,
and are constantly despatching our native troops on so many expeditions by
land. If ever they engage a fraction of our troops, and get the better of a
few of us, they pretend to have defeated us all : while, if repulsed, they say
they have been defeated by all. And yet — to revert to what I was just
now saying — if we, who live under a luxurious system instead of a toilsome
training, if we, whose courage is the gift of nature, rather than the fruit of
discipline, are, as I hope, just as ready to brave danger: a double advan-
tage is gained ; we do not suffer from the anticipation of impending perils:
and when we meet them, we do not yield in courage to the slaves of a life-
long drill.
" On other grounds, too, I claim admiration for our country. Our fondness
for art is free from extravagance, nor do our literary tastes make us effem-
inate ; wealth we use as an opportunity for action, not for ostentatious talk :
poverty we think it no disgrace to avow, though we do think it a disgrace
not to try to avoid it by industry. Among our countrymen political and
social duties are combined in the same men : even our laboring classes
have a competent knowledge of politics ; indeed, we are the only Greeks
who regard a man who takes no interest in public affairs, not as one who
only minds his own business, but as a man unfit for any business at all. If
we, the people at large, can not originate measures of policy, we can, at any
rate, judge of them when proposed : we do not think discussion a prejudice
to action, but we do think it a prejudice not to be foretaught by discussion,
before entering on the field of action. This leads me to mention another
characteristic of ours — the combination of chivalrous daring with the most
careful calculation of our plans : whereas, with the rest of the world, daring
is but the offspring of ignorance, while reflection tends to hesitation. And
surely the palm of magnanimity may well be awarded to those whom the
liveliest appreciation of the hardships of war and the pleasures of peace fail
to lure from the perilous path of honour to the charms of ease. Again, in
point of beneficence and liberality, we act on principles different from those
of the world at large ; we gain our friends not by receiving but by con-
ferring benefits. Now benefactors are more constant in their friendship
than those whom they oblige : they like to keep the sense of obligation
alive by acting kindly to the recipients of their favors ; the friendship of
the debtor, on the other hand, is clouded by the remembrance that his
acknowledgment of the service will be the payment of a debt, not the be-
stowal of a favor. We, too, are the only people who, without a particle of
distrust, aid the distressed, from no sordid calculations of advantage, but in
all the confidence of genuine liberality.
" In one word, I declare that our capital at large is the school of Greece ;
while, if we look to the citizens individually, I believe every man among us
could prove himself personally qualified, without aid from others, to meet
exigencies the most varied, with a versatility the most graceful. That this
EULOGY OF THE ATHENIANS BY PERICLES. 555
is no mere rhetorical vaunt of tlie moment, but the real truth, our political
power, the offspring of our national character and the tastes I have de-
scribed, is itself a sufficient proof. Of all existing states, Athens alone
eclipses her prestige when tested by trial : she alone inspires no mortifica-
tion in the invading foe, when he thinks by whom he is repulsed : no self-
reproach in the subject for submitting to a degrading rule. So far from our
supremacy needing attestation, it is written in the clearest characters : it will
command the admiration of future ages, as it already does of our own ; we
want no Homer to sing our praises, nor any other poet whose verses may
charm for the moment, while history will mar the conception he raises of
our deeds. No ! we shall be admired for having forced every sea and
every shore to yield access to our courage, and for the imperishable monu-
ments of the evils heaped on foes and the blessings conferred on friends,
which we have, by common effort, reared on every soil. Such, then, is the
state for which these men, determined not to be robbed of their country,
bravely died on the battlefield : and every one of their survivors will be
ready, I am sure, to suffer in the same cause.
*' I have dwelt at some length on our national advantages, partly from a
wish to convince you that we have a higher stake in the contest than those
who can not rival those advantages, partly to enforce, by the palpable evi-
dence of facts, the justice of the panegyric it is my commission to deliver
over our fallen patriots. That commission, indeed, is nearly fulfilled : for if
our country has been the theme of my encomium, it is because she has been
graced by the virtues of those heroes and others who assembled them ; nor
are there many among the Greeks whose reputation can be shown to be so
evenly balanced by their actions. But I may still appeal to the closing scene
of their lives, as either of¥ering the first indication, or giving the crowning
proof, of their manly worth. In the former case, men may fairly be allowed
to veil their defects beneath the courage they have shown in their country's
cause : they cancel evil by good : their public services outweigh the mischief
of their private life. Yet among these men there was not one whom the
prospect of a prolonged enjoyment of wealth lured to play the coward : not
one whom the hope whispered by poverty, the hope of some day exchanging
penury for affluence, tempted to quail before the hour of peril. Considering
vengeance on their foes more precious than such prospects, they willingly,
in what they thought the noblest of causes, risked their lives to make sure
of their revenge, holding their chances of future enjoyment in reserve. They
left hope to provide for the uncertainty of success : but when engaged in
action, face to face with danger, they scorned to trust aught but themselves:
and, on the field of battle, they chose to fall in resisting the enemy rather
than save their lives by surrender. If, indeed, they fled, it was only from
disgrace to their name : far from flying from the battlefield, they bore the
brunt of the conflict with their bodies, and, in a moment, at the very crisis
of victory, were carried away from a scene, not of terror, but of glory.
" Such then were the principles of these men : principles worthy of their
country. You, their surviving countrymen, may perhaps hope that your
patriotism may be more compatible with personal safety, but you must dis-
dain to harbor a spirit a whit less daring towards our enemies : looking not
to the mere policy of so doing, with the eye of a rhetorician haranguing you,
as familiar with the subject as himself, on the advantages to be reaped by a
brave' repulse of the foe : but looking to the practical side of the picture, the
palpable proofs, daily revealed, of our political greatness — which may well
556 THUCYDIDES.
inspire you with a lover's enthusiasm for your country. And when you are
impressed with its greatness, remember that it was gained by brave men, by
men who were shrewd in counsel, and, in action, sensibly alive to honor :
and who, if ever foiled in an attack, never thought of saving themselves, but
paid their country the full tribute of their valor, nobly lavishing their lives
as a joint-offering to her. Yes, they jointly offered their lives, and were
repaid, individually, by that glory that can never die, and by the most
honorable of tombs, not that wherein they lie, but that wherein their fame
is treasured in everlasting honor, refreshed by every incident, either of
action or debate, that stirs its remembrance. For the whole world is the
tomb of illustrious men : it is not the mere monumental inscription in their
native land that records their valor : no ! even in climes that knew them
not, an unwritten memorial of them finds a home, not in monuments, but in
the hearts of the brave. Emulate, then, their heroic deeds : and, believing
happiness to depend on freedom, and freedom on valor, shrink not, to your
own prejudice, from the perils of war : for it is not men of broken fortunes,
men hopeless of prosperity, of whom we can so fairly expect a generous
prodigality of life, as of those who still risk the change from wealth to
poverty, and who have most at stake in the event of a reverse. And surely
disaster, coupled with the stigma of cowardice, is far more grievous to a
man of high spirit, than the sudden and painless death that surprises the
soldier in the bloom of his strength and patriotic hope.
" For these reasons, I have to offer consolation rather than condolence to
those among the parents of the dead, who are now present. They know
that their lot from childhood has been chequered with calamity : and that
those may be called fortunate, whose fate, whether in affliction, as theirs, or
in death, as their relatives, has been most brilliant : and whose term of life
has not been prolonged beyond the term of their happiness. Still, I feel
how difficult it is to console you : for the successes of others — successes in
which you, too, used to rejoice — will constantly remind you of those whom
you have lost ; and grief is naturally felt not for blessings of which a man
is robbed before he can appreciate them, but for those which he loses after
long habituation to them. Those, however, among you, whose age allows
them offspring, must comfort themselves with the hope of children yet to
come. In private life they will lull their parents into forgetfulness of those
who are no more, and our country will reap a twofold advantage : she will
not suffer from depopulation, and she will be more secure : for it is impos-
sible to expect fair and just legislation from men who do not share their
neighbors' risks by having children as well as property at stake. Those,
on the other hand, who are past their prime, must consider the longer period
of their life during which they have been fortunate, as clear gain : the
remainder they must expect, will be short : and they ought to cheer them-
selves with the fame of their heroic sons. For the love of honors is the
only sentiment that is always young : and when men are past the age of
heroic service, it is not gain, as cynics say, but rather respect, which
pleases them.
" As for you, the children or brothers of the fallen, you will, I am sure, find
the task of emulation difficult. Every one is ready to praise those who are
no more : and, even with extraordinary merit, you will find it hard to be
pronounced, I will not say equal, but only slightly inferior to them : for
envy will attack a rival's fame, while life remains : and it is only when com-
petition is barred by death that affection will applaud without alloy. Per-
SPEECH ASCRIBED TO PERICLES BY THUCYDIDES. 557
haps, in deference to those among you who have been plunged into widow-
hood, I ought to say a word on woman's excellence. A brief recommenda-
tion will suffice : it is your glory not to overstep the modesty of nature, and
to be in the least possible degree the subject of discussion, either for praise
or blame, among men.
" Honors may be rendered both in words and acts. As to the former, the
tribute has been paid in the address which I, like my predecessors, have
delivered, according to the law, to the best of my ability : as to the latter,
this public funeral has tendered to our patriots a portion of the honor due
to them, and the rest their country will pay, by rearing their children at the
public expense from this day till they are of age : thus presenting, in a spirit
of the soundest policy, to our fallen countrymen and their survivors, an
honorable reward for their courage in the battle-field. In a spirit of policy,
I say : for the states that institute the highest prizes for valor have the
bravest men for citizens. And now, having concluded the mourning rites
due to your several relations, you may go home."
Of course the question arises here, as elsewhere, how closely
Thucydides has preserved the actual words that the great orator
uttered, to which no absolutely certain answer can be given, yet when
we remember the importance and interest of this address, it seems
likely that very much of it would live in the memory of those who
heard it, and that this is of the nature of a true report. A few of the
words of Pericles have come down to us, that attest the picturesque
vividness of his language. Such, for example, is the sentence which
Aristotle quotes in his work on Rhetoric from this very speech, that
in the slain youth of Athens the year had lost its spring, but the
sentence is not given by Thucydides. Of the other fragments there
is this which Plutarch quotes from his encomium on those who fell at
Samos, wherein he said that they had become immortal, like the gods :
" for we do not see them themselves, but only, by the honors we pay
them and by the benefits they do us, attribute to them immortality ;
and the like attributes belong also to those that die in the service of
their country." Plutarch also characterizes Pericles with a certain touch
of sarcasm as filled with " lofty, and, as they call it, up-in-the-air sort of
thought, whence he derived not merely, as was natural, elevation of
purpose and dignity of language, raised far above the base and dis-
honest buffooneries of mob-eloquence, but, besides this, a composure
of countenance, and a serenity and calmness in all his movements,
which no occurrence while he was speaking could disturb, a sustained
and even tone of voice, and various other advantages of a similar kind,
which produced the greatest effect on his hearers."
While this oration which is placed in the mouth of Pericles
presents the Athenian side, that of the Spartans is unfolded in the
earlier speech of Archidamus, King of Sparta, which runs as follows :
" I have already, Lacedaemonians, been personally engaged in several wars,
558 THUCYDIDES.
and I know that those of my own age among you are also conversant with
warfare, so that you are not likely to long for hostilities, like the mass of
men, either through inexperience, or from a belief that they 'are in them-
selves desirable and safe.
You would find, too, that this war, the subject of our present deliberations,
is not likely to be one of trifling moment, were any of you dispassionately to
weigh the nature of the struggle. Our forces, indeed, when directed against
Peloponnesian communities, especially those in our neighborhood, are
similar to, and a match for theirs, and we can attack them rapidly in detail.
But — a struggle with men who are rich in foreign dominion, who are
thorough masters of the sea, and have long been admirably provided with
all the appliances of war, with wealth, both national and private, with ships,
with cavalry, with troops, heavy and light, in greater numbers than any
which elsewhere exist in any one district of Greece : and who, besides all
this, have a host of confederates who pay them tribute — how can it be
politic rashly to engage in such a struggle, and in what can we trust when
we attack them unprepared ? Are we to trust in our fleet ! No ! we are
inferior therein, and it will take time to practise and prepare a counter
armament. Shall we rely, then, on our wealth? Scarcely ! for in this point
we are far more deficient still : we have no money in our treasury, nor do
we readily contribute from our private resources.
" Perhaps, however, some of you may feel sanguine on the ground that we
surpass them in our heavy infantry, and in the number of our troops, which
would enable us to ravage their land by repeated incursions. But then there
are considerable domains, besides Attica, which own their sway, and their
command of the sea will enable them to import whatever they require. If,
on the other hand, we were to try to seduce their confederates, we must find
ships for their special protection, as they are for the most part islanders.
What then will be the character of the war we shall be waging ? Unless we
can either sweep the seas with our fleet, or cut off the supplies that feed
the Athenian marine, ours will on the whole be a losing game ; and in such
a case we can no longer with honour even negotiate for peace, especially
should we appear to have provoked the strife. God forbid that we should
encourage ourselves with the utterly delusive hope that the war will speedily
be terminated if we devastate their land ! I rather fear we shall even be-
queath it to our children ; so improbable is it that Athenian spirit will chain
itself to the soil it tenants, or suffer Athenians, like men who have never
been in arms, to quail before the terrors of war.
*' Not, however, that I advise you tamely to allow them to injure our allies,
and to refrain from exposing their intrigues. But I do advise you not as yet
to draw the sword, but to send an embassy and to expostulate, without either
too plainly menacing war, or allowing them to think we shall be blind to
their ambition. In the interval I recommend you to complete our own
preparations, by the acquisition of allies, both in Greece and abroad, in any
quarter where we can gain either naval or pecuniary aid ; for men who, like
ourselves, are the intended victims of Athenian treachery, cannot be blamed
for consulting their safety by foreign as well as Greek alliances. Let us, at
the same time, develope to the utmost our internal resources : should they
then show any inclination to listen to our embassies, all the better ; if they
refuse, after the lapse of two or three years, we shall be better prepared to
attack them, should we resolve to do so. Perhaps, too, by that time, when
they observe our armaments, and the warlike tone of our diplomacy, they
SPEECH OF THE SPARTAN ARCHIDAMUS. 559
may be more disposed toward concession, while their territory is still invio-
late, and they are able to enjoy, in their full integrity, those great national
advantages whose fate depends on their deliberations. Indeed, the only
light in which you should regard their domain is that of a hostage ; a hos-
tage the more precious, the richer its cultivation. It is, therefore, your
interest to spare it as long as possible, instead of rendering its proprietors,
by reducing them to desperation, more than ever intractable to terms. If
we take the opposite course ; if, hurried on by the complaints of our con-
federates, we ravage Attica without adequate supplies, beware that we are
not adopting a course little to the honor of Peloponnese, and full of embar-
rassment. The grievances, indeed, whether of states or of individuals, it is
possible to adjust ; but it is not easy for a whole confederacy to terminate
hostilities on creditable terms, when its members have, each for his own
interest, engaged in a war whose issue it is impossible to foresee.
" Nor let it be supposed that delay on the part of a numerous confederacy
to attack a single state is a mark of pusillanimity. Athens, like ourselves,
has allies — allies as numerous as ours : they pay her tribute, and the con-
test hinges not so much on arms as on treasure, the sinews of war, especially
when, as in the present case, an island is opposed to a maritime power. Let
us first, then, fill our treasury, instead of being carried away by the elo-
quence of our allies ; let us^ who will be mainly responsible for the results,
whether fortunate or adverse, leisurely revolve beforehand the chances of
success or defeat.
" I must warn you, too, not to feel ashamed of that slow and deliberate cir-
cumspection which is their principal reproach against us ; for if you hastily
take up arms, it will be all the later before you lay them down, because you
will be entering on the conflict without due deliberation. The wisdom of
our cautious policy reflects itself in our long career of freedom and glory ;
and the very quality they ridicule in us is only another name for a wise
moderation ; a quality which secures us a singular exemption from insolent
elation in the hour of triumph, and, compared with others, from despondency
in disaster ; from yielding to the fascinations of a gratified vanity, when people
praise us and cheer us on to hazards which our sober judgment disapproves;
or from being piqued into compliance when a Corinthian speaker goads us
with invective. Our love of order and discipline renders us brave soldiers
and wise counsellors ; brave soldiers, because sensibility to shame is a power-
ful element in the love of order, and a chivalrous spirit in sensibility to
shame ; wise counsellors, because we are trained with too little refinement
to despise the laws, and with too severe a self-control to disobey them.
Nor are we so overskilled in useless accomplishments as to depreciate our
enemies' armaments in plausible speeches, without any corresponding en-
ergy in action. No ! our education teaches us to believe that, in point of
tactics, our neighbors are nearly on a par with ourselves, and that the
chances incident to war are far beyond the calculaticfns of debate. We
arm energetically against the foe on the presumption that his plans will be
wisely laid ; for we have no right to build our hopes on the chance of his
mistakes, but on the surer ground of our own foresight. We do not believe
in any great natural superiority in one man over another : that man we hold
the most valuable citizen who has been trained in the severest school.
" Let us not, then, renounce the principles bequeathed by our fathers to us,
and retained by us down to the present moment with uniform advantage ;
let us not, in the brief space of an hour, pass a hurried resolution, when the
560 THUCYDIDES.
lives of many citizens, the fortunes of many families, the fate of many cities,
and our own glory are involved ; let us take time to consider, as our
strength permits us to do more easily than other states. Despatch an em-
bassy to treat on the affairs of Potidaea, and on the alleged wrongs of the
allies, especially as Athens is willing to submit the subjects of complaint to
arbitration ; for public justice forbids your proceeding, previous to trial,
against a party willing to accept such a decision, as against an avowed crim-
inal. At the same time make every preparation for war. This will be the
safest course you can adopt, and the most likely to intimidate your foes."
IV.
Undoubtedly, the most tragical part of the whole book is the
account of the ill-fated Sicilian expedition, from which the following
extracts are taken. The reader will notice the grim, dispassionate
spirit of the historian, who is as impartial as nature itself. Thucydides,
whose heart must have been wrung as he wrote down this merciless
chronicle of error and misfortune, preserves his statue-like calm
throughout, letting the facts speak for themselves, and suppressing,
with a dignity that really rises to sublimity, all personal comment.
He was a true representative of the greatest grandeur of Greece. His
majestic spirit shines through the thick veil of obscurity that clouds
his expression.
When Gylippus and the other Syracusan generals had, like Nicias,
encouraged their troops, perceiving the Athenians to be manning their
ships, they presently did the same. Nicias, overwhelmed by the situation,
and seeing how great and how near the peril was (for the ships were on the
very point of rowing out), feeling too, as men do on the eve of a great
struggle, that all which he had done was nothing, and that he had not said
half enough, again addressed the trierarchs, and calling each of them by his
father's name, and his own name, and the name of his tribe, he entreated
those who had made any reputation for themselves not to be false to it, and
those whose ancestors were eminent not to tarnish their hereditary fame.
He reminded them that they were the inhabitants of the freest country in
the world, and how in Athens there was no interference with the daily life
of any man. He spoke to them of their wives and children and their fathers'
Gods, as men will at such a time ; for then they do not care whether their
common-place phrases seem to be out of date or not, but loudly reiterate
the old appeals, believing that they may be of some service at the awful
moment. When he thought that he had exhorted them, not enough, but as
much as the scanty time allowed, he retired, and led the land-forces to the
shore, extending the line as far as he could, so that they might be of the
greatest use in encouraging the combatants on board ship. Demosthenes,
Menander, and Euthydemus, who had gone on board the Athenian fleet to
take the command, now quitted their own station, and proceeded straight to
the closed mouth of the harbour, intending to force their way to the open
sea where a passage was still left.
The Syracusans and their allies had already put out with nearly the same
number of ships as before. A detachment of them guarded the entrance
THE SICILIAN EXPEDITION. 561
of the harbour ; the remainder were disposed all around it in such a manner
that they might fall on the Athenians from every side at once, and that their
land-forces might at the same time be able to co-operate wherever the ships
retreated to the shore. Sicanus and Agatharchus commanded the Syracusan
fleet, each of them a wing ; Pythen and the Corinthians occupied the centre.
When the Athenians approached the closed mouth of the harbour the violence
of their onset overpowered the ships which were stationed there ; they then
attempted to loosen the fastenings. Whereupon from all sides the Syra-
cusans and their allies came bearing down upon them, and the conflict was
no longer confined to the entrance, but extended throughout the harbour.
No previous engagement had been so fierce and obstinate. Great was the
eagerness with which the rowers on both sides rushed upon their enemies
whenever the word of command was given ; and keen was the contest
between the pilots as they manoeuvred one against another. The marines
too were full of anxiety that, when ship struck ship, the service on deck
should not fall short of the rest ; every one in the place assigned to him was
eager to be foremost among his fellows. Many vessels meeting — and never
did so many fight in so small a space, for the two fleets together amounted
to nearly two hundred — they were seldom able to strike in the regular
manner, because they had no opportunity of first retiring or breaking the
line ; they generally fouled one another as ship dashed against ship in the
hurry of flight or pursuit. All the time that another vessel was bearing
down, the men on deck poured showers of javelins and arrows and stones
upon the enemy ; and when the two closed, the marines fought hand to
hand, and endeavoured to board. In many places, owing to the want of
room, they who had struck another found that they were struck them-
selves ; often two or even more vessels were unavoidably entangled about
one, and the pilots had to make plans of attack and defence, not against one
adversary only, but against several coming from different sides. The crash
of so many ships dashing against one another took away the wits of the
sailors, and made it impossible to hear the boatswains, whose voices in both
fleets rose high, as they gave directions to the rowers, or cheered them on
in the excitement of the struggle. On the Athenian side they were shouting
to their men that they must force a passage and seize the opportunity now
or never of returning in safety to their native land. To the Syracusans and
their allies was represented the glory of preventing the escape of their
enemies, and of a victory by which every man would exalt the honour of his
own city. The commanders too, when they saw any ship backing water
without necessity, would call the captain by his name, and ask, of the
Athenians, whether they were retreating because they expected to be more
at home upon the land of their bitterest foes than upon that sea which had
been their own so long ; on the Syracusan side, whether, when they knew
perfectly well that the Athenians were only eager to find some means of
flight, they would themselves fly from the fugitives.
While the naval engagement hung in the balance the two armies on shore
had great trial and conflict of soul. The Sicilian soldier was animated by
the hope of increasing the glory which he had already won, while the invader
was tormented by the fear that his fortunes might sink lower still. The last
chance of the Athenians lay in their ships, and their anxiety was dreadful.
The fortune of the battle varied ; and it was not possible that the spectators
on the shore should all receive the same impression of it. Being quite
close and having different points of view, they would some of them see their
562 THUCYDIDES.
own ships victorious ; their courage would then revive, and they would
earnestly call upon the Gods not to take from them their hope of deliverance.
But others, who saw their ships worsted, cried and shrieked aloud, and
were by the sight alone more utterly unnerved than the defeated combatants
themselves. Others again, who had fixed their gaze on some part of the
struggle which was undecided, were in a state of excitement still more
terrible ; they kept swaying their bodies to and fro in an agony of hope and
fear as the stubborn conflict went on and on ; for at every instant they were
all but saved or all but lost. And while the strife hung in the balance you
might hear in the Athenian army at once lamentation, shouting, cries of
victory or defeat, and all the various sounds which are wrung from a great
host in extremity of danger. Not less agonising were the feelings of those
on board. At length the Syracusans and their allies, after a protracted
struggle, put the Athenians to flight, and triumphantly bearing down upon
them, and encouraging one another with loud cries and exhortations, drove
them to land. Then that part of the navy which had not been taken in the
deep water fell back in confusion to the shore, and the crews rushed out of
the ships into the camp. And the land-forces, no longer now divided in
feeling, but uttering one universal groan of intolerable anguish, ran, some
of them to save the ships, others to defend what remained of the wall ; but
the greater number began to look to themselves and to their own safety.
Never had there been a greater panic in an Athenian army than at that
moment. They now suffered what they had done to others at Pylos. For
at Pylos the Lacedaemonians, when they saw their ships destroyed, knew that
their friends who had crossed over into the island of Sphacteria were lost
with them. And so now the Athenians after the rout of their fleet, knew
that they had no hope of saving themselves by land unless events took some
extraordinary turn.
Thus, after a fierce battle and a great destruction of ships and men on
both sides, the Syracusans and their allies gained the victory. They gathered
up the wrecks and bodies of the dead, and sailing back to the city, erected
a trophy. The Athenians, overwhelmed by their misery, never so much as
thought of recovering their wrecks or of asking leave to collect their dead.
Their intention was to retreat that very night. Demosthenes came to Nicias
and proposed that they should once more man their remaining vessels and
endeavour to force the passage at daybreak, saying that they had more ships
fit for service than the enemy. For the Athenian fleet still numbered sixty,
but the enemy had less than fifty. Nicias approved of his proposal, and
they would have manned the ships, but the sailors refused to embark ; for
they were paralysed by their defeat, and had no longer any hope of suc-
ceeding. So the Athenians all made up their minds to escape by land.
Hermocrates the Syracusan suspected their intention, and dreading what
might happen if their vast army, retreating by land and settling somewhere
in Sicily, should choose to renew the war, he went to the authorities, and
represented to them that they ought not to allow the Athenians to withdraw
by night (mentioning his own suspicion of their intentions), but that all the
Syracusans and their allies should march out before them, wall up the roads,
and occupy the passes with a guard. They thought very much as he did,
and wanted to carry out his plan, but doubted whether their men, who were
too glad to repose after a great battle, and in time of festival — for there
happened on that very day to be a sacrifice to Heracles — could be induced
to obey. Most of them, in the exultation of victory, were drinking and
5^4 THUCYDIDES.
keeping holiday, and at such a time how could they ever be expected to take
up arms and go forth at the order of the generals ? On these grounds the
authorities decided that the thing was impossible. Whereupon Hermocrates
himself, fearing lest the Athenians should gain a start and quietly pass the
most difficult places in the night, contrived the following plan : when it was
growing dark he sent certain of his own acquaintances, accompanied by a
few horsemen, to the Athenian camp. They rode up within earshot, and
pretending to be friends (there were known to be men in the city who gave
information to Nicias of what went on) called to some of the soldiers, and
bade them tell him not to withdraw his army during the night, for the
Syracusans were guarding the roads ; he should make preparation at leisure
and retire by day. Having delivered their message they departed, and
those who heard them informed the Athenian generals.
On receiving this message, which they supposed to be genuine, they
remained during the night. And having once given up the intention of
starting immediately, they decided to remain during the next day, that the
soldiers might, as well as they could, put together their baggage in the most
convenient form, and depart, taking with them the bare necessaries of life,
but nothing else.
Meanwhile the Syracusans and Gylippus, going forth before them with
their land-forces, blocked the roads in the country by which the Athenians
were likely to pass, guarded the fords of the rivers and streams, and posted
themselves at the best points for receiving and stopping them. Their sailors
rowed up to the beach and dragged away the Athenian ships. The Athenians
themselves burnt a few of them, as they had intended, but the rest the Syra-
cusans towed away, unmolested and at their leisure, from the places where
they had severally run aground, and conveyed them to the city.
" On the third day after the sea-fight, when Nicias and Demosthenes
thought that their preparations were complete, the army began to move.
They were in a dreadful condition ; not only was there the great fact that
they had lost their whole fleet, and instead of their expected triumph had
brought the utmost peril upon Athens as well as upon themselves, but
also the sights which presented themselves as they quitted the camp
were painful to every eye and mind. The dead were unburied, and
when any one saw the body of a friend lying on the ground he
was smitten with sorrow and dread, while the sick or wounded who still
survived but had to be left, were even a greater trial to the living, and more
to be pitied than those who were gone. Their prayers and lamentations
drove their companions to distraction ; they would beg that they might be
taken with them, and call by name any friend or relation whom they saw
passing; they would hang upon their departing comrades and follow as far
as they could, and when their limbs and strength failed them and they
dropped behind, many were the imprecations and cries which they uttered.
So that the whole army was in tears, and such was their despair that they
could hardly make up their minds to stir, although they were leaving an
enemy's country, having suffered calamities too great for tears already, and
dreading miseries yet greater in the unknown future. There was also a
general feeling of shame and self-reproach, — indeed they seemed, not like
an army, but like the fugitive population of a city captured after a siege ;
and of a great city too. For the whole multitude who were marching
together numbered not less than forty thousand. Each of them took with
him anything he could carry which was likely to be of use. Even the
THE SICILIAN EXPEDITION. 565
heavy-armed and cavalry, contrary to their practice when under arms, con-
veyed about their persons their own food, some because they had no
attendants, others because they could not trust them ; for they had long
been deserting, and most of them had gone off all at once. Nor was the
food which they carried sufficient ; for the supplies of the camp had failed.
Their disgrace and the universality of the misery, although there might be
some consolation in the very community of suffering, was nevertheless at
that moment hard to bear, especially when they remembered from what pomp
and splendour they had fallen into their present low estate. Never had an
Hellenic army experienced such a reverse. They had come intending to
enslave others, and they were going away in fear that they would be them-
selves enslaved. Instead of the prayers and hymns with which they had
put to sea, they were now departing amid appeals to heaven of another sort.
They were no longer sailors but landsmen, depending, not upon their fleet,
but upon their infantry. Yet in face of the great danger which still
threatened them all these things appeared endurable.
Nicias, seeing the army disheartened at their terrible fall, went along the
ranks and encouraged and consoled them as well as he could. In his fervour
he raised his voice as he passed from one to another and spoke louder and
louder, desiring that the benefit of his words might reach as far as possible.
" Even now, Athenians and allies, we must hope : men have been
delivered out of worse straits than these, and I would not have you judge
yourselves too severely on account either of the reverses which you have
sustained or of your present undeserved miseries. I too am as weak as any
of you ; for I am quite prostrated by my disease as you see. And although
there was a time when I might have been thought equal to the best of you
in the happiness of my private and public life, I am now in as great danger
and as much at the mercy of fortune as the meanest. Yet my days have
been passed in the performance of many a religious duty, and of many a just
and blameless action. Therefore my hope of the future remains unshaken,
and our calamities do not appal me as they might. Who knows that they
may not be lightened ? For our enemies have had their full share of success,
and if our expedition provoked the jealousy of any god, by this time we
have been punished enough. Others ere now have attacked their neighbours ;
they have done as men will do, and suffered what men can bear. We may
therefore begin to hope that the gods will be more merciful to us ; for we
now invite their pity rather than their jealousy. And look at your own well-
armed ranks ; see how many brave soldiers you are, marching in solid array,
and do not be dismayed ; bear in mind that wherever you plant yourselves
you are a city already, and that no city of Sicily will find it easy to resist
your attack, or can dislodge you if you choose to settle. Provide for the
safety and good order of your own march, and remember every one of you
that on whatever spot a man is compelled to fight, there if he conquer he
may find a home and a fortress.
" We must press forward day and night, for our supplies are but scanty.
The Sicels through fear of the Syracusans still adhere to us, and if we can
only reach any part of their territory we shall be among friends, and you
may consider yourselves secure. We have sent to them, and they have been
told to meet us and bring food. In a word, soldiers, let me tell you that
you must be brave ; there is no place near to which a coward can fly. And
if you now escape your enemies, those of you who are not Athenians may
see once more the home for which they long, while you Athenians will
566
THUCYDIDES.
again rear aloft the fallen greatness of Athens,
ships in which are no men, constitute a state."
Thus
For men, and not walls or
GREEK HOPLIT.
exhorting his troops
Nicias passed through the army,
and wherever he saw gaps in the
ranks or the men dropping out
of line, he brought them back to
their proper place. Demosthenes
did the same for the troops under
his command, and gave them
similar exhortations. The army
marched disposed in a hollow
oblong : the division of Nicias
leading, and that of Demosthe-
nes following ; the hoplites en-
closed within their ranks the
baggage-bearers and the rest of
the army. When they arrived at
the ford of the river Anapus
they found a force of the Syracu-
sans and of their allies drawn
up to meet them ; these they put
to flight, and, getting command
of the ford, proceeded on their
march. The Syracusans con-
tinually harassed them, the cav-
alry riding alongside, and the
light-armed troops hurling darts
at them. On this day the Athen-
ians proceeded about four-and-
a-half miles and encamped at a
hill. On the next day they started
early, and, having advanced more
than two miles, descended into
a level plain, and encamped,
country was inhabited, and
were desirous of obtaining
The
they
food
from the houses, and also water
which they might carry with them, as there was little to be had for many
miles in the country which lay before
them. Meanwhile the Syracusans had
gone on before them, and at a point
where the road ascends a steep hill
called the Acraean height, and there
is a precipitous ravine on either side,
were blocking up the pass by a wall.
On the next day the Athenians ad-
vanced, although again impeded by
the numbers of the enemy's cavalry
who rode alongside, and of their
javelin-men who threw darts at them.
For a long time the Athenians maintained the struggle, but at last retired
COIN WITH MOUNTED SPEARMAN.
THE SICILIAN EXPEDITION.
567
kUJ
STORMING A WALL.
to their own encampment. Their supplies were now cut off, because the
horsemen circumscribed their movements.
In the morning they started early and resumed their march. They
pressed onwards to the hill where the way was barred, and found in front of
them the Syracusan infantry drawn up to defend the wall, in deep array, for
the pass was narrow. Whereupon the Athenians advanced and assaulted
the barrier, but the enemy, who were numerous and had the advantage of
position, threw missiles upon them from the hill, which was steep, and so,
not being able to force their way,
they again retired and rested. Dur-
ing the conflict, as is often the case
in the fall of the year, there came a
storm of rain and thunder, whereby
the Athenians were yet more dis-
heartened, for they thought that
everything was conspiring to their
destruction. While they were resting
Gylippus and the Syracusans de-
spatched a division of their army to
raise a wall behind them across the
road by which they had come ; but
the Athenians sent some of their own
troops and frustrated their inten-
tion. They then retired with their whole army in the direction of the
plain and passed the night. On the following day they again advanced.
The Syracusans now surrounded and attacked them on every side, and
wounded many of them. If the Athenians advanced they retreated, but
charged them when they retired, falling especially upon the hindermost of
them, in the hope that, if they could put to flight a few at a time, they might
strike a panic into the whole army. In this fashion the Athenians strug-
gled on for a long time, and having advanced about three-quarters of a mile
rested in the plain. The Syracusans then left them and returned to their
own encampment.
The army was now in a miserable plight, being in want of every neces-
sary ; and by the continual assaults of the enemy great numbers of the
soldiers had been wounded. Nicias and Demosthenes, perceiving their con-
dition, resolved during the night to light as many watch-fires as possible
and to lead off their forces. They intended to take another route and march
towards the sea in the direction opposite to that from which the Syracusans
were watching them. Now their whole line of march lay, not towards Catana,
but towards the other side of Sicily, in the direction of Camarina and Gela,
and the cities, Hellenic or Barbarian, of that region. So they lighted
numerous fires and departed in the night. And then, as constantly happens
in armies, especially in very great ones, and as might be expected when they
were marching by night in an enemy's country, and with the enemy from
whom they were flying not far off, there arose a panic among them, and they
fell into confusion. The army of Nicias, which led the way, kept together,
and was considerably in advance, but that of Demosthenes, which was the
larger half, got severed from the other division, and marched in less order.
At daybreak they succeeded in reaching the sea, and striking into the
Helorine road marched along it, intending as soon as they arrived at the
river Cacyparis to follow up the stream through the interior of the island.
568 THUC YDIDES.
They were expecting that the Sicels for whom they had sent would meet
them on this road. When they had reached the river they found there also
a guard of the Syracusans cutting off the passage by a wall and palisade.
They forced their way through, and, crossing the river, passed on towards
another river which is called the Erineus, this being the direction in which
their guides led them.
When daylight broke and the Syracusans and their allies saw that the
Athenians had departed, most of them thought thatGylippus had let them go
on purpose, and were very angry with him. They easily found the line of their
retreat, and quickly following, came up with them about the time of the mid-
day meal. The troops of Demosthenes were last ; they were marching slowly
and in disorder, not having recovered from the panic of the previous night,
when they were overtaken by the Syracusans, who immediately fell upon them
and fought. Separated as they were from the others, they were easily hemmed
in by the Syracusan cavalry and driven into a narrow space. The division
of Nicias was as much as six miles in advance, for he marched faster, thinking
that their safety depended at such a time, not in remaining and fighting, if
they could avoid it, but in retreating as quickly as they could, and resisting
only when they were positively compelled. Demosthenes, on the other
hand, who had been more incessantly harassed throughout the retreat,
because marching last he was first attacked by the enemy, now, when he
saw the Syracusans pursuing him, instead of pressing onward, had ranged
his army in order of battle. Thus lingering he was surrounded, and he and
the Athenians under his command were in the greatest danger and con-
fusion. For they were crushed into a walled enclosure, having a road on
both sides and planted thickly with olive-trees, and missiles were hurled at
them from all points. The Syracusans naturally preferred this mode of
attack to a regular engagement. For to risk themselves against desperate
men would have been only playing into the hands of the Athenians. More-
over, every one was sparing of his life ; their good fortune was already
assured, and they did not want to fall in the hour of victory. Even by this
irregular mode of fighting they thought that they could overpower and cap-
ture the Athenians.
And so when they had gone on all day assailing them with missiles
from every quarter, and saw that they were quite worn out with
their wounds and all their other sutferings, Gylippus and the Syracusans
made a proclamation, first of all to the islanders, that any of them who
pleased might come over to them and have their freedom. But only a few
cities accepted the offer. At length an agreement was made for the entire
force under Demosthenes. Their arms were to be surrendered, but no one
was to suffer death, either from violence or from imprisonment, or from
want of the bare means of life. So they all surrendered, being in number
six thousand, and gave up what money they had. This they threw mto the
hollows of shields, and filled four. The captives were at once taken to the
city. On the same day Nicias and his division reached the river Erineus,
which he crossed, and halted his army on a rising ground.
" On the following day he was overtaken by the Syracusans, who told him
that Demosthenes had surrendered, and bade him do the same. He, not
believing them, procured a truce while he sent a horseman to go and see.
Upon the return of the horseman bringing assurance of the fact, he sent a
herald to Gylippus and the Syracusans, saying that he would agree, on
behalf of the Athenian state, to pay the expenses which the Syracusans had
THE SICILIAN EXPEDITION. 5^9
incurred in the war, on condition that they should let his army go ; until the
money was paid he would give Athenian citizens as hostages, a man for a
talent. Gylippus and the Syracusans would not accept these proposals, but
attacked and surrounded this division of the army as well as the other, and
hurled missiles at them from every side until the evening. They too were
grievously in want of food and necessaries. Nevertheless they meant to
wait for the dead of the night and then to proceed. They were just resuming
their arms, when the Syracusans discovered them and raised the Paean,
The Athenians, perceiving that they were detected, laid down their arms
again, with the exception of about three hundred men who broke through
the enemy's guard and made their escape in the darkness as best they could.
"■ When the day dawned Nicias led forward his army, and the Syracusans
and the allies again assailed them on every side, hurling javelins and other
missiles at them. The Athenians hurried on to the river Assinarus. They
hoped to gain a little relief if they forded the river, for the mass of horsemen
and other troops overwhelmed and crushed them ; and they were worn out
by fatigue and thirst. But no sooner did they reach the water than they lost
all order and rushed in ; every man was trying to cross first, and, the
enemy pressing upon them at the same time, the passage of the river became
hopeless. Being compelled to keep close together they fell one upon
another, and trampled each other under foot : some at once perished,
pierced by their own spears ; others got entangled in the baggage and were
carried down the stream. The Syracusans stood upon the further bank of
the river, which was steep, and hurled missiles from above on the Athenians,
who were huddled together in the deep bed of the stream and for the most
part were drinking greedily. The Peloponnesians came down the bank and
slaughtered them, falling chiefly upon those who were in the river. Where-
upon the water at once became foul, but was drunk all the same, although
muddy and dyed with blood, and the crowd fought for it.
" At last, when the dead bodies were lying in heaps upon one another in
the water, and the army was utterly undone, some perishing in the river, and
any who escaped being cut off by the cavalry, Nicias surrendered to Gylippus,
in whom he had more confidence than in the Syracusans. He entreated him
and the Lacedaemonians to do what they pleased with himself, but not to go
on killing the men. So Gylippus gave the word to make prisoners. There-
upon the survivors, not including however a large number whom the soldiers
concealed, were brought in alive. As for the three hundred who had broken
through the guard in the night, the Syracusans sent in pursuit and seized
them. The total of the public prisoners when collected was not great ; for
many were appropriated by the soldiers, and the whole of Sicily was full of
them, they not having capitulated like the troops under Demosthenes. A
large number also perished ; the slaughter at the river being very great,
quite as great as any which took place in the Sicilian war ; and not a few
had fallen in the frequent attacks which were made upon the Athenians
during their march. Still many escaped, some at the time, others ran away
after an interval of slavery, and all these found refuge at Catana.
" The Syracusans and their allies collected their forces and returned with
the spoil, and as many prisoners as they could take with them, into the city.
The captive Athenians and allies they deposited in the quarries, which they
thought would be the safest place of confinement. Nicias and Demosthenes
they put to the sword, although against the will of Gylippus. For Gylippus
thought that to carry home with him to Lacedsemon the generals of the
57° THUCYDIDES.
enemy, over and above all his other successes, would be a brilliant triumph.
One of them, Demosthenes, happened to be the greatest foe, and the other
the greatest friend of the Lacedaemonians, both in the same matter of Pylos
and Sphacteria. For Nicias had taken up their cause, and had persuaded
the Athenians to make the peace which set at liberty the prisoners taken in
the island. The Lacedaemonians were grateful to him for the service, and
this was the main reason why he trusted Gylippus and surrendered himself
to him. But certain Syracusans, who had been in communication with him,
were afraid (such was the report) that on some suspicion of their guilt he
might be put to the torture and bring trouble on them in the hour of their
prosperity. Others and especially the Corinthians, feared that, being rich,
he might by bribery escape and do them further mischief. So the Syra-
cusans gained the consent of the allies and had him executed. For these or
the like reasons he suffered death. No one of the Hellenes in my time was
less deserving of so miserable an end ; for he lived in the practice of every
virtue. Those who were imprisoned in the quarries were at the beginning
of their captivity harshly treated by the Syracusans. There were great
numbers of them, and they were crowded in a deep and narrow place. At
first the sun by day was still scorching and suffocating, for they had no
roof over their heads, while the autumn nights were cold, and the extremes
of temperature engendered violent disorders. Being cramped for room they
had to do everything on the same spot. The corpses of those who died
from their wounds, exposure to the weather, and the like, lay heaped one
upon another. The smells were intolerable, and they were at the same time
afflicted by hunger and thirst. During eight months they were allowed only
about half a pint of water and a pint of food a day. Every kind of misery
which could befall man in such a place befell them. This was the condition
of all the captives for about ten weeks. At length the Syracusans sold them,
with the exception of the Athenians and of any Sicilian or Italian Greeks
who had sided with them in the war. The whole number of the public
prisoners is not accurately known, but they were not less than seven
thousand.
Of all the Hellenic actions which took place in this war, or indeed of all
Hellenic actions which are on record, this was the greatest — the most
glorious to the victors, the most ruinous to the vanquished ; for they were
utterly and at all points defeated, and their sufferings were prodigious.
Fleet and army perished from the face of the earth ; nothing was saved, and
of the many who went forth few returned home.
Thus ended the Sicilian expedition.
CHAPTER III.— XENOPHON.
I. — Xenophon's Relation to Thucydides. His Life. The Anabasis. II. — The Hel-
lenica. Qualities of Xenophon's Style. The Memorabilia. III. — The Cyropfedia.
an Historical Novel. IV. — Xenophon's Minor Writings. The Possible Reasons
for his Great Fame. His General, but Safe, Mediocrity. V. — Extracts.
I.
NATURALLY enough the followers of Thucydides took pains to
avoid the obscurity of their great predecessor. Xenophon, for
example, in his Hellenica, in which he takes up the thread of history
where Thucydides had laid it down, and carries on the narration to the
battle of Mantineia in 363 B.C., writes simply and easily without
imitating the severe compression of his master. This change was
necessary, and may be compared with the similar improvement of the
French prose style between Montaigne and Boileau, or with the swift
development of fluency between Milton and Dryden. In these cases
the underlying cause was the same, namely, the new interest in count-
less novel subjects, and, above all, the abundant practice, which soon
settled the laws of syntax and left old-fashioned obscurities forgotten
and neglected. Yet, with all his difificulties, Thucydides far overtops
Xenophon, who is distinctly a second-class man whose work has been
preserved among that of men of far greater importance. This good
fortune is due in good measure, doubtless, to admiration for his lucid
expression. The winnowing of time has buried almost everything
but the very best of Greek work ; Xenophon, however, is left to show
us that even a Greek could be distinctly commonplace. There is but
little chance that writers of the present time will be taught to over-
look the importance of a good style, but behind that attractive and
useful accomplishment exists the necessity of having something of
real importance to say. Xenophon wrote with delightful simplicity,
but the quality of his work, the message that he had to deliver, would
have given him a higher place among Roman writers than that which
he holds among the Greek. His position as successor to Thucydides,
and in a way a rival of Plato, is one that he fills but meagerly, for
Thucydides remains without a rival, as the one writer who, by rigidly
suppressing his own personality, has made his personality almost the
most impressive in the whole world of letters.
Xenophon was born in Athens at an uncertain date, though probably
572
XENOPHON.
not far from the beginning of the Peloponnesian war, 431 B.C. He
grew up then a constant witness of the gradual defeat of his native
city, but also under the influence of the great intellectual stimulants
with which that decay was accompanied. He early became a devoted
adherent of Socrates, who was then conveying his lessons to any one
who would listen to him. The story runs that Xenophon first made
the great philosopher's ac-
quaintance in this wise: he
was passing through a narrow
alley- way, when Socrates
barred his passage with a
stick that he held in his hand,
and asked the boy if he
knew where provisions were
sold. " In the market-place,"
was the answer. " And where
are men made good and
noble?" Xenophon had no
answer ready for that, and
Socrates bade him follow him
and learn. The boy appears
to have regarded Socrates as
friend whose advice would be
of service to him, for in the
year 402 B.C., on receiving from
a friend named Proxenus an in-
vitation to come to Sardis and
enter the service of Cyrus,
younger brother of Arta-
xerxes, King of Persia, he con-
sulted Socrates as to the wis-
dom of this course. Socrates
feared that he would get into trouble with the Athenians by allying
himself with Cyrus, who, it was believed, had aided the Spartans in
their war against Athens, hence he advised his young friend to consult
the oracle at Delphi. But Xenophon ingeniously asked Apollo to
what god he should sacrifice in order to accomplish his intended jour-
ney most propitiously, and sacrificed, in obedience, to Zeus the king.
Socrates blamed him for this boyish deceit, but bade him go.
This journey was a most eventful one, and is fully described in
Xenophon's Anabasis. From this book it appears that Cyrus, who
was, as has just been said, the younger brother of Artaxerxes, King of
Persia, feeling himself defrauded of his just rights, determined upon
XENOl'HON.
XENOPHON LEADS THE RETREAT OF THE TEN THOUSAND. 573
making a bold and secret effort to win the crown of that country. For
this purpose he gathered together a force of Greeks, whose military-
skill and bravery were well attested by the defeat of Persia fifty years
before, under the pretense that he meant to make an attack on the
mountaineers of Pisidia. The Greeks were in no way averse to what
promised to be a lucrative campaign, and started off in March or
April, 401 B.C., with no suspicion of the real purpose of their Persian
leader. Cyrus, who was a young man but little over twenty, kept his
counsel well, and distinguished himself from other Oriental potentates
by the exact performance of every promise. He led the band of
about ten thousand men, a number afterwards somewhat increased,
directly inland, and only when they were far from the coast did he
disclose his real purpose. After some little hesitation, the Greeks,
tempted by further liberal promises, decided to push on. The advance
met with no opposition until Cyrus encountered Artaxerxes with his
army at Cunaxa, only about fifty miles distant from Babylonia. Here
a battle was fought in which the Greek contingent was successful, and
the rout of Artaxerxes would have been complete, if a body of Spar-
tans had not disobeyed orders by keeping close to a river instead of
advancing. Cyrus, observing that Artaxerxes was about to make a
flank movement on the victorious body of Greeks that had wholly
swept aside the Persian left, led a charge of his body-guard of six
hundred men against the Persian center where the king was, and in the
attack Cyrus was slain. The ten thousand Greeks now found them-
selves, at the beginning of September, in a strange country, far from
the sea-coast, confronted by a formidable host, and without a leader.
A more diflficult position can not be imagined, especially for the Greeks
with their repugnance to long excursions from the familiar seaboard.
It was at this crisis, when all the Greeks were in absolute despair,
that Xenophon came forward, inspired by a dream of his father's house
being struck by lightning and set on fire, a dream that was like an
oracle in its capacity for opposing explanations. He at once addressed
his fellow-officers, encouraging them not to abandon hope, reminding
them of the previous victories of the Greeks over the Persians, and of
the perils they ran in placing any confidence in such treacherous foes.
They thus plucked up their courage and determined to do their best
to accomplish what had seemed an impossible task. The command
was divided among five officers, Xenophon being one of the two
appointed to take charge of the rear-guard. The next morning the
army began its march, formed in a hollow square, enclosing the baggage.
The retreating forces were much harassed by the Persian cavalry
during the first day, and Xenophon, who was really the soul of the
army, mounted fifty men on baggage-horses with the further aid of
574
XENOPHON.
two hundred expert slingers, a device that was perfectly successful
even when they were attacked by one thousand cavalry and four
thousand archers and slingers. They crossed the Carduchian moun-
tains, fighting uninterruptedly for seven days with the natives, but
freed at last from the more formidable Persian host, and forded the
river Centrites into Armenia. They were now, towards the end of
November, on the high table-lands of that country, exposed to snow-
storms and cold for which they were ill-prepared. Many perished and
all suffered from exposure to the fierceness of the weather, as they
wandered without a guide for six days. When they got down to a
A HOLLOW SQUARE.
lower level, it was but to meet new enemies in the various Georgian
tribes who attacked them on every side. At last from the top of
Mount Theches they got sight of the distant Euxine.
" When the men who were in front," says Xenophon, " had mounted the
height, and looked down upon the sea, a great shout proceeded from them ;
and Xenophon and the rear-guard, when they heard it, thought that some
new enemies were assailing their front. . . . But as the noise still increased,
and drew nearer, and as those who came up from time to time kept running
at full speed to join those who were continually shouting, the cries growing
louder as the men became more numerous, it appeared to Xenophon that it
must be something of very great importance. Mounting his horse, there-
fore, and taking with him Lycius and the cavalry, he hastened forward to
give aid, when presently they heard the soldiers shouting, ' The sea, the sea ! '
and cheering on one another. They then all began to run, the rear-guard
as well as the rest, and the baggage-cattle and horses were put to their speed.
When they had all reached the top the men embraced one another and their
generals and captains with tears in their eyes."
THE SUBJECT OF THE ANABASIS. 575
Their troubles were not over, however, although the obstacles that
immediately threatened them were speedily overcome. The Macrones
were drawn up to resist their march, but among the ten thousand there
happened to be one of that tribe who was able to explain matters to
their satisfaction, so that they aided the progress of the retreating
Greeks. The Colchians persisted in their hostile intent until the Greeks
charged on them, when they relented and fled. The most dangerous
foe that they found hereabout was some poisonous honey that disabled
several of the men for a few days. Two more marches brought the
8600 survivors at last to Trapezus (now Trebizond) where they rested
for a month. Their retreat was now over in February of the year 400
B.C. Thanks in great measure to the tact and ingenuity of Xenophon
they had escaped from a powerful foe, and had survived strange perils
that had at first seemed insuperable. They brought with them not
only a well-earned reputation for bravery, but also abundant testimony
of the weakness of Persia. That empire, with its vast forces and
enormous wealth, had always seemed a dangerous antagonist ; now its
reputation was gone, and although for some time it continued
to subsidize one Greek state against another, its fate was sealed.
Alexander the Great, when he had conquered Greece, conquered
Persia, and put a final blow to all danger. from the old Oriental
monarchies.
The remaining two books of the Anabasis recount the further adven-
tures of this army, which was driven by want to enroll itself among
the forces of the exiled Thracian ruler Seuthes. For two months they
fought successfully, but Seuthes broke his promises, and refused to
make the agreed payments. Xenophon especially aroused his dislike,
and even the soldiers began to detest their old leader, who, however, was
able to win back their confidence. Then messengers arrived from the
Spartan Thibron, inviting them to join him in an attack on their old
enemy Tissaphernes, the Persian satrap. This proposal they accepted
eagerly, especially when Seuthes consented to pay at least a part of
the sum he owed them. But Xenophon, when he left him, was in such
poverty that he had to raise money by selling his horse in Lampsacus.
Soon, however, fortune changed, and, by a lucky turn of events,
Xenophon was able to return to Greece a rich man. This fortunate
result he ascribed to the special interposition of Zeus the Gracious ;
that it was satisfactory, may be gathered from his statement that he
was now able " even to serve a friend." Many of his companions
doubtless returned with him ; those who remained were merged into
the Spartan army that succeeded in freeing many of the Greek cities
in Asia Minor from Persian rule.
The Anabasis has a charm that is not always found in the writings
576 XENOPHON. ,
of Xenophon, in that it describes the author's own adventures and his
own very creditable conduct in the most trying conditions. The style
has a delightful, Bunyan-like simplicity, and the tact with which
Xenophon exercised the Athenian's birthright, the gift of oratory,
renders the book instructive as well as entertaining. The account of
the intrigues that were woven about this formidable little host, which
was rather feared than loved, although much condensed in the abstract
given above, shows Xenophon's skill as well as the disintegrating forces
that were at work in Greece. His future career further illustrates
these baleful processes : within three years after his return he was
fighting under the Lacedaemonian King Agesilaus against the Persians
in Asia Minor and when the Athenians joined hands with the Persians,
he took part in the invasion of northern Greece and fought against
the Athenians and their Theban auxiliaries when they were defeated
at Coroneia, in 394 B.C. For his lack of patriotism he was formally
banished.
Yet this statement proves rather the complexity of Hellenic
politics than any personal treachery of Xenophon's. When govern-
ments perpetually shifted their ground, honorable men might well
regard consistency as something superior to blind allegiance. Xeno-
phon had returned to Athens shortly after the execution of his old
friend Socrates, and of their friendship he left a monument in his
Memorabilia. Moreover Xenophon had an especial admiration for
some of the Spartan qualities, that were now employed against his old
antagonists the Persians, and it must have been with content that he
settled down in the new home granted him by the Lacedaemonians at
Scillus, a village about two miles distant from Olympia. Here he built
an altar and a temple, and found the occupation in which he most
delighted in hunting the abundant game. Here, too, it was that he
wrote his later books. In his old age he was driven out from this
pleasant retreat by war and forced to seek refuge in Corinth. The
Athenians and Spartans were now united against the Thebans, and
his sentence of banishment was repealed. He sent his two sons to
Athens, and both of them fought at Mantineia ; the story runs that
when the news was brought to the aged father, he happened to be
offering a sacrifice, with a garland on his head. This he took off on
hearing the sad tidings, but when he heard that his son had died
nobly, he replaced it, and refused to weep, because, he said, he knew
that his son was mortal. He is said to have died at the age of 90.
IL
Mention has already been made of the Hellenica, or Greek history,
which Xenophon brought down to the battle of Mantineia, but no
THE HELLENICA— QUALITIES OF XENOPHON'S STYLE. 577
abstract can be given of it which shall not be a mere condensation of
the turbid stream of Grecian politics and conflicts. The book tells its
story briefly and simply ; its artless grace was much admired by the
ancients, who called its author the "Attic bee," but it wholly lacks
the fascinating credulity and the serious, childlike earnestness of
Herodotus, as well as the austerer qualities of Thucydides. Indeed,
one might not go wrong in saying that the pleasing moderation of
Xenophon's style, the song of the Attic bee, was the characteristic
note of his temperate thought ; it most harmoniously matched the
comparative tepidity of his intelligence, as that graceful style always
does. We see the same correspondence throughout all literature ; the
somewhat similar ease and grace of Addison were the expression of a
corresponding moderation in the message he had to deliver : civiliza-
tion, decorum, elegance, were the subject of his graceful lessons, and
his style well represented what he had undertaken to preach. A more
serious message requires and secures a more impressive style. This is
what we notice in a comparison between ^schylus and Euripides, one,
as it were, Titan, and the other a man of complex civilization ; the
language of the older poet being as majestic as his sublime thought,
under which he staggers, while the other possesses all fluency that
clear thought alone can give. In Thucydides, again, we notice besides
the clumsiness inherent in the newness of prose, his frequent stumbling
over the intensity and complexity of what he had to say, while Xeno-
phon with his less piercing vision knew no such difUculties. The state-
ment that his style was like Addison's does not contradict this, it
merely enforces its noticeable freedom from obscurity ; its rhythmical,
almost excessive modulations show that it was of course subject to the
conditions that make all literature.
The upshot of this statement is but the affirmation of the undeniable
fact that Xenophon possessed his full share of mediocrity. Thucydides
hides all personal feeling, but his hand trembles with the effort :
Xenophon's impartiality, in the Hellenica at least, is more nearly that
of indifference. Yet in the Memorabilia, in which he records the con-
versation of Socrates, he was certainly not indifferent, and he has left
posterity a most valuable amount of testimony with regard to that
eminent philosopher. Indeed, it is to Pla'to and Xenophon that we
are indebted for by far the largest part of our knowledge of Socrates,
and while Plato has idealized him, Xenophon has possibly erred in the
other direction by neglecting some of the more delicate qualities of
his subtle character. Still the book is of great value, in the first place
because it testifies to the activity of intellectual life among the Greeks,
that an event of so great importance as the execution of Socrates
should have called forth a protest from one of his friends, and,
secondly, because of the information that it gives. The charges that
578 XENOPHON.
were brought against Socrates were twofold — first, that he was guilty
of impiety towards the gods, and secondly, that he was a corrupter of
youth. This is the indictment to which Xenophon pleads. Besides
a general defense of his old friend and teacher, he recites a number of
the conversations of Socrates to show his devotion to the gods, and
the benefits that he did to men of all conditions of life. He makes it
clear that Socrates always sought to distinguish good from evil and to
inculcate righteousness. The conversations are most vividly reported,
with a charming air of reality, and are so arranged in four books as to
cover the various forms of instruction which the philosopher was never
tired of inculcating. Thus, in the first book Xenophon makes mention
of the conversations of Socrates concerning the duties of men towards
the gods ; in the second, on the social relations ; in the third, on public
duties ; in the fourth, he shows how So,crates tried to find out the
capacity of each one of his interlocutors, how it was to be directed,
and how made complete. The whole book sets Socrates in a most
favorable light, and casts a corresponding cloud on the Athenian
democracy. The question that it calls forth will come up again in
discussing Plato, who brings further testimony concerning these events,
and it will then be seen how excellent was the impression made upon
two very different observers by the immortal Socrates. Without
Xenophon's testimony we should be very much in the dark.
III.
The only other one of Xenophon's long works is the Cyropaedia,
or the Education of Cyrus, a historical novel. We have already seen
the Greeks mingling fiction with their history, for in writing the
Anabasis it is fair to presume that the author made over his speeches
with an eye to rhetorical effect, and in this earliest European novel we
find, by a natural transition, a historical basis underlying the story.
Yet the historical basis is very slight ; Cyrus, and the various nations
whom he conquered, and ruled were by no means unfamiliar to the
Greeks, but to use the Cyropaedia as a document for studying the
Persians would be like consulting Rasselas for information concerning
the geography and civil polity of Abyssinia, or pursuing archaeological
investigations with regard to the prehistoric period in Fenelon's Tele-
machus. The persons and names were chosen apparently for no other
reason than that they were on men's lips; the most rigid rule with all
writers is economy of invention. The scene had to be laid in foreign
parts, and Xenophon selected Persia a country that was in people's
thoughts, and one about which he knew something.
The Cyrus who is the hero of the book is an imaginary being, with
THE EDUCATION' OF YOUTH IN ATHENS.
579
no resemblance to the real possessor of that name ; it is his flawless
character, wise education, and subsequent career of uniform success
that compose the story, which seems meant to show an ideal that
Xenophon regards as the most practicable and praiseworthy. Some
of the laws concerning the training of the young which Xenophon
describes are derived from Sparta rather than from Persia. Boys,
until the age of sixteen or seventeen, were brought up together under
a semi-military discipline, learning justice, as Xenophon says, meaning
that they took charge of the various misdemeanors of one another.
inflicting punishment,
and acquiring habits of
self-control. They
moreover began to prac-
tice the use of arms.
During the next ten
years, they hunted wild
beasts and further hard-
ened themselves for war
by athletic exercises.
This training was very
d i ff e r e n t from that
which the young Athe-
nians received, yet its
obvious advantages, as
they seemed to Xeno-
phon, early attracted
his admiration. Pos-
sibly, the fact that he
transferred the system
to Persia, with reckless
disregard of probabili-
ty, goes to show the
aversion of the Athe-
nians to learning from
GREEK HUNTER.
their enemies. In mod-
ern times, as we all
know, it is a persuasive,
if not a sound, argu-
ment, when others fail,
against any needed re-
form in political busi-
ness, that it is English
and so monarchical, or
in education that it is
German and so unprac-
tical. It is easy to
imagine how much more
frequently this unwor-
thy appeal to the pas-
sions must have been
used, when we consider
the vigor of local pre-
judices among the
Greeks, and the fact
that the Athenians were
sore over the disgrace
inflicted upon them by
their successful foes.
Xenophon continually
shows his high opinion of the Athenian system ; as a soldier of
fortune he was free to adopt a lofty cosmopolitanism that was also
encouraged by a desire to help his fellow-countrymen out of their
difficulties. The fate of Socrates must have shown his friends what
further perils resulted from the demoralization of Athens. Even on
its own ground, so to speak, the training of the intellect shows
itself a failure.
Certainly the picture that is drawn of the success of Cyrus was of a
sort to encourage those who agreed with Xenophon regarding educa-
5 So
XENOPHON.
tion. He conquered all his foes without difficulty, and if, as is said,
Alexander the Great learned the weakness of Persia from the Anabasis,
it may not be fanciful to suppose that the Cyropaedia presented him
DISCOBOLUS CASTING.
(In the Palazzo Massimi, Rome.)
a certain sort of ideal representation of a great conqueror which he
undertook to verify in his own life, just as the great Spanish generals
who won possession of Mexico imitated the spirit that inspired the
CYRUS AND ALEXANDER THE GREAT.
581
fantastic romances on which their youth had been nourished. If this
is the case, Alexander indubitably followed a good model, for Cyrus is
as wise, discreet, and intelligent a ruler as any crown-prince ever
DISCOBOLUS RESTING.
(/« the Vatican.)
promised to be. Besides the notion of universal dominion which was
shared by Cyrus and Alexander, we find other coincidences that sup-
port this hypothesis. Thus, the self-restraint which Cyrus in the
582 XENOPHON.
Story imposed upon himself with regard to the beautiful Panthea — an
incident that forms the first love-tale in European literature — was
repeated by Alexander in his chivalrous treatment of the wife of
Darius, who was said to be the most beautiful woman in Asia. When
Alexander punished Batis by dragging him tied to the tail of his
chariot in imitation of the indignity inflicted by Achilles on the body
of Hector, in the Iliad, he openly showed the same spirit ; it is cer-
tainly possible that he might have been also influenced by a romance
which seemed to prophesy his success. In his treatment of his con-
quered foes, winning them to his side by tact and generosity, he also
resembled the imaginary Cyrus, as well as in his sympathy with
philosophers and men of learning.
The book was probably more or less inspired by Xenophon's
intimacy with Socrates ; it at any rate contains an undoubted allusion
to his death in a scene representing Tigranes, the son of the Armenian
chief, in conversation with Cyrus. That great man asks him what had
become of a certain sophist with whom he had seen him ; Tigranes
tells him that his father had put him to death. "And why?" "Out
of jealousy, Cyrus," answered the Armenian father, " I could not help
hating that man, because I thought he was stealing my son's heart
away from me. My son admired him more than he did me." This
was the very ground on which was made the basis of the accusation
against Socrates, that he taught sons to hate their fathers. And in
his farewell speech upon his death-bed, Cyrus expresses his belief in
the immortality of the soul in a way that reminds the reader of the
Apology of Socrates. Possibly in other places Xenophon repeats the
words of his master, extending his influence in a very different way
from that in which Plato immortalized his name, but with perhaps
more effect. The book was much admired in antiquity, and even now
it is infinitely more readable than hosts of romances that have lived
their day of popularity ; and however it may have been with Alexander
the Great, we know that Cicero recommended it to his brother Quintus
as a manual of wise instruction for a ruler, and that it was a favorite
of Scipio Africanus.
IV.
The Apology of Socrates, of which mention has just been made, is
one of the many minor books of Xenophon that have floated down to
us with all the security of mediocrity when far more important works
have wholly perished. It consists of a speech ascribed to Socrates in
which he defends himself against his accusers, and explains his willing-
ness to meet his death. Unfortunately the genuineness of the Apology
THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES.
583
is extremely doubtful. Socrates again appears as a prominent person
in the Symposium, or Banquet, which represents a fashionable supper-
party at Athens, where the great philosopher turns the conversation
with ease and eloquence into good advice for his young friends. Plato,
as we shall see, wrote another Banquet, in which Socrates was the first
figure, but he lent it another and profounder quality than that which
Xenophon gave to his charming sketch. In the book on Husbandry,
again, we find Socrates taking an important part in the conversation
regarding what is the oldest as well, perhaps, as the crudest of sciences.
The book is attractive, and possibly it was from the method here
employed by Xenophon that Plato conceived the notion of his Socratic
dialogues. Here, however, we find Socrates represented in a very
different light from that in which the later writer has set him. He is
a model of domestic wisdom and kindliness. The book presents an
attractive picture of the rustic life of the old Greeks, and was highly
esteemed by the Romans.
Besides these writings we have Xenophon's enthusiastic eulogy of
Agesilaus, the Spartan, admiration of Spartan ways being one of this
author's characteristics; an imaginary conversation between Hiero,
tyrant of Syracuse, and Simonides, in which the miseries of a despot's
life are portrayed ; political essays on Lacedsemonia and Athens ; and
HORSE-TRAINING.
an essay on the training of a horse and similar subjects, in which he
repeats his familiar praise of hunting and exercise as training for the
young. Much that he says is as true now and as valuable as on the
day it was written. Such, for example, is the undeniably sound advice
not to approach a horse when under the influence of anger; for anger
is thoughtless and leads men to actions which they afterwards repent.
Xenophon's message at the best was not a great one, but he repeated
and impressed it so carefully on his readers that his influence was great
and lasting. Indeed, his very moderation and unfailing grace have
THE SPARTAN AND ATHENIAN POLITICAL SYSTEMS. 585
always found him admirers, while greater, stronger men have had to
live through periods of indifference or actual obloquy. No one is
really great with impunity; a time will come when majesty is held to
be roughness; naturalness, offensive simplicity ; eloquence bombast ;
but good-nature and grace, even if they arouse no enthusiasm, are
always pleasing, and it is probably to the possession of these qualities
that Xenophon owes a good part of his reputation. He at least never
offends.
More than this, the ready intelligibility of his language is but a sign
of the clearness and simplicity of his thought, and this is never tired
of busying itself with the attractiveness and the utility of a life of
virtue. He is not a moralist who leads enthusiastic disciples to exalted
heights of renunciation and unselfishness, but rather a sort of Greek
Franklin whose ideal is a good citizen. Not every one when fretted
by worldly cares and disappointments can recall the lofty truths which
only unfold their inspiring secret after long and arduous contemplation,
but Xenophon's principle, that virtue, happiness, and beauty are three
faces of a single truth, is readily grasped and assimilated. The world,
too, was ready to approve another of the main inspirations of his work,
namely, his unconcealed admiration for the civil polity that gave
strength to Sparta in its struggle with Athens. The conflict between
those two civilizations was a many-sided one ; it was due not merely
to the natural hostility of one state to another, to the simple objection
of one powerful nation to the leadership of a rival, but it was embit-
tered by jealousy and by the instinctive dislike that an aristocracy
always feels for its democratic neighbors. Instances abound in modern
history, as in the feeling of the imperial governments of the Continent
for England and America. This last Avas a most important element,
not merely in the Peloponnesian war, but in its continued effect upon
men's minds for many generations.
Sparta was an aristocracy, and possessed what we may call a strong
government which demanded and kept a firm hold upon every citizen.
Athens was a democracy resting on wholly opposite principles, when
the freedom of the individual citizen was the corner-stone of its civic
existence. We are mainly concerned at this moment with its influence
upon literature, and we have seen what this was in the study of the
magnificent works wherein the eager life of the time found expression.
Xenophon, however, was an aristocrat by birth and by feeling, and the
views that he expressed with ingenuity regarding the superiority of
the Spartan to the Athenian political system became common in
Athens as a natural result of the excesses of the democracy and of its
defeat in the war. The unjust death of Socrates had an enormous
effect in forming men's opinions ; and the general overthrow of all that
586 XENOPHON.
was held precious produced the same result that repeated itself in
modern history with men like Wordsworth, who hailed the French
Revolution with delight, and were afterwards horrified into the con-
demnation of their earlier raptures. Henceforth Athens was a divided
city, torn by intestine strife, or at least by divergent counsels, with the
aristocracy and the democracy regarding each other with active hos-
tility. It lost its previous magnificent unity ; how much this was
imperilled in the Peloponnesian war has been evident in the hostility
that Aristophanes showed to Euripides. That schism extended further
until the Athenian democracy failed, as we judge human failure, and
in the futile arguments of Demosthenes, in the equally powerless
eloquence of Socrates, we shall find further illustrations of the hopeless-
ness of all attempts to make over the past as we have already seen it
in the plays of Aristophanes.
Xenophon's repugnance to the democracy was, however, not a mere
personal quality of his own, but also in great measure an expression
of the natural change of sentiments which was coming over a whole
generation of men. Instances of its power with him abound in all his
works, as in the veiled encomiums of Sparta in his imaginary pictures
of Persia, and throughout the Hellenica when he has occasion to point
out the excesses of the democracy in contrast with the greater wisdom
of the aristocracy. Thus, when he had to speak of a massacre at
Corinth, where a number of nobles were put to death, he felt and
expressed all the repugnance that would have animated an Englishman
at the beginning of this century when he spoke of the French Revolu-
tion. To be sure, Xenophon condemns the bloody vengeance that
the Thirty Tyrants in Athens took upon the democracy, but it is only
with temperate and cooler indignation. Generally, to be sure, it is
Sparta that receives all the praise, not from treachery or a disgraceful
lack of patriotism, but simply because the Lacedaemonians were the
best representatives of the party of law and order. Their principles
appeared to be the only ones that could save Greece from anarchy,
and to advocate them seemed to Xenophon the direct duty of an
honest man who had the good of his country at heart. It was not a
new influx of brotherly love that brought Russians, Austrians, Prus-
sians, and Englishmen to unite against Napoleon Bonaparte, but a
desire to save society; and, too, in the case before us, after the failure
of democracy, aristocratic principles held out the only hope of escaping
ruin, and strict adherence to Athens was, in the eyes of Xenophon and
the many who agreed with him, only a narrow and pernicious interpre-
tation of real duty to their country. Its liberty, it was thought, was
merely licentiousness ; the universal right of speech seemed to give
room for the power of demagogues; the rule of the multitude was
SPARTAN SUPREMACY— XENOPHON' S ARISTOCRATIC VIEWS. 587
mob rule, and in comparison no praise was too warm for the institu-
tions of Sparta, which kept the citizens, from infancy to old age, bound
up in in a narrow circle of clearly defined duties, and left the supreme
control in the hands of a small, select number of men. Thenceforth,
we may see the prevalence of these views not merely in Athens, where
it prevailed against the fervid eloquence of Demosthenes, and so
opened the gates to the Macedonians, but throughout the entire
civilization of the subsequent ages. It does not cover the ground to
say that Xenophon laconized, as they called it, or became an adherent
of Sparta ; the whole world laconized. It looked with horror on a
method of government which had failed completely and ended in
violence and anarchy. To be sure, the material power of Sparta lasted
for but a very short time, and its defeat at Leuktra, in 371 B.C.,
destroyed many of the hopes that had gathered around it, but the
underlying spirit of confidence in aristocracy and of distrust in democ-
racy survived the downfall of its strongest supporter. The condition
of Athens was not materially improved by the overthrow of Sparta,
and the fate of the city served as a solemn warning against all
sympathy with democracy. A chapter of human experience seemed
closed.
In Xenophon the world saw a man who was a powerful and eloquent
ally of their cause, and, naturally enough, every effort was made to
point out his importance. He had the good fortune to express what
was the animating principle of future civilizations, namely, absolute
confidence in a strong government, and a Greek who spoke words of
what seemed the highest wisdom was sure to be admired, especially
when he brought to this side some of the authority which had been
acquired by men with very different views. Some of the light of those
who lived before him in happier days still illuminated him ; he held
an important position as the man who continued the history of
Thucydides, as the biographer of Socrates, and that gave added
weight to the writer who pointed out the path which the world was
to follow for many centuries. It is also interesting to notice how well
he represents the best side of what we may call the aristocratic party.
Wit, grace, unfailing decorum, what is called good sense, are his char-
acteristic qualities ; they found him enthusiastic admirers in Rome
and preserved his popularity in modern times so long as men felt that
material security and literary charm rested on a common groundwork
of conventionality which it would be indiscreet to examine too closely.
He was admirably fitted to retain the position which he soon acquired
as the favorite of men whose views of the world were like his own,
and it is to his excellence as a representative of what in comparison
with the greatest men who preceded him is mediocrity that he owes his
588 XENOPHON.
long-lived fame. He was safe in the possession of what appeared to
be worldly wisdom, and whatever one may think of his principles, this
fact, that was so long the ideal of intelligence and security, gives
Xenophon a historical importance which no change of opinions can
ever justly deny him. The world will never learn anything by shut-
ting its eyes to facts, past or present.
V.
THE DEATH-BED OF CYRUS THE ELDER.
FROM THE CYROP^DIA, BOOK VIII., CHAP. VII.
After he had thus spent some considerable time, Cyrus, now in a very
advanced age, takes a journey into Persia, which was the seventh from the
acquisition of his empire, when his father and mother had probably been
for some time dead. Cyrus made the usual sacrifices, and danced the
Persian dance, according to the custom of his country, and distributed to
every one presents, as usual. Then, being asleep in the royal palace, he
had the following dream. There seemed to advance towards him a person
with more than human majesty in his air and countenance, and to say to
him : " Cyrus, prepare yourself, for you are now going to the gods ! "
After this appearance in his dream he awaked, and seemed assured that
his end drew near. Therefore, taking along with him the victims, he sacri-
ficed on the summit of a mountain (as is the custom in Persia) to Jove
paternal, the Sun, and the rest of the gods, accompanying the sacrifices
with this prayer :
" O Jove, Paternal Sun, and all ye gods ! receive these sacrifices, as the
completion of many worthy and handsome actions ; and as grateful acknowl-
edgments for having signified to me, both by the victims, by celestial signs,
by birds, and by omens, what became me to do, and not to do. And I abun-
dantly return you thanks, that I have been sensible of your care and protec-
tion ; and that, in the course of my prosperity, I never was exalted above
what became a man. I implore you now to bestow all happiness on my
children, my wife, my friends, and my country ; and for myself, that I may
die as I have always lived."
When he had finished his sacrifices and prayer he returned home, and
finding himself disposed to be quiet, he lay down. At a certain hour proper
persons attended, and offered him to wash. He told them that he had rested
very well. Then, at another hour, proper officers brought him his supper;
but Cyrus had no appetite to eat, but seemed thirsty, and drank with
pleasure. And continuing thus the second and third days, he sent for his
sons, who, as it happened, had attended their father, and were then in
Persia. He summoned likewise his friends, and the magistrates of Persia.
When they were all met, he began in this manner :
" Children, and all of you, my friends, here present ! the conclusion of my
life is now at hand, which I certainly know from many symptoms. You
ought, when I am dead, to act and speak of me in everything as a happy
man ; for, when I was a child, I seemed to have received advantage from
what is esteemed worthy and handsome in children ; so likewise, when I was
EXTRACT FROM THE CYROP^DIA. 589
a youth, from what is esteemed so in young men ; so. when I came to be a
man, from what is esteemed worthy and handsome in men. And I have
always seemed to observe myself increase with time in strength and vigour,
so that I have not found myself weaker or more infirm in my old age than
in my youth. Neither do I know that I have desired or undertaken any-
thing in which I have not succeeded. By my means my friends have
been made happy, and my enemies enslaved ; and my country, at first
inconsiderable in Asia, I leave in great reputation and honour. Neither do
I know that I have not preserved whatever I acquired. And though, in
time past, all things have succeeded according to my wishes, yet an appre-
hension lest, in process of time, I should see, hear, or suffer some difficulty,
has not suffered me to be too much elated, or too extravagantly delighted.
Now if I die, I leave you, children, behind me, (whom the gods have given
me,) and I leave my country and my friends happy. Ought not I therefore,
in justice, to be always remembered, and mentioned as fortunate and happy ?
I must likewise declare to whom I leave my kingdom, lest that being doubtful
should hereafter raise dissensions among you. Now, children, I bear an
equal affection to you both ; but I direct that the elder should have the
advising and conducting of affairs, as his age requires, and it is probable he
has more experience. And as I have been instructed by my country and
yours to give place to those elder than myself, not only brothers, but fellow-
citizens, both in walking, sitting, and speaking ; so have I instructed you,
from your youth, to show a regard to your elders, and to receive the like
from such as were inferior to you in age ; receive then this disposition as
ancient, customary, and legal. Do you therefore, Cambyses, hold the king-
dom as allotted you by the gods, and by me, so far as it is in my power.
To you, Tanoaxares, I bequeath the satrapy of the Medes, Armenians, and
Cadusians ; which when I allot you, I think I leave your elder brother a
larger empire, and the title of a kingdom, but to you a happiness freer from
care and vexation : for I do not see what human satisfaction you can need ;
but you will enjoy whatever appears agreeable and pleasing to men. An
affection for such things as are difficult to execute, a multitude of pains, and
an impossibility of being quiet, anxiety from an emulation of my actions,
forming designs yourself and having designs formed against you : these are
things which must more necessarily attend a king than one in your station ;
and be assured these give many interruptions to pleasure and satisfaction.
Know, therefore, Cambyses, that it is not the golden sceptre which can pre-
serve your kingdom ; but faithful friends are a prince's truest and securest
sceptre. But do not imagine that men are naturally faithful (for then they
would appear so to all, as other natural endowments do), but every one must
render others faithful to himself : and they are not to be procured by vio-
lence, but rather by kindness and beneficence. If therefore you would con-
stitute other joint guardians with you of your kingdom, whom can you better
begin with than him who is of the same blood with yourself ? and fellow-
.citizens are nearer to us than strangers, and those who live and eat with us,
than those that do not. And those who have the same original, who have
been nourished by the same mother, and grown up in the same house, and
beloved by the same parents, and who call on the same father and mother,
are not they, of all others, the nearest to us? Do you not therefore render
those advantages fruitless, by which the gods unite brothers in affinity and
relation ; but to those advantages add other friendly offices, and by that
means your friendship will be reciprocally solid and lasting. The taking
59° XENOPHON.
care of a brother is providing for oneself. To whom can the advancement
of a brother be equally honourable, as to a brother ? Who can show a regard
to a great and powerful man equal to his brother? Who will fear to injure
another, so much as him whose brother is in an exalted station ? Be there-
fore second to none in submission and good-will to your brother, since no
one can be so particularly serviceable or injurious to you. And I would
have you consider how you can hope for greater advantages by obliging any
one so much as him? Or whom can you assist that will be so powerful an
ally in war? Or what is more infamous than want of friendship between
brothers ? Whom of all men, can we so handsomely pay regard to as to a
brother ? In a word, Cambyses, your brother is the only one you can advance
next to your person without the envy of others. Therefore, in the name of
the gods, children, have regard for one another, if you are careful to do what
is acceptable to me. For you ought not to imagine, you certainly know,
that after I have closed this period of human life, I shall no longer exist :
for neither do you now see my soul, but you conclude, from its operations,
that it does exist. And have you not observed what terrors and apprehen-
sions murderers are inspired with by those who have suffered violence from
them ? What racks and torture do they convey to the guilty ? Or how do
you think honours should have continued to be paid to the deceased, if their
souls were destitute of all power and virtue ? No, children, I can never be
persuaded that the soul lives no longer than it dwells in this mortal body,
and that it dies on its separation ; for I see that the soul communicates
vigour and motion to mortal bodies during its continuance in them. Neither
can I be persuaded that the soul is divested of intelligence on its separation
from this gross, senseless body ; but it is probable that when the soul is
separated, it becomes pure and entire, and then is more intelligent. It is
evident that, on man's dissolution, every part of him returns to what is of
the same nature with itself, except the soul ; that alone is invisible, both
during its presence here, and at its departure. And you may have observed
that nothing resembles death so much as sleep ; but then it is that the human
soul appears most divine, and has a prospect of futurity ; for then it is pro-
bable that the soul is most free and independent. If therefore things are as
I think, and that the soul leaves the body, having regard to my soul, comply
with my request. But if it be otherwise, and that the soul continuing in the
body perishes with it, let nothing appear in your thoughts or actions criminal
or impious, for fear of the gods, who are eternal, whose power and inspection
extend over all things, and who preserve the harmony and order of the
universe free from decay or defect, whose greatness and beauty is inexplic-
able ! Next to the gods, have regard to the whole race of mankind in per-
petual succession : for the gods have not concealed you in obscurity ; but
there is a necessity that your actions should be conspicuous to the world.
If they are virtuous, and free from injustice, they will give you power and
interest in all men ; but if you project what is unjust against each other, no
man will trust you ; for no one can place a confidence in you, though his
inclination to it be ever so great, when he sees you unjust, where it most
becomes you to be a friend. If therefore I have not rightly instructed you
what you ought to be to one another, learn it from those who lived before
our time, for that will be the best lesson. For there are many who have
lived affectionate parents to their children, and friends to their brothers ;
and some there are who have acted the opposite part towards each other.
Whichsoever of these you shall observe to have been most advantageous,
CYRUS THE YOUNGER: FROM THE ANABASIS. 591
you will do well in giving it the preference in your choice. But perhaps this
is sufficient as to these matters. When I am dead, children, do not enshrine
my body in gold, nor in silver, nor anything else ; but lay it in the earth as
soon as possible ; for what can be more happy than to mix with the earth,
which gives birth and nourishment to all things excellent and good ? And
as I have always hitherto borne an affection for men, so it is now most
pleasing to me to incorporate with that which is beneficial to men. Now,"
said he, " it seems to me that my soul is beginning to leave me, in the same
manner as it is probable it begins its departure with others. If therefore
any of you are desirous of touching my right hand, or willing to see my face
while it has life, come near to me : for, when I shall have covered it, I
request, of you, children, that neither yourselves, nor any others, would look
on my body. Summon all the Persians and their allies before my tomb, to
rejoice for me ; that I shall be then out of danger of suffering any evil,
whether I shall be with the gods, or shall be reduced to nothing. As many
as come, do you dismiss with all those favours that are thought proper for a
happy man. And," said he, *' remember this as my last and dying words.
If you do kindnesses to your friends, you will be able to injure your enemies.
Farewell, dear children, and tell this to your mother as from me. And all
you, my friends, both such of you as are here present, and the rest who are
absent — farewell ! " Having said this, and taken every one by the right
hand, he covered himself, and thus expired.
THE VICTORY AND DEATH OF CYRUS THE YOUNGER.
FROM THE ANABASIS. BOOK I., CHAP. VIII.
It was now about the time of day when the market is usually crowded,
the army being near the place where they proposed to encamp, when Patagyas,
a Persian, one of those whom Cyrus most confided in, was seen riding towards
them full speed, his horse all in a sweat, and he calling to every one he met,
both in his own language and in Greek, that the king was at hand with a vast
army, marching in order of battle ; which occasioned a general confusion
among the Greeks, all expecting he would charge them before they had put
themselves in order : but Cyrus, leaping from his car, put on his corselet,
then, mounting his horse, took his javelins in his hand, ordered all the rest to
arm, and every man to take his post : by virtue of which command they
quickly formed themselves, Clearchus on the right wing close to the Eu-
phrates, next to him Proxenus, and after him the rest : Menon and his men
were posted on the left of the Greek army. Of the Barbarians, a thousand
Paphlagonian horse, with the Greek targeteers, stood next to Clearchus on
the right : upon the left Ariaeus, Cyrus's lieutenant-general, was placed with
the rest of the Barbarians ; they had large corselets and cuirasses, and all of
them helmets but Cyrus, who placed himself in the centre with six hundred
horse, and stood ready for the charge, with his head unarmed : in which
manner, they say, it is also customary for the rest of the Persians to expose
themselves in a day of action : all the horses in Cyrus's army had both front-
lets and breast-plates, and the horsemen Greek swords.
It was now in the middle of the day, and no enemy was yet to be seen ;
but in the afternoon there appeared a dust like a white cloud which not long
after spread itself like a darkness over the plain ! when they drew nearer,
the brazen armour flashed, and their spears and ranks appeared, having on
their left a body of horse armed in white corselets, (said to be commanded
592 XE NOP HON.
by Tissaphernes) and followed by those with Persian bucklers, besides heavy-
armed men with wooden shields, reaching down to their feet, (said to be
Egyptians) and other horse, and archers, all which marched according to
their respective countries, each nation being drawn up in a solid oblong
square ; and before them were disposed, at a considerable distance from one
another, chariots armed with scythes fixed aslant at the axle-trees, with
others under the body of the chariot, pointing downwards, that so they might
cut asunder everything they encountered, by driving them among the ranks
of the Greeks to break them ; but it now appeared that Cyrus was greatly
mistaken when he exhorted the Greeks to withstand the shouts of the Bar-
barians ; for they did not come on with shouts, but as silently and quietly as
possible, and in an equal and slow march. Here Cyrus riding along the
ranks with Pigres the interpreter, and three or four others, commanded
Clearchus to bring his men opposite to the centre of the enemy, (because
the king was there,) saying, "If we break that, our work is done"; but
Clearchus observing their centre, and understanding from Cyrus that the
king was beyond the left wing of the Greek army, (for the king was so much
superior in number, that, when he stood in the centre of his own army, he
was beyond the left wing to that of Cyrus,) Clearchus, I say, would not
however be prevailed on to withdraw his right from the river, fearing to be
surrounded on both sides ; but answered Cyrus he would take care all should
go well.
Now the Barbarians came regularly on ; and the Greek army standing on
the same ground, the ranks were formed as the men came up ; in the mean
time, Cyrus riding at a small distance before the ranks, surveying both the
enemy's army and his own, was observed by Xenophon, an Athenian, who
rode up to him, and asked whether he had anything to command : Cyrus,
stopping his horse, ordered him to let them ail know that the sacrifices and
victims promise success.
While he was saying this, upon hearing a horse running through the ranks,
he asked him what it meant ? Xenophon answered, that the word was now
giving for the second time ; Cyrus, wondering who should give it, asked
him what the word was: the other replied, "Jupiter the preserver, and
victory"; Cyrus replied, "I accept it, let that be the word," after which he
immediately returned to his post, and the two armies being now within three
or four stadia of each other, the Greeks sung the pgean, and began to advance
against the enemy ; but the motion occasioning a small fluctuation in the
line of battle, those who were left behind hastened their march, and at once
gave a general shout, as their custom is when they invoke the god of war,
and all ran forward, striking their shields with their pikes (as some say) to
frighten the enemy's horses : so that, before the Barbarians came within
reach of their darts, they turned their horses and fled, but. the Greeks pur-
sued them as fast as they could, calling out to one another not to run, but to
follow in their ranks ; some of the chariots were borne through their own
people without their charioteers, others through the Greeks, some of whom,
seeing them coming, divided ; while others, being amazed, like spectators in
the Hippodrome, were taken unawares, but even these were reported to have
received no harm, neither was there any other Greek hurt in the action,
except one upon the left wing, who was said to have been wounded by an
arrow.
Cyrus seeing the Greeks victorious on their side, rejoiced in pursuit of the
enemy, and was already worshipped as king by those about him ; however,
ARES (LUDOVICI).
( The God of War.)
594 XENOPHON.
he was not so far transported as to leave his post and join in the pursuit :
but, keeping his six hundred horse in a body, observed the king's motions,
well knowing that he was in the centre of the Persian army, for in all Bar-
barian armies the generals ever place themselves in the centre, looking upon
that post as the safest, on each side of which their strength is equally divided ;
and if they have occasion to give out any orders, they are received in half
the time by the army. The king, therefore, being at that time in the centre
of his own battle, was, however, beyond the left wing of Cyrus ; and, when
he saw none oppose him in front, nor any motion made to charge the
troops that were drawn up before him, he wheeled to the left in order to
surround their army ; whereupon Cyrus, fearing he should get behind him,
and cut off the Greeks, advanced against the king, and charging with his
six hundred horse broke those who were drawn up before him, put the six
thousand men to flight, and, as they say, killed Artaxerxes, their commander,
with his own hand.
These being broken, and the six hundred belonging to Cyrus dispersed in
the pursuit, very few were left about him, and those almost all persons who
used to eat at his table : however, upon discovering the king properly
attended, and unable to contain himself, immediately cried out, " I see the
man ! " then ran furiously at him, and, striking him on the breast, wounded
him through his corselet, (as Ctesias the physician says, who affirms that he
cured the wound,) having, while he was giving the blow, received a wound
under the eye, from somebody, who threw a javelin at him with great force ;
at the same time, the king and Cyrus engaged hand to hand, and those about
them, in defence of each. In this action Ctesias (who was with the king)
informs us how many fell on his side ; on the other, Cyrus himself was
killed, and eight of his most considerable friends lay dead upon him. When
Artapates, who was in the greatest trust with Cyrus of any of his sceptred
ministers, saw him fall, they say, he leaped from his horse, and threw himself
about him ; when (as some say) the king ordered him to be slain upon the
body of Cyrus ; though others assert that, drawing his scimitar, he slew
himself ; for he wore a golden scimitar, a chain, bracelets, and other
ornaments which are worn by the most considerable Persians ; and was held
in great esteem by Cyrus, both for his affection and fidelity.
HELLENICA. ''THE FINAL DEFEAT OF ATHENS."
BOOK II., CHAP. II.
At Athens, where the Paralus arrived in the night, the calamity was told,
and a scream of lamentation ran up from the Piraeus through the long walls
into the city, one person repeating the news to another ; insomuch that no
single soul that night could take any rest, not merely for lamenting those
who were lost, but much more for reflecting what themselves in all pro-
bability were soon to suffer — the like no doubt as themselves had inflicted
upon the Melians, when they had reduced by siege that colony of the Lace-
daemonians, on the Istians also, and Scioneans, and Toroneans, and ^ginetse,
and many other people in Greece. The next day they summoned a general
assembly, in which " it was resolved to barricade all their harbours excepting
one, to repair their walls, to fix proper watches, and prepare the city in all
respects for a siege." All hands accordingly were immediately at work.
Lysander, who now from the Hellespont was come to Lesbos with two
hundred sail, took in and re-settled the cities in that island, and especially
THE SIEGE OF ATHENS: FROM THE HELLENICA. 595
Mitylene. He also sent away to the towns of Thrace ten ships commanded
by Eteonicus, who reduced everything there into subjection to the Lace-
daemonians. But immediately after the fight at ^gos-potamos all Greece
revolted from the Athenians, excepting Samos. At Samos the people,
having massacred the nobility, held the city for the Athenians.
In the next place, Lysander sent notice to Agis at Decelea, and to Lace-
dsemon, that " he is sailing up with two hundred ships." The Lacedaemonians
immediately took the field with their own force, as did the rest of the Pelo-
ponnesians, except the Argives, upon receiving the order circulated by Pau-
sanias the other king of Lacedaemon. When they were all assembled, he
marched away at their head, and encamped them under the walls of Athens,
SOLDIERS BUILDING A WALL.
in the place of exercise called the Academy. But Lysander, when come up
to vEgina, collected together all the ^ginetae he could possibly find, and
replaced them in their city. He did the same to the Melians, and to the
other people who formerly had been dispossessed. In the next place, having
laid Salamis waste, he stationed himself before the Piraeus with a hundred
and fifty ships, and prevented all kind of embarkations from entering that
harbour.
The Athenians, thus besieged both by land and sea, and destitute of ships,
of allies, and of provisions, were miserably perplexed how to act. They
judged they had nothing to expect but suffering what without provocation
themselves had made others suffer, when they wantonly tyrannized over petty
states, and for no other reason in the world than because they were con-
federate with the state of Lacedaemon. From these considerations, after
restoring to their full rights and privileges such as were under the sentence
of infamy, they persevered in holding out ; and though numbers began to
die for want of meat, they would not bear any motion of treating. But when
their corn began totally to fail, they sent ambassadors to Agis, offering " to
become confederates with the Lacedaemonians, reserving to themselves the
long walls and the Piraeus," and on these terms would accept an accom-
modation. Yet Agis ordered them to repair to Lacedaemon, since he himself
had no power to treat. When the ambassadors had reported this answer to
the Athenians, they ordered them to go to Lacedaemon. But when they
were arrived at Seliasia on the frontier of Laconia, and the ephori were
informed " they were to offer no other proposals than had been made by
Agis," they sent them an order " to return to Athens, and when they heartily
desired peace, to come again with more favourable instructions." When
therefore the ambassadors returned to Athens, and had reported these things
THE SURRENDER OF ATHENS. 597
to the State, a universal despondency ensued ; " slavery," they judged,
" must unavoidably be their portion ; and whilst they were sending another
embassy numbers would die of famine." No one durst yet presume to
advise the demolition of the wails ; since Archestratus, who had only hinted
in the senate that " it would be best for them to make peace on such terms
as the Lacedaemonians proposed," had immediately been thrown into prison.
But the Lacedaemonians proposed that *' each of the long walls should be
demolished to the length of ten stadia "; and a decree had been passed that
" such a proposal should never be debated."
In this sad situation, Theramenes offered to the general assembly that
" if they would let him go to Lysander he could inform them, at his return,
whether the Lacedaemonians insisted on the demolition of the walls with a
view entirely to enslave them, or by way of security only for their future be-
haviour." He was ordered to go ; and he stayed more than three months
with Lysander, waiting till a total want of provision should necessitate the
Athenians to agree to any proposal whatever. But on his return in the
fourth month, he reported to the general assembly that ** Lysander had de-
tained him all this time, and now orders him to go to Lacedaemon, since he
had no power to settle the points of accommodation, which could only be
done by the ephori." Upon this he was chosen with nine others to go am-
bassador-plenipotentiary to Lacedaemon, Lysander sent Aristotle, an
Athenian, but under sentence of exile, in company with other Lacedaemo-
nians, to the ephori, to assure them that " he had referred Theramenes to
them, who alone were empowered to make peace and war." When therefore
Theramenes and the other ambassadors were arrived at Sellasia, and were
asked — " What instructions they had ? " — their answer was, — " They had full
powers to make a peace." Upon this the ephori called them to an audi-
ence ; and on their arrival at Sparta they summoned an assembly, in which
the Corinthians and Thebans distinguished themselves above all others,
though several joined in their sentiments. They averred that '' the Athen-
ians ought to have no peace at all, but should be utterly destroyed." The
Lacedemonians declared, " they would never enslave a Grecian city that
had done such positive service to Greece in the most perilous times." Ac-
cordingly they granted a peace on condition " they should demolish the
long walls and the Piraeus, should deliver up all their ships except twelve,
should recall their exiles, should have the same friends and the same foes
with the Lacedaemonians, and follow them at command either by land or
sea." Theramenes and his colleagues returned to Athens with these condi-
tions of peace. At their entering the city a crowd of people flocked about
them, fearing they had been dismissed without anything done : for their
present situation would admit of no delay at all, such numbers were perish-
ing by famine. On the day following, the ambassadors reported the terms
on which the Lacedaemonians grant a peace. Theramenes was their mouth
on this occasion, and assured them " they had no resource left, but to obey
the Lacedaemonians and demolish the walls." Some persons spoke against,
but a large majority declaring for it, it was resolved " to accept the
peace."
In pursuance of this, Lysander stood into the Piraeus, and the exiles re-
turned into the city. They demolished the walls with much alacrity, music
playing all the time, since they judged this to be the first day that Greece
was free.
BOOK v.— THE ORATORS.
CHAPTER I.— THE EARLY ORATORS AND ISOCRATES.
I. — The Difference between Ancient and Modern Notions of the Function of Elo-
quence. Our Theories Mainly Derived from Roman Declamation. The Greek
Methods Different. II. — Development of Oratory Among the Greeks. The Influ-
ence of the Sophists ; the Varying Opinions concerning these Teachers. Their
Instruction in Philosophy, Rhetoric, and Physics. III. — The Growth of Dialectic in
Sicily. The Early Teachers, and Their Modification of the Greek Prose Style.
Its Imitation of Poetical Models, Compared with Euphuism. IV. — Antiphon, An-
dokides, Lysias ; Isocrates and his Artificial Style. His Political Yearnings.
Isasos. The Diversity of Athenian Politics Expressed in the Oratory of Isocrates
and in his Cunning Art. Its Literary Quality.
I.
THE Greek tragedies and histories which we have discussed above
make very clear the prominence that oratory held among the
Athenians. Yet, as was said before with regard to the speeches of
Thucydides, we mean something different from the Greek conception
of oratory, when we make mention of modern eloquence. There are
signs that oratory is out of favor with us. Just as poets no longer go
about reciting their compositions, orators have felt the influence of
the printing-press, and for every thousand who stand in a hot hall and
hear them, there are ten or a hundred thousand, at least, who read the
speeches in the next morning's paper. Hence we notice a change in
an orator's method when we compare this with what we know of a
century ago. Passages which might give a hearer a momentary thrill
are cold and ineffectual in type, and there is a remote, old-fashioned
flavor about appeals to passion which are less effectual than reasonable
statements and explanation. This change, if it does actually exist, is
simply an indication of the decay of the Roman influence and of its
giving ground before the sounder spirit of the Greeks. The Roman
orators — Cicero, for example — were apt to indulge in violent outbursts
of rhetorical passion unknown to their celebrated predecessors, and
of a kind that would be impossible in any modern forensic discussion.
Instances of this will be found later. Yet in Rome at the Augustan
age, the question with regard to the relative merits of the Attic moder-
ation, and of the later Asiatic exaggeration had been decided in the
ANCIENT AND MODERN IDEAS OF ELOQUENCE. 599
favor of the first, along with the general interest in Greek things. Even
with this decision, however, the Romans were not wholly Hellenized ;
not every one who wishes can become a Greek, and it was impossible
for the Romans to acquire by effort all that their happier models had
by nature. What is the property of only a small class — as was the case
with Roman eloquence, that belonged only to a few trained patricians —
can never rival that which is a part of the whole life of an eager peo-
ple. To be sure, modern art and letters rest on a different notion, but
it is perhaps safe to say that these owe their greatest glory to the ex-
ceptions frorri the conventional rule. The Roman Senate demanded
something very unlike that which was required by the Athenian pop-
ulace : a quality, namely, that the Romans themselves called ^r^t^zV^j,
a sort of aristocratic dignity, similar to the remote formality which has
buried much of the eloquence of the last century under thick dust. In
books of so-called British eloquence, and in the American speeches,
familiar to boyhood, this quality is prominent. We all know the
majestic style, echoes of it still survive in the speeches uttered on
Commencement Day by men who have ceased even to think them-
selves young ; we all know the florid, pompous phraseology, — not un-
like a layer of polished, colored marble — the artificially constructed
sentences, the sonorous paragraphs. All these have in their day done
good work, but their time is past.
This form of eloquence drew its life not merely from the study and
deliberate imitation of Roman models, although their influence, like
that of all the branches of Roman literature, was very great, but also
in good measure from the reappearance of similar conditions in modern
times, one aristocracy being very much like another, all being slaves
of similar conventionalities. Eloquence dies hard, but it is none the
less mortal ; and its pomp and majesty will disappear just as the dis-
tinctive traits of the etiquette, the poetry, and the dress of the last
century have disappeared. Rigid formalities of fashion survive only
in a few ceremonials of courts ; the artificiality which compelled the
poet to call a gun, a deadly tube (even Wordsworth began with this) has
wholly vanished along with the wig which gave the crowning touch
to the absence of nature. Similar unrealities are yet found at times
in modern oratory, because practically oratory is nearly extinct, and
old fashions survive in out-of-the-way corners and very great and rare
ceremonies. Now, the men who have anything to say, say it with
little conscious striving after eloquence: Prince Bismarck is perhaps a
sufficiently prominent example of a powerful and unconventional
speaker, and the reader will recall others in England and America who
have' abandoned the old-fashioned declamation in favor of more intel-
ligible methods. Every change in the direction of simplicity is away
6oo THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES.
from the Romans and leads infallibly towards the Greeks, not neces-
sarily to copying them, but to the reproduction, with greater or less
success, of somewhat similar results, for Greek eloquence may be partly
defined as that which is not Roman ; that is to say, what is not
artificial, not unreal, not perfervid, but what is direct, simple, and
genuine.
This definition is certainly more complex than it may at first appear,
for real simplicity is only to be acquired with extreme diflficulty. A
long training is required to enable any one to stand easily on a plat-
form before the eyes of a multitude, and to put an argument in the
most convincing way, to make any smooth statement in writing in
solitude, is shown by abundant testimony to be at least rare of attain-
ment. Certainly Greek eloquence was not at all of the nature of
artless prattle, and the appearance of artlessness was obtained only by
the exercise of the most unwearying art. In this respect Greek oratory
stands alone and very distinctly different from modern oratory, for at
the present time it is regarded much more as a mere tool than seriously
as one of the fine arts. Many causes contribute to this result, the
principal one of which we may take to be the general indifference of
the public to delicacy and subtlety of treatment. In comparison with
the Greeks, who were a race of artists, modern people form a race of
mechanics who lack the sensitiveness and delicacy of that wonderful
nation. Our architecture, our amusements, our pleasures, all prove
this statement, which is often flung in our faces by angry teachers.
For the Greeks, on the other hand, good speaking was unmistakably
a fine art. Its importance, which has been much diminished in these
later times, by the fact that we read when they listened, was then very
great ; public speaking was almost the sole means that any man had
for communicating with his fellows. Ambassadors argued before a
foreign public, all civic and municipal affairs were transacted by word
of mouth, and thus constant practice kept continually polished a taste
which was already delicate. Yet, not all the Greeks shared in this
gift ; it was Athens alone that produced the greatest orators. And
even here their high position was not attained at once, without an
effort ; for, whatever enthusiasts may say, not even at Athens did the
impossible happen. The form of government adopted by that city
especially encouraged the pursuit of oratory, and its general artistic
and literary interests greatly forwarded it ; so that, as Cicero says in
his Brutus, " this art was not the common property of all Greece, but
belonged to Athens alone. Who has ever heard of Argive, Corinthian,
orTheban orators? And I have never heard of a single orator among
the Lacedaemonians." Of the earlier Athenian orators we have at the
best only the unliteral reports of Thucydides, and of some not even
ORIGINS OF GREEK ORATORS. 60 1
this, and apparently what first distinguished them was great ingenuity,
boldness of design, and abundant energy, rather than the art which we
see gradually growing as time went on. In this respect Pericles, if
we follow the opinion of antiquity, excelled his predecessors, and what
they praised in him was distinctly the acuteness, fullness, and intel-
ligence of his thoughts. It was after him that the art of oratory
began to appear.
As Mr. Jebb says in his Attic Orators, "the intellectual turning-
point came when poetry ceased to have a sway of which the exclusive-
ness rested on the presumption that no thought can be expressed
artistically which is not expressed metrically." The rise of prose
occurred with the general awakening of manifold intellectual interest
which accompanied the Persian wars. Then the Greek mind broke
away from its earlier medisevalism with the consciousness of the
security of its national existence against barbarian force. Athens led
in the advance and speedily acquired all that was best in the new
spirit. Fortunately, as an Ionian city, it possessed the rich intellectual
qualities of that brilliant race, already renowned in the history of cul-
ture, and its hospitality to intellectual interests attracted leading men
from every quarter where the Greek tongue was spoken. It will be
noticed that many came from other cities, but it was Athens that they
made their adopted home.
II.
The new education busied itself particularly with artistic prose, and
the most important manifestation of this novelty was in the art of
speaking. Those who taught it were known as Sophists, teachers of
Sophia, wisdom, and their subsequent influence on Greek culture can
hardly be overrated. Yet that it has been overrated, many would be
willing to af^rm, for besides teaching the Greeks how to argue, they
left their memory as a subject for the unending discussion of posterity.
There are men who find the Sophists a sufficient cause for the future
changes of Greece, and behold in them and their teachings a satis-
factory explanation for the enfeeblement of private and public virtue.
If this view is the correct one, the Sophist certainly managed to waste
one of the most magnificent opportunities that teachers ever enjoyed.
It is hard to suppose that they deliberately decided to overthrow the
welfare of the state, and if we examine the charges brought against
them, it is not easy to see how their methods could have produced such
miserable consequences. The Sophists were, in fact, men who brought
to an eager public new information regarding science, and who pre-
tended to train young men to think, speak, and act as became Athenian
6o2 THE EARLY ORATORS AND ISOCRATES.
citizens. The principal accusation made against them is that they
imparted their knowledge for hire. Certainly the world has seen
darker crimes than this, and it certainly savors of hypocrisy for one
who teaches or writes in order to support himself to denounce as a
crime what he knows is only legitimate prudence. That these men
taught only quibbles it is impossible to suppose ; even if they had
done so, and the whole Athenian public had so far lost the control of
their intelligence which is commonly adjudged to have been at least
respectable, it is a wide leap to affirming that these caused the ruin
of the state ; they may well, however, have caused the ruin of the
quibblers.
In fact, however, it is unfair to throw the blame for the subsequent
loss of Athenian superiority on any one class of the citizens, and es-
pecially to those whose aim it undoubtedly was to prepare men for
their most important duties. Even if they were unwise in their
methods, it is hard to blame the excellence of their intentions, for
their design was to teach their pupils the proper conduct of political
life. For this nothing was more important than the power of discuss-
ing the various questions that came up for decision ; the citizens pos-
sessed immediate control of public affairs, and nothing was more de-
sirable than that questions should be presented to them lucidly and
eloquently. Since it was necessary that every course of action should
be presented to the citizens for their judgment, it is evident that men
would naturally seek the best means of commending such propositions
as they thought wise with all the aid that eloquence could inspire.
No other course was possible ; hence condemnation is idle, for the in-
evitable deserves neither praise nor blame. Doubtless the power of
eloquence was exaggerated by its professors, who saw in the few
branches of the education that they taught all the good that train-
ing can give, but while its limitations are very clear to us, we must
remember how few at that time were the subjects in which instruction
could be given, and thus understand the excessive importance ascribed
to rhetoric. It may serve to remind us of what we should always
bear in mind, the almost exclusively rhetorical character of Greek
literature.
A comparison of the intellectual excitement of the period with that
which accompanied the revival of letters in modern days may not be
wholly unprofitable, in spite of the obvious danger of reading into one
of the parts of the comparison what really belongs only to the other.
It is possible to evade this peril by noticing simply one important
agreement, and that is the effort made at both epochs to attain a new
and impressive method of expression. At the Renaissance this move-
ment was most marked, and the whole growth of modern literature as
CONSERVATIVE OPPOSITION TO SCIENTIFIC EDUCATION. 603
an art dates from the time when classic literature was taken as the
sole model. In a similar way the upheaval of Greece after the Per-
sian wars was accompanied by an endeavor to acquire a new mode of
utterance, and it was the Sophists, with their rare graces, who held the
place afterward occupied by the Humanists. They brought rule and
lesson into a field that had previously been comparatively uncultivated,
and substituted formality in the place of freedom or lawlessness. The
command of style became necessary for every writer as the token of
his allegiance to the new spirit, and in both cases a complicated
method of utterance succeeded to a simple one, and men's attention
was mainly directed rather to how a thing was said than to what was
said.
To call the resemblance a mere chance coincidence is unwise ; it is
certainly more discreet to find the two sets of facts the results of sim-
ilar causes, and to see that a general necessity of improving expression
is an essential part of intellectual change. If the new authority of the
Sophists had only this ground, they deserve to be acquitted of causing
the subsequent overthrow of Greek freedom. Elegance of style is not
so efficacious as that charge would imply, and in fact it is in this case
nothing more than a sign of great upheaval, when every one's aim was
to secure a form of utterance that should match the new dignity and
scope of human thought. It was not the only time in the history of
the world that the form has seemed most essential, or that undue
blame has followed extravagant praise.
Every important change in education is sure of opposition from con-
servatives. The decay of scholasticism appeared a serious blow in the
eyes of many who regarded it as the fountain of wisdom, and even now
there are very many teachers of high repute who look upon any ten-
dency in favor of scientific instruction as but pernicious degradation
of youthful intelligence. The sneer of Aristophanes with regard to
the length of a flea's jump still finds an echo in the hearts of college
presidents who would like to confine modern thought in the narrow
bounds that were deemed sufficient before science existed ; and from
their denunciations enough could be gathered to prove that science
was as dangerous a foe to modern progress as Sophistics was ever held
to be to the ancient. Yet that the statements of the Sophists were
always wise is as unlikely as that all modern scientific hypotheses are
infallibly accurate. Socrates himself denounced the study of physics
as a wicked waste of opportunity in comparison with the investigation
of ethical questions, and in the early applications of logic and the laws
of probability we find much that the world properly regards as child-
ish quibbling. That it was childish is very true and of course inevi-
table, for those who are laying the foundations of a new science are
6o4 THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES.
exactly in the condition of children beginning their studies. The only-
unpardonable childishness is the habit, natural though it be, of laugh-
ing at earlier blunders.
Of the philosophical and physical innovations there will be occasion
to speak later ; in oratory we fail to find anything which the world
has agreed to call degeneracy. The new instruction in this old art
came broadly from two quarters — from Ionian Hellas a more general
culture; and from Sicily, dialectic training. From wherever they
came, they were welcomed most warmly; the arrival in any city of
one of the great Sophists was regarded as an occasion of special re-
joicing, and they had abundant opportunity for indulging in their
favorite crime of charging for their instruction. The names of the first
Sophists have been handed down to us along with many tributes of
gratitude for their services in behalf of culture. Among the earliest
of these was Protagoras of Abdera, who came to Athens when about
forty years old, in the year 444. B.C., and gave instruction in the proper
use of language, and also in the conduct of an argument. Hippias of
Elis taught many subjects of general interest, physics, astronomy, and
learned investigations of many kinds, touching in their turn upon
questions of grammar and prosody. Prodicus of Keos investigated the
exact meanings of words with a care previously unknown. What we
know of the rest of his work is certainly not of an inflammatory or
dangerous nature ; the choice of Hercules between vice and virtue is
quoted by Xenophon in his Memorabilia as an allegory narrated by
Prodicus. Euripides and Isocrates are said to have been pupils of his.
in.
In Sicily the art of dialectic had grown up under congenial condi-
tions. We have seen how much comedy drew from that island ; and the
same quick-witted vivacity that gave life to that amusement made it-
self felt in the early growth of serious prose. Syracuse and Athens had
passed through very similar political experiences ; both cities had seen
the rule of an aristocracy, succeeded by a tyranny, which was itself
replaced by a democracy. In the western city, as we have seen, the
tyrants had encouraged literature, and the resemblance of the tastes
of its inhabitants to those of the Athenians was often noted by ancient
writers. The material prosperity and equivalent political position of
both cities do in fact almost imply a wider similarity. The active
trade of Sicily and the confusion that followed the dynastic changes
gave an opportunity for rhetorical development which soon made its
way to Athens. The establishment of the art of rhetoric is ascribed
to Corax of Syracuse, who prepared a set of rules for forensic speak-
THE RHETORIC OF GORGIAS AND HIS FOLLOWERS. 605
ing, to which is due the further credit of being the first theoretical
Greek book on any branch of art. Of its contents it is only known
that it held rules for the division of a speech into five parts : the in-
troduction, narrative, arguments, subsidiary remarks, and peroration.
The introduction was to contain such remarks as should serve to put
the listeners in good humor, and among the arguments that of gen-
eral probability was commended. Thus, if a weak man is accused of
an assault, he can point out the obvious unlikelihood ; while a strong
man, in such a case, would point out the unlikelihood of his com-
mitting the offense when the presumption against him was so strong.
We are evidently studying the infancy of the art.
Among his pupils were Tisias and Empedocles, both of whom
acquired fame as orators and teachers of oratory, but the most cele-
brated was Gorgias, born about 485 B.C., at Leontini, in Sicily. He
was chosen by his fellow-townsmen to head an embassy that was sent
to Athens in 427 B.C., to ask aid in their war with Syracuse. The
impression that he made was very great ; for he was a master of a
form of prose that was new to their ears. The possession of a certain
definite style was the most marked thing in the rhetoric of Gorgias ;
everything else he appears to have disregarded, but to Greek prose he
gave a distinctive form. Only a fragment of this is left, but it is
enough, when added to the descriptions of his traits that are to be
found in later writers, to make it clear that he modelled his prose upon
the current style of poetry, as Aristotle said in his Rhetoric. He used
poetical words ; he formed compounds with all the freedom of a lyric
or dithyrambic poet, and, more than this, he gave his sentences a dis-
tinct rhythmical form, with the different clauses balancing one another,
so that the whole effect upon the hearer was of a new and delightful
art, not verse, and still less the language of common life. His devices
were most subtle : sentences were made of equal length, they were
given a similar form, the same sounds were echoed in other words at
the end or turning-point of the corresponding phrases, and at once
Greek prose received new life. How curiously this new style matched
the poetry cannot of course be made clear in any translation ; but we
can readily infer its probability from a glance at English prose. Not
only, as the late Mark Pattison has pointed out, is the stanza, as
employed by Spenser, the analogue of the prose sentence of Hooker,
Jeremy Taylor, or Milton, but the brief couplet of Pope corresponds
to the neat, compact prose sentences of his contemporaries. Going
further back to the early appearance of artistic prose among the
Elizabethan Euphuists, we may describe it as something not wholly
unlike the style of Gorgias, infinitely cruder and harsher, yet dis-
tinguished by the same very distinct cadences and balancing, with
6o6 THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES.
alliteration marking the time as distinctly as the beat of the foot. Its
artifices corresponded closely to those common in the verse of the
period with its abundant antitheses and profuse alliteration: such, for
example, as are to be found in Surrey's Description of Spring:
" The soote season, that bud and bloom furth brings.
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale.
The nightingale with feathers new she sings ;
The turtle to her mate hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs.
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ;
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ;
The fishes flete with new-repaired scale ;
The adder all her slough away she slings ;
The swift swallow pursueth the files smale ; " etc.
Awkward and numb as these lines are with their clumsy imitation
of Petrarch's grace, it is yet possible to trace some of the qualities of
what, as Euphuism, Marianism, or Gongorism, prevailed over the w^hole
of Europe, in these more than obvious alliterations. Not all its cha-
racteristics are to be found in these few lines, for Euphuism was marked
by much more copious antithesis, and perpetual balancing of phrases,
assonances, and other delights of the ear ; it was with those aids that
the early formal prose endeavored to make its way as a companion
of the carefully constructed verse which abounded with the artificial
charms of all mediaeval art. In Petrarch we find many instances of
his imitation of the devices of the Provencal poets, and what he did
became a model for succeeding writers of verse. In order to compete
with this formidable rival, prose had to show that it was no less rich
in artifice, — hence we find it arraying itself with all sorts of fantastic
trickeries and refinements. These it borrowed from many diverse
sources, of which this mediaeval alliteration was but one ; the cunning
inventions of Spanish writers were of especial influence in the forma-
tion of Euphuism, but in all the forms that the single spirit assumed
we may recognize the attempt to make a prose corresponding to the
verse, and to let a careful construction closely imitate the effect of
rhyme. In Euphuism this result was attained by curipus employment
of antithesis and balance of phrases, as in these lines : " And if I were
as able to perswade thee to patience, as thou wert desirous to exhort
me to pietie, or as wise to comfort thee in thine age, as thou willing to
instruct me in my youth? thou shouldst now with lesse griefe endure
thy late losse, and with little care leade thy aged life. Thou weepest
for the death of thy daughter, and I laugh at the folly of the father,
for greater varietie is there in the minde of the mourner, than bitter-
nesse in the death of the deceased," etc., etc. This bears a-curious
resemblance to the few bits that we have left of the writing of Gorgias,
RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN SOPHISTICS AND EUPHUISM.
607
and it is interesting to notice that in both ancient and modern times
formal prose began with arts not unlike those that ruled the poetry.
The resemblance between the Sicilian sophist and Lily is very close :
similar conditions produced similar results.
It is to be remembered, too, that the introduction of the Egyptian
papyrus furnished writers with a cheap and convenient material for the
o°q'*o''o''o o^o o°Q*c>°a'*o°o''o
, <^o ^ '^o°°'*o°o*c'^o **c '-'o* o°3 '^i^a
BOOKCASE AND WRITING MATERIALS.
reception and preservation of writing, and that thus an opportunity
was offered for a form of literature that did not depend on the memory
for preservation and transmission. We are told that Polycrates of
Samos and Peisistratus of Athens were the first to form libraries, but
it is probable that these collections were long beyond the means of
private citizens, because it is not till much later that we hear of the
6o8 THE EARLY ORATORS AND ISOCRATES.
books gathered by Euripides. Only then, doubtless, had they become
cheap enough for more modest purses, and a reference of Aristophanes
in the Frogs indicates an abundance of books towards the end of the
Peloponnesian war.
IV.
In Greece the polish that was given to prose, and that made itself
felt immediately in the oratory, was much admired, and it spread
rapidly among those who were interested in the new learning. We
find Plato, when he introduced Agathon, the tragedian, into his Sym-
posium, lets him talk quite in the manner of Gorgias ; and we hear
that the rhetorician's pupils, P.olus and Alcidamas, outdid their master
in affectation and extravagant refinement. The first of the orators to
combine the recently introduced rhetoric with the accustomed elo-
quence was Antiphon, in the deme of Rhamnus in Attica, who was born
about 480 B.C., who was the first in time of the ten great Attic orators.
Thucydides in his history speaks of him in terms of warm praise as
" a man second to none of the Athenians of his day in respect of
virtue, who had proved himself most able to devise measures and to
express his views ; and who, though he did not come forward in the
assembly of the people, nor, when he could help it, in any other scene
of public debate, but was eyed with suspicion by the populace on
account of his reputation for cleverness, yet was most competent of
all to help those engaged in a controversy, whether in a court of justice
or before a popular assembly.. And he, too, when the Four Hundred
had fallen, and was ill-treated, seems to me to have made the best
defense of all men up to my time, when tried for his life on the charge
of having aided in establishing this government." His speech, how-
ever, did not save him, and in 41 1 B.C. he was put to death, his property
was confiscated, and his descendants were deprived of citizenship.
Unfortunately, this speech which Thucydides praises so highly has
not come down to us, yet we have fifteen orations that have been
ascribed to him ; three of which deal with actual legal cases, while the
others are but rhetorical exercises concerning imaginary law-suits. Of
the three which we call the sincere ones, it is to be remembered that
they were composed for the use of other people, a practice which may
be regarded as equivalent to the modern custom of employing a lawyer
for the defense of the citizen's legal rights. It is easy to imagine the
surprise with which the antagonist who trusted to his own powers
must have heard his antagonist reciting an ingenious oration composed
by this master of the art. The success of this innovation may be
readily conjectured, and it is proved by the existence of what may be
COMPARISON OF AN TIP HON AND THUCYDIDES. 609
called the fictitious orations that were designed for the training of
pupils. It is known that Antiphon gave instruction in rhetoric, and
it was doubtless for the use of his pupils that he prepared a manual of
the art. These speeches, written for practice after the fashion set by
Protagoras and Gorgias, were most ingenious expositions of opposing
arguments, and by the fact that they appeared as tetralogies, with two
speeches on each side, preserved them from becoming mere orations
for the demolition of men of straw. Antiphon was always arguing
against a good pleader. All the orations, the real as well as the
fictitious ones, deal with murder-cases. Not all the arguments em-
ployed would be of weight in a modern court-room, but what deter-
mines the value of an argument is its suitability to the tribunal sitting
in judgment, and at Athens at this time distinctions were drawn
between different kinds of guilt after a fashion now extinct. The
style of Antiphon is full of interest, and in some respects it bears a
likeness to that of Thucydides. The two men are the most important
representatives of what is called the austere style, which was distin-
guished from the smooth and middle styles, represented by Isocrates
and Demosthenes, respectively, which were the divisions of the new
rhetoric. The likeness between the famous historian and the orator
lies, for one thing, in a similar effort to give adequate expression to
subtle thought. Thucydides frequently employs the persistent an-
tithesis that we find in Antiphon, the continual subtle division of a
thought into all its meanings and connotations, which is what Antiphon
also employs, and both have a rugged, sturdy quality that shows that
they were exposed to the same influences. Both exhibit similar
restrained vehemence, and it *is in this dignity and self-control that
Antiphon, when we compare him with the later orators, holds to them
a position not unlike that which ^schylus holds in relation to his
successors.
Of Andocides, the next in the list of ten, there is less to be said,
for his importance is greater to history than to the study of liter-
ature. He was curiously connected with the mutilation of the Hermes,
an event that agitated Athens just before the sailing of the Sicilian
expedition. For guilt in this affair, which, in connection with the prof-
anation of the Eleusinian mysteries, had all the horror of a Nihilistic
outbreak, he was compelled to leave Athens. He supported himself
during his banishment by carrying on business, and at length returned
under a general amnesty. He appears to have held positions of im-
portance, for he was sent to Sparta to negotiate concerning peace.
His subsequent career is uncertain. One story says that he was again
banished, which would give roundness to the general melancholy of
his career, but this is mercifully doubted. But three speeches of his
6io THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SO CRATES.
are left : one with regard to this very peace, which is wise and sensible.
Another, on his return, was intended to aid him in procuring the re-
moval of certain disabilities under which he lay. The third, on the
Mysteries, relates to the accusation brought against him, of profaning
those holy rites. A fourth, against Alcibiades, is regarded as ungen-
uine. The speeches ascribed to him are smooth and simple, with no
excess of ornament or of novelty. He is not a man who instinctively
occurs to the mind of any one who is thinking of the masters of
oratory.
Lysias was a man of a different sort, whose influence on oratory was
very great. When poetry and sculpture were fading away with the
overthrow of the Athenian power, the mastery of prose took their
place and reached its highest development. To the attainment of
this result Lysias contributed in a very marked degree. The some-
what formal style of the early oratory was modified by him into a
vivid, simpler picturesqueness that bore closer resemblance to the lan-
guage of common speech. In his hands oratory ceased to be some-
thing remote and solemn, it became part of human life, and it is per-
haps instructive to notice that it lost none of its power by this
change.
The exact date of the birth of Lysias is uncertain ; it was probably
about the year 459 B.C. He was the son of Cephalos, a Syracusan who
settled at Athens on the invitation of Pericles, and here Lysias was
born. When fifteen years old, he went to Thurii, in Magna Graecia, with
his eldest brother, and there it is said that he studied rhetoric under
Tisias, already mentioned as the pupil of Corax. When the Athenian
expedition set out against Sicily, he with others was charged with At-
ticising, and compelled to return to Athens. This was in 412 B.C. The
next few years he passed there without interruption, possibly continu-
ing his rhetorical studies and composing some of the artificial pieces
included among his works ; in 404 B.C., however, his wealth brought him
under the ill-will of the Thirty, he was robbed of his property, and
with difficulty escaped secretly to Megara. His brother was put to
death. Lysias remained in exile for about a year, until the overthrow
of the Thirty, when he returned to Athens, and was granted citizen-
ship there. From this time, 403 B.C., until 380, he was busily employed
as a writer of speeches for the use of others in the courts of law. Of
these he is said to have composed no less than two hundred, more
than twice the number ascribed to any other Attic orator. A story
runs that he composed a defense for Socrates at his trial in 399 B.C., but
that the philosopher declined to use it. The only one that he wrote for
his own use was the oration against Eratosthenes, one of the detested
Thirty Tyrants and the murderer of his brother Polemarchus. This is
LYSIAS—HIS ORATION AGAINST ERATOSTHENES. 6ii
one of the great speeches of antiquity, not only for the calm earnest-
ness with which Lysias recites his own personal grievances against a
cruel despot, when he holds his hand and lets the simplest narration
of facts fill the hearer with indignation, and then for the seriousness
and warmth of his denunciation of a political system under which such
injustice was possible. Here are his concluding words, appealing first
to those who had remained at Athens under the oligarchy, and then
to the democratic exiles who had held the Peiraeus :
I wish, before I go down, to recall a few things to the recollection of
both parties, the party of the town and the party of the Peiraeus ; in order
that, in passing sentence, you may have before you as warnings the calam-
ities which have come upon you through these men.
And you, first, of the town — reflect that under their iron rule you were
forced to wage with brothers, with sons, with citizens a war of such a sort
that, having been vanquished, you are the equals of the conquerors, whereas,
had you conquered, you would have been the slaves of the tyrants. They
would have gained wealth for their own houses from the administration; you
have impoverished yours in the war with one another ; for they did not
deign that you should thrive along with them, though they forced you to be-
come odious in their company ; such being their consummate arrogance
that, instead of seeking to win your loyalty by giving you partnership in their
prizes, they fancied themselves friendly if they allowed you a share in their
dishonours. Now, therefore, that you are in security, take vengeance to the
utmost of your power both for yourselves and for the men of the Peiraeus ;
reflecting that these men, villains that they are, were your masters, but that
now good men are your fellow-citizens, — your fellow-soldiers against the
enemy, your fellow-counsellors in the interest of the state ; remembering, too,
those allies whom these men posted on the Acropolis as sentinels over their
despotism and your servitude. To you — though much more might be said —
I say this only.
But you of the Peiraeus — think, in the first place, of your arms — think
how, after fighting many a battle on foreign soil, you were stripped of those
arms, not by the enemy, but by these men in time of peace ; think, next, how
you were warned by public criers from the city bequeathed to you by your
fathers, and how your surrender was demanded of the cities in which you
were exiles. Resent these things as you resented them in banishment ; and
recollect, at the same time, the other evils that you have suffered at their
hands ; — how some were snatched out of the market-place or from temples
and put to a violent death ; how others were torn from children, parents, or
wife, and forced to become their own murderers, nor allowed the common
decencies of burial, by men who believed their own empire to be surer than
the vengeance from on high.
And you, the remnant who escaped death, after perils in many places, after
wanderings to many cities and expulsion from all, beggared of the necessa-
ries of life, parted from children, left in a fatherland which was hostile or in
the land of strangers, came through many obstacles to the Peiraeus. Dan-
gers many and great confronted you ; but you proved yourselves brave men;
you freed some, you restored others to their country.
Had you been unfortunate and missed those aims, you yourselves would
now be exiles, in fear of suffering what you suffered before. Owing to the
6l2
THE EARLY ORATORS AND ISOCRATES.
character of these men, neither temples nor altars, which even in the sight
of evil-doers have a protecting virtue, would have availed you against
wrong ; — while those of your children who are here would have been en-
during the outrages of these men, and those who are in a foreign land, in
the absence of all succour, would, for the smallest debt, have been enslaved.
I do not wish, however, to speak of what might have been, seeing that
what these man have done is beyond my power to tell; and indeed it is a task
not for one accuser or for two, but for a host.
Yet is my indignation perfect for the temples which these men bartered
away or defiled by entering them ; for the city which they humbled ; for the
arsenals which they dismantled ; for the dead, whom you, since you could
not rescue them alive, must vindicate in their death. And I think that they
are listening to us, and will be aware of you when you give your verdict,
deeming that such as absolve these men
have passed sentence upon them, and that
such as exact retribution from these have
taken vengeance in their names.
I will cease accusing. You have heard,
seen, suffered : you have them : judge.
In this extract, as in almost all of the
thirty-four speeches that have come
down to us either complete or in large
fragments, it is easy to notice the ab-
sence of exaggeration which forms one
of the most characteristic traits of Ly-
sias. Instead of exaggerating he re-
strains himself, and by the delicacy of
his touch he won great praise from the
critics of both Greece and Rome. Cicero
frequently speaks of him, and always
with the highest praise. He commends
his elegance and refinement, and yet
without denying him vigor ; he says
LYsiAs. that while it is doubtful whether Lysias
could ever have reached the heights of
Demosthenes, he was almost a second Demosthenes, or, what is the
same thing, almost a perfect orator. All who mention him call especial
attention to the marvelous grace and accuracy of his style, a point con-
cerning which it is not easy for us to form an independent opinion. Yet
we may see that his language was plain and eminently persuasive, that
he helped to save oratory from sinking beneath excess of ornament
and convention, and that his exquisite taste hastened the development
of the purest eloquence.
His later speeches were mostly written for others, who were contes-
tants in public or private law-suits, and in them we notice the same
METHOD OF LYSI AS— OPINIONS OF HIS CONTEMPORARIES. 613
sober but convincing art. Fragments of two public orations remain
bearing his name, one uttered at the Olympic festival in 388 B.C. ; the
other is a funeral oration over Athenians who had been sent to sup-
port Corinth, but its genuineness is doubted. Ancient critics were
cooler in their praise of the set orations of Lysias.
In the Phaedrus of Plato we find Socrates ridiculing what pretends
to be an extract from one of the minor works of Lysias, the genuine-
ness of which is doubted by many competent authorities, and express-
ing some contempt for the art of that rhetorician, whom he places
much lower than Isocrates, a young follower of Socrates, for whose
future the highest hopes are expressed. The writing of Lysias that is
here laughed at is a discussion on love, and is certainly not a fair rep-
resentative of his best work, and although Socrates applauds his polish
and clearness, he is amply justified in affirming that
" Nobler far is the serious pursuit of the dialectician, who finds a congenial
soil, and there with knowledge engrafts and sows words which are able to
help themselves and him who planted them, and are not unfruitful, but have
in them seeds which may bear fruit in other natures nurtured in other ways
— making the seed everlasting, and the possessors happy to the utmost ex-
tent of human happiness."
To be sure, Socrates says that oratory depends much more on the
natural genius of the speaker than on any rules, yet he blames Lysias
for seeming to write off freely just what came into his head.
If Plato blamed Lysias justly for his early writings, he was but a false
prophet concerning Isocrates, for however full of promise that orator
may have appeared in his youth, in his later years he certainly did not
incline in the direction of greater naturalness. He was born in 436 B.C.,
more than twenty years after Lysias, at Athens ; his philosophical
studies, by which apparently Socrates was flattered, did not prevent
him from making eloquence the chief occupation of his life. He helped
to give it, however, a new direction toward questions of statesman-
ship, instead of confining it, as his predecessors had been inclined to
do, to the narrower limits of the courts. Lysias had, however, pre-
ceded him in a fashion already established by the detested Sophists,
who used to take advantage of the assemblage of citizens at the great
games from all quarters of Greece, to deliver orations which should
illustrate the excellence of the speakers in their favorite art, as well as
convey sound political instruction. Of Gorgias we are told that
" His speech at Olympia dealt with the largest of political questions. See-
ing Greece torn by faction, he became a counsellor of concord, seeking to
turn the Greeks against the barbarians, and advising them to take for the
prizes of their arms not each other's cities, but the land of the barbarians."
6i4
THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES.
He found admirers, too, for at Delphi there stood his golden statue
in the temple where he had " thundered his Pythian speech from the
altar." Hippias had also spoken at Olympia. When Lysias pro-
nounced his oration, he gave sound advice to his listeners, urging them
to unite against the dangers that threatened them from the East and
from Sicily, and it was to enforce the same wise lesson that Isocrates pro-
nounced his famous Panegyric in 380 B.C. That the oration was actu-
ally delivered by Isocrates is more than doubtful, because lack of voice
and a certain shyness prevented him from speaking in public, but the
speech was published as a sort of
political pamphlet to discuss the ex-
isting state of affairs. He begins by
recommending Athens and Sparta
to set aside their long-lived jealousies,
and although Sparta is at present the
more powerful, yet some compromise
is advisable in view of the historical
glory of its rival ; the two united
should begin a war against Persia,
their old and relentless foe. His elo-
quence failed, however, to accomplish
any practical result ; the future vic-
tories of Greece were wrought by the
action of the keen intelligence of that
country, not by force of arms. As
Isocrates himself said in this oration :
** Athens has so distanced the world in
power of thought and speech that her
disciples have become the teachers of
ISOCRATES. all other men. She has brought it to
pass that the name of Greece should be
thought no longer a matter of race but a matter of intelligence ; and should
be given to the participators in our culture rather than to the sharers of
our common origin."
The hopes which Isocrates expressed in this speech were not daunted
by failure. For nearly forty years he sought for a leader who should
guide Greece to victory, and he continually urged this remedy for her
woes. He brought to the aid of his purpose a wonderful mastery of
the oratorical art. His ideas, if few, were distinct, and he expressed
them with wonderful skill. No one of the great orators was more suc-
cessful in weaving a web of artificial grace, in achieving the mastery of
a flawless style. As we have seen, he was regarded as the leading rep-
resentative of what was called the middle style, which was character-
REFINEMENT OF GREEK PROSE. 615
ized by keen consciousness of the value of rhythm and harmony. He
thus welded the earlier efforts of Gorgias and men like him with the
work of the orators who had spoken before him. Yet while successful in
what he aimed at, the result is cloying ; one too often inclines to notice
his workmanship instead of being led by it insensibly to adherence to
what he says, and it becomes in time a fatal objection to an artificial
method, so that the reader admires the method rather than the work
done. The result is that Isocrates is marking time, with astounding
accuracy, to be sure, yet without advancing, while the other orators
are marching forward. Yet this remark, though it applies to the final
value of Isocrates as a man, in no way affects the importance of the
final polish that he gave to Greek prose. He completed its gradual
growth toward subtlety and refinement, leaving it a perfect instru-
ment. Indirectly, too, these qualities of his style acted on Latin prose,
and later his influence worked on modern prose, for at the time of the
Renaissance, when men were impatient to find a new method of ex-
pression to take the place of the aridities of mediaevalism, Isocrates was
much read — fortunately for himself, his Greek was readily intelligible
— and found admirers and imitators among men hungry for beauty
and artificiality.
It was not by his orations alone that Isocrates established his au-
thority ; after writing speeches for the law courts for a few years, he
abandoned that means of support, for which he ever after expressed
considerable contempt, and founded a school for rhetorical and polit-
ical instruction. This proved a great success ; he numbered among his
pupils many illustrious names, and doubtless his instruction was one
of the most important intellectual inspirations of the time. Mean-
while he composed his orations, in which he was never tired of urging
the need of Greek unity ; he commended the old democracy of Solon
and the pristine virtue of that remote time, but such advice was of
course without effect. Even eloquence could not bring back the days
of Grecian glory. Isocrates lived until his ninety-eighth year, 388 B.C.,
and the story ran that on hearing the melancholy news of the defeat
of the Greeks by Philip at Chaeroneia, he starved himself to death.
Milton, it will be remembered, in his sonnet to the Lady Margaret
Ley, says :
" as that dishonest victory
At Chaeroneia, fatal to liberty,
Killed with report that old man eloquent."
But this picturesque anecdote is generally doubted, for the battle was
in fact the fulfillment of the aged orator's hopes that Greece should
find a leader against Persia, and there survives a letter of his in which
he expresses his content with the altered condition of affairs.
6i6 THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES.
As has been already indicated, the orations of Isocrates deal with
important questions of statesmanship, although with but little novelty
in his advice ; what never fails him is the desire for artistic perfection.
Out of the genuine works of his which were known to antiquity,
twenty-one speeches and nine letters have come down to us, very
nearly all. Fifteen of these discourses were composed for readers, and
were of the nature of political pamphlets in oratorical form, like the
Panegyrikos mentioned above ; this and two others, the Areopagitikos
and the Panathenaikos, are the most famous. In the Areopagitikos
he pleads in defense of the old democracy when license was not con-
founded with freedom ; in the Panathenaic oration he defends himself
from some of the accusations that "vulgar Sophists " had brought
against him, and celebrates at some length the glory of Athens. It is
certainly a marvelous production for a man over ninety years old, and
is exceptional for the plainness of its style. Curious are the Busiris
and the Encomium on Helen as examples of his purely perfunctory
treatment of set subjects, like the exercises of the Sophists. By the
side of these efforts he regarded writers of speeches for the courts, doll-
makers in comparison with Pheidias, but possibly even the doll-makers
would not have seen Athens overthrown with half the complacency of
this artist in words, who survives after all simply as an accomplished
rhetorician.
What the reader will have noticed is the striking growth of artificial
oratory among the Athenians during this period ; and the spread of
this custom marks a wide contrast with the earlier literary sincerity.
Doubtless the poets had sung imaginary woes with more attention to
the form of expression than to the reality of their words, but in what
has reached us we are struck by the apparent reality of the verse.
From this time on we shall have frequent occasion to observe the
growth of a quality in literature that is very remote from life. It is
hard, however, to see how this unreality was to be avoided. Readiness
and smoothness of speech were not to be acquired without practice,
and it was only on imaginary cases that this could be had. Obviously
men would be averse to intrusting the defense of their lives or their
property to inexperienced advocates, and only by showing how well
they could defend men of straw, could orators be chosen to defend
men of flesh and blood. Teachers, too, had to give proof of the excel-
lence of their method ; it was incumbent upon them to show how
harmonious and rhythmical were the sentences that they could form,
and as specimens of their skill they spoke on subjects that could
offend no one. When it is remembered that the main work of the
advocates was preparing speeches for the use of other people, it becomes
evident that the capacity to assume emotions was a most desirable
GROWING ARTIFICIALITY OF ORATORY. 617
quality, so that he who was most eloquent about acknowledged trifles
showed a superiority to those who betrayed less quick sympathy by
responding only to more serious demands.
The result is obvious : on one side, oratory improved from the con-
stant practice which it received, but, on the other, there is to be
noticed a distinct sacrifice of matter to form, a continual disposition
to regard literature as an art, as something foreign to real life. Elo-
quence, after attaining its greatest height when employed by Demos-
thenes, sank into an elegant accomplishment, and being the principal
object of intellectual interest, when the political life of Greece died it
became a mere amusement, a sort of intellectual jugglery. Already
in Isocrates we see eloquence dangerously near this condition, and the
exercise of ingenuity and cleverness resting on a slender basis, for
instead of being one flower of education, it was almost the whole of
education for this race. In him we see a mind apparently almost
equally divided about the relative importance of two members of a
well-balanced period, and the proper course of statesmanship, and he
shows in the bud the future development of all this oratory into a
splitting of straws and the most approved form of literary trifling.
Yet Isocrates must not bear too much odium for belonging to the
losing side. That test would condemn Aristophanes, and Demosthenes
himself would have to be denied our admiration if that were to be given
only to success. Nothing is more unwise than the danger which besets
an advocate of letting respect for one set of qualities blind him to
another, and nothing is more common. Every one of the tragedians
has suffered from it in turn, and it would be well to preserve the orators
from a like fate, which after all gives us more insight into their com-
mentators than into the men whom they may happen to discuss.
The political advice that Isocrates gave was something that recom-
mended itself to him as one who observed the incompetence of Sparta ;
all his keen intellectual sympathies inclined him to set a high store on
Athens, and he continually strove to establish a pan-Hellenic union in
which that city should renew its former prominence. He endeavored
to unite Greece against a common foe, and certainly he showed insight
in detecting the weakness of Persia. By attacking that country he
hoped that all the existing and destructive intestine jealousies might
be welded into a harmonious spirit of conquest, and that Greece might
become a mighty unit. So far his counsel was wise. The magnificent
strength of Greece, as shown in its earlier wars with Persia, warranted
him in making this effort, which was made only more desirable by the
present distracted state of the country. What he failed to detect was
the dangers threatening from the growth of the Macedonian power.
Indeed, he was unconsciously a powerful ally of Philip; with no
6i8 THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES.
knowledge of what he was doing, like the great section of the Athenian
populace whose mouthpiece he was, he was preparing for the Mace-
donian supremacy when he urged his fellow-citizens not to strive for
temporal power, but to content themselves with glory from the past
and undeniable intellectual ascendancy in the future. He thus indi-
cated what was to be the position of Athens in the period then open-
ing, the spirit that survived when the material power of that city
was gone, but its mind remained and controlled later civilizations.
This disposition to lay aside all claim to temporal power is most clearly
marked in the letter of Isocrates to Philip after the peace of 346 B.C.,
when that king had secured his position as champion of the Amphic-
tyonic assembly. Here the orator urges Philip to put himself at the
head of united Greece and to undertake his old hobby, namely, to
overthrow the Persian empire and free the Asiatic Greeks. He accepts
without a murmur the degradation of his country.
As might be expected, this resignation of ancient glory was counter-
balanced by a keen love of the undoubted literary superiority of
Greece, and he was not unaware of the extent to which he had helped
to further this. It was not, however, a single man whom we are
studying, but one who expresses a momentous change in the Athenian
people. The delight in letters that we observe in him was something
more than a personal quality; it is not a mere vain old man whom we
have before us, eloquent and conscious of his eloquence, with certain
limited notions of political wisdom, but rather a picture of a large part
of his contemporaries; that is his value as a representative. Just as a
medical student does not need to dissect everybody to know human
anatomy, so we may find in Isocrates the specimen of the majority of
his citizens, just as Demosthenes is the vivid example of the impotent
opposition.
The excellence of his art is the very quality in which Athens was
supreme, and his love for one is closely bound up with his love of the
other. All the charm of letters awaits the student of his smooth and
harmonious prose, at the same time that the pages expose the estab-
lishment of literary art. We have seen hitherto abundant instances
of the same tendency, in Menander and in Xenophon ; here the work
is accomplished for oratory, and in the dullness of Isocrates's compre-
hension of the perils that threatened Greece we may see a vivid
instance of the fault that always threatens extreme prepossession in
favor of literary form. And while Isocrates is significant as the fore-
runner of the direction in which the Hellenic race was moving, his
direct authority over later times can scarcely be exaggerated. The
early growth of the art, of which he was perhaps the most brilliant
example, is tolerably clear, and its subsequent history is almost with-
QUALITIES OF THE ORATORY OF ISOCRATES—IS^EOS. 619
out a cloud. Almost every literary accomplishment belonged to him ;
he cultivated every flower of rhetoric, and it is an ungrateful world
that now rends this man whose faults are obvious, when it has learned
from him the power of literary charm. But as he won all the fame
that belonged to the period in which he lived, he now suffers for the
deeds or rather for the words of a whole people. It must be remem-
bered, however, that those who are attacking him are really assaulting
artificial literature, and that literature becomes artificial when public
life becomes stagnant. It is to the credit of Greece that when every-
thing else failed them they held true to things of the intellect.
Among the pupils of Isocrates was Isaeos, a native of Chalcis in
Euboea, who lived in Athens from 420 B.C. till 348 B.C., and devoted him-
self to the practice of the law, without mingling at all, as all his pre-
decessors had done, in political questions. This rigid exercise of a
profession and the abandonment of politics indicate the beginning of
a change in Greek life. Henceforth the Athenians ceased being above
all things citizens. Isaeos is said to have been a pupil of Isocrates,
but his style bears much more likeness to that of Lysias, who, it will
be remembered, was a leader in forensic cases. Sixty-four speeches,
fifty of which were held to be genuine, are mentioned by ancient
writers ; of these eleven and a large fragment of another have reached
us, although fifty are said to have survived to the middle of the ninth
century. All of these deal with law-cases, and most of them with
questions of inheritance. While for many years they have been
studied as examples of the greater influence of Lysias, tempered by
that of Isocrates, they have for modern students of comparative juris-
prudence distinct value for the light that they throw on the Athenian
laws. Then, too, he has another most important claim on the reader's
attention as the teacher of the greatest orator of Greece, and so of the
world, namely, Demosthenes. Fortunately we have left much of the
work of the predecessors of this wonderful man, enough at least to
show us by what successive steps the Greek language grew up to the
condition of a rich, fluent instrument, how the prose freed itself from
awkwardnesses and at last acquired a full and varied harmony; how
the art of argument learned simplicity and vigor. It was when this
perfection had been attained that the greatest orator spoke, and for-
tunately for once in studying the success of a Greek master we do not
have to conjecture the gradual growth of his art : we can trace it from
one speaker to another, and thus get one more proof that every com-
plex form of expression is the result of long experiment and not of
sudden inspiration.
In saying that among the Greeks oratory became one of the fine
arts, more is implied than at first appears, and certainly a great dis-
620 THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES.
tinction is noted between ancient and modern eloquence, for the
changes that are now affecting public speaking are not at all in this
direction. The modern orator has abandoned a style which is indi-
cated if not precisely defined when it is called bombastic, but he is yet
far from, and probably will never acquire, the wonderful complexity of
the art as it delighted the Athenians. At present the ideal of the
world is more nearly scientific than artistic perfection, which was the
ideal of the Greeks, and the keen interest that that race took in the
accomplishment of its aims has become subordinate to the importance
of the aims themselves. The English-speaking races — and the Ger-
mans show the same defect — lack the extreme sensitiveness to form
that distinguished the Greeks. We try to atone for the dullness of
our ears by devising a conventional formality which shall be observed,
just as a conventional system of mourning at times suffices for an ex-
pression of grief. To the Athenians, to the more cultivated Greeks in
general, an oratorical contest was a source of enjoyment not unlike
that which musical people know at a good concert. The proper use
of language, the position and gestures of the orator, his pronunciation,
accent, and tone of voice, were all, as it were, separate instruments
producing a complete harmony to which we are deaf. Any one who
will compare the coarse work tolerated in our theaters with the ex-
quisite grace and dignity of the Theatre Fran^ais will understand the
nature of the difference between the eloquence of Greece and that of
other races, and the complexity of the art which grew up under the
most refining care of Isocrates to be the mode of utterance for the last
of the public-spirited citizens of Athens. If Isocrates could defend
making two contradictory statements about the same thing by main-
taining that his second account was well expressed and very oppor-
tune, we may be prepared to find that Greek orations have as little of
the quality of affidavits as do a poet's love-sonnets. The possibility
of the substitution of fictitious embroidery in the place of facts indi-
cates very clearly the constantly besetting danger of eloquence,
whether in prose or rhyme, when it once becomes an art. This lax-
ity — and Demosthenes himself furnishes instances of it— is the inevi-
table result of extreme attention to mere effect, and without great
care for effect artistic eloquence can not flourish.
Yet while the artistic oratory of the Greeks runs the risk of paying
for its vividness by inexactness, it yet shares with what we may call
the scientific oratory of modern speakers in a healthy aversion to' mock
eloquence, to exaggerated declamation. In other words, the finest art
will be the simplest, and Demosthenes will leave behind him the arti-
ficiality of Isocrates as certainly as he will avoid the exaggerations of
Roman oratory. This simplicity that he will attain through his mas-
CHARACTERISTICS OF TRUE ELOQUENCE.
621
tery of method and the fervor of his spirit, is like the unrhetorical
directness of a few modern speakers who agree with Pascal in thinking
that true eloquence knows nothing of eloquence. The resemblance is
like that between the physiology of the sense of hearing and the theory
of music, or that which is beginning to be recognized, the physiology
of the sense of sight and painting, or the gradual discovery of modern
literature that there is nothing more solemn or impressive than the
facts of life. In short, everywhere the results of true science will be
found to coincide with the results of true art.
ATHENA WRITING.
CHAPTER II.— DEMOSTHENES.
I. — The Life of Demosthenes. His Early Speeches. II. — His Opposition to Phihp
of Macedon. The Divided Condition of the Greei Such parting were to me
More dreadful than the darkest gloom of hell,
For thou art as my very light of day ;
But day is silent, and thy gentle voice
More than a syren's song makes me rejoice.
And round thy lips my dearest wishes play.
(V. 241.)
ANONYMOUS.
Does the rose crown Dionysius,
Or Dionysius crown the rose ?
Ah yes ! The wearer crowns the crown,
For that less beauty shows.
(V. 142.)
MELEAGER.
Heliodora ! Love hath fashioned thee
From out my very heart.
Heliodora ! sweet-voiced ! unto me
As my soul's soul thou art !
(V. 1 55-)
MELEAGER.
By the god Pan of Arcady I vow.
Sweet is thy singing, Zenophil, and thou
EXTRACTS FROM THE ANTHOLOGY. 793
Sweetly canst play the lyre. Where can I flee
To escape thy loving charms besieging me ?
Not for a moment will they let me rest.
Now 'tis thy slender form in beauty drest,
There 'tis thy voice, thy grace, what do I say
It is thyself for whom I burn away.
(V. 1 39-)
PAN OF ARCADY.
PAUL THE SILENTIARY.
How sweet the smiles of Lais ! and how sweet
Tears from her charming eyes !
But yesterday she leaned on me and wept
Without a cause, and moaned.
I kissed her, but her tears still fell like rain.
" Why weepest thou .'' " I prayed.
" I feared lest thou shouldst leave me," murmured she,
" For men are never true."
(V. 250.)
BY LEONIDAS OR ANTIPATES.
Epitaph on Timon the Misanthrope.
Utter no words, but pass me by
In silence ; nor ask who I be ;
Nor seek to know whose son was I.
E'en silently approach not me.
Go far around and come not nigh !
(VII. 316.)
PHILODEMUS.
Heliodora must thou shun
Ere love for her is in thee begun !
Thus warned my soul for she knows well
Love's pangs and tortures to foretell.
Such were her words, but how can I,
If love pursue, have strength to fly .''
For she who boldly love reproves.
Already Heliodora loves.
(V. 24.)
794 • THE POETRY— {CONTINUED).
PLATO.
I, the proud Lais, to whose door once came
Troops of young lovers, and whose toy was Greece,
I consecrate to Cytherea now
My mirror, since I can no longer see
Myself reflected there as once I was,
And would not see, alas ! as now I am.
(VL I.)
MOCRUS OF BYZANTIUM.
Nymphs, hamadryads, daughters of the river,
Who ceaseless tread, with rosy feet, the valleys.
Cherish Cleonymus who consecrated
To you, beneath the pines, these beauteous statues !
(VL 189.)
CRINAGORAS.
Roses of old oped with the opening year.
But we our crimson chalices throw wide
In winter, greeting thus thy birthday, near
To that blest day when thou shalt be a bride.
If us upon thy head thou deign to wear,
O loveliest woman, then to be espied
Were than the sun of spring to us more dear.
(VL 345.)
ASCLEPIADES.
O wreaths ! remain here hanging on this door.
Nor hasty shake your leaves.
Your leaves that I have drenchM with my tears,
Such tears as lovers shed.
But when you see the door softly unclose.
Let fall your bitter dew
Upon her head, that her light golden hair
May thus drink in my tears !
fV. 145.)
LEONIDAS.
One, crystal, and one silver brings.
One, topazes of cost.
For thy birthday fit offerings
Their jewels rich they boast.
But, Agrippina, take from me
Two verses that I write.
A humble gift I give to thee
That envy cannot spite.
(VL 329.)
EXTRACTS FROM THE ANTHOLOGY. 795
ANTIPATES.*
Not of Themistocles am I the tomb.
No ! A Magnesian monument I am
To the ungrateful rancour of the Greeks.
(VII. 236.)
MELEAGER.t
That butterfly, my soul, if thou. Love, bum
Too often with thy flame, O cruel one.
Itself has wings to fly and ne'er return.
(V. 57.)
ERYEIUS.
No more upon thy flute, Therimachus,
Beside the lofty plane, thy shepherd's song
Thou'lt tune ! Thy horned herds will hear no more
Sweet reedy melodies, while 'neath the shade
Of the broad oak thou liest. For thou art gone !
Slain by the deadly whirlwind's thunderblast.
And homeward late the hurrying cows return.
Harassed upon their path by driving sleet.
(VII. 134.)
SIMMIAS OF THEBES.
Quietly o'er the tomb of Sophocles,
Quietly, ivy, creep with tendrils green ;
And, roses, ope your petals everywhere.
While dewy shoots of grapevine peep between,
Upon the wise and honeyed poet's grave.
Whom muse and grace their richest treasures gave.
(VII. 22.)
THUCYDIDES.
On Euripides.
The great Euripides has for his tomb
All Hellas, though the Macedonian earth
Contains his ashes, since death found him there.
Hellas of Hellas, Athens, was his home ;
Hence came the verses which have charmed all hearts.
And have won everv mouth to sing his praise.
(VII. 45)
LEONIDAS OR MELEAGER.
On Erinna.J
The maiden ! The young singer ! Like a bee
Stealing thy sweets the muses' flowers among.
Erinna ! AH too truly hast thou sung
" Thou art a jealous god, O Death ! " Didst thou foresee
How soon thou wert the bride of Death to be .''
(VII. 13.)
* Themistocles died at Magnesia in exile,
f There is here a play on the word ^vxv.
X One of Erinna's poems began with the words : " I am in love with Death."
796
THE POETRY {CONTINUED).
MELEAGER.
At the bride's gate the lotus flutes were sounding
All yesterday, doors swinging to and fro ;
This morn for Clearista all are weeping,
Their song of Hymen changed to dirge of woe.
Her bridegroom, Death ; she'll have no other wedding,
For him she hath unclasped her virgin zone.
The very torches for her bridal burning
Shall light her trembling feet to Acheron.
(VII. 182.)
MELEAGER.
Ah, bee ! why iouchest thou Heliodora's cheek }
Feaster on flowers, why leav'st the cups of spring }
Wouldst have me know that she too feels of love
The sweet, the unendurable, the bitter sting ?
Thus say'st thou, loved of lovers } Then begone !
Depart ! for long thy message have we known.
(V. 163.)
DIOSCORIDES.
Eight sons sent Demenete forth to fight
Against her country's foes ; and on one bier
And in one grave the mother laid all eight.
Then of her loss she said without a tear,
" I bore them, Sparta, but thy sons they were ! "
(VII. 4. 34.)
CH^REMON
Eubulos, son of Athenagoras,
Thou wert outstript by all in length of days.
But in thy measure of deserved praise.
Indeed there is none who can thee surpass.
(VII. 469.)
MELEAGER.
Heliodora, tears that pierce the earth.
The last gift of my love, receive from me
Beyond the grave ; tears shed most bitterly !
Alas ! upon thy tomb there is no dearth
Of tears, that in past joy have had their birth.
Poured in libation to the memory
Of faithful love, thus consecrate to thee.
To thee, though dead, my only thing of worth.
Where is my flower that Hades plucked ? oh ! where ?
An idle sacrifice to Acheron !
Dust now defiles its petals blooming fair.
Hades hath stolen her, hath stolen her !
All mother Earth, I pray thee, gently bear
Upon thy breast, her whom all must weep, now gone.
(VII. 476.)
EXTRACTS FROM THE ANTHOLOGY. 797
PHILIP OF THESSALONICA.
This tomb Archilochus, the sculptor, rears
With piteous hands to Agathanor dead ;
And not by steel was this stone chiseled,
But worn by dropping of a father's tears.
O stone ! rest lightly, that the dead may say.
Truly my father's hand this stone did lay.
(VII. 554.)
ANTIPATER.
Aretemias, when from the infernal bark
Thou laid'st thy footprint on Cocytus' shore,
Bearing in thy young arms thy newborn babe,
The lovely Dorian girls, all pitiful
At hearing of thy fate, would question thee,
And thou through tears did utter these sad words
Twin children have I brought into the world ;
One with my husband Euphron did I leave.
This other I bring with me to the dead.
(VII. 464.)
LEONIDAS OF ALEXANDRIA.
Daemon of Argos in this tomb now lying
Was he the brother of Deceoteles ?
Of Deceoteles. Did echo- sighing
Repeat these words, or words of truth are these }
Swift comes the answer. Words of truth are these.
(VII. 548.)
MELEAGER.
Lightly, allmother Earth, on ^sigenes rest,
Lightly his foot on thee was ever pressed.
(VII. 461.)
ANYTUS.
Antibia I mourn, the tender virgin ;
Troops of young lovers to her father came
To ask him to bestow her hand in marriage,
Since of her wit and beauty great the fame.
But cruel Pluto snatched beyond recall
Her who united thus the hopes of all.
(VII. 490.)
ANONYMOUS.
Hades the blossom of my youth hath gathered
And hidden it 'neath this ancestral stone.
In vain my birth, although of a good mother
And of Etherius was I the son.
798
THE POETRY— {CONTINUED).
For thus forbid to reap the fruits of learning
I languish on the shores of Acheron.
O passer-by ! since yet among the living,
Parent or child, thou must be either one.
Therefore lament, this record when thou readest,
For all my youth and learning so soon gone.
(VII. 558.)
ANONYMOUS.
Inexorable Hades, pitiless !
The child Callaeschrus why didst tear from life }
A plaything in the household of thy wife.
His place at home is filled with wretchedness.
(VII. 483-)
V
■-^<^^_
■*'^*^^ w^tf-'-^.X v>/
CHAPTER III.— THE PROSE.
I. — The Wide Circle of Hellenistic Culture. The Abundance of Intellectual Interests
in Alexandria and elsewhere. The Growth of Scholarship. The Spread of
Scientific Study. Euclid. Archimedes. Astronomy. Ptolemy. II. — The Im-
portance of this Greek Scientific Work. The Study of Medicine. Galen. His
Vast Influence, like that of Ptolemy and Aristotle. Its Long Life and Final
Overtlirow, Possibly Portending an Altered View of All Things Greek. III. —
The Grecian Influence in Rome. The Difference between the Greek and Roman
Ideals. IV. — Polybius ; his History and its Importance. Extracts. V. — Other
Historians : Diodorus Siculus, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Strabo, Fiavius
Josephus.
I.
WE have found abundant traces of the influence of the new learning
upon the poetry of Alexandria, and enough has been said to make
it clear that this city was the headquarters of every form of intellec-
tual interest. Greece itself had sunk into a dependent colony from
which every form of leadership had departed. It was, moreover, an
outlying region, remote from the meeting-place of Oriental and Greek
thought, and the poverty of the country, due also to its distance from
the great trading-places, prevented the accumulation of books, which
henceforth were destined to exercise great influence on science and
literature. The wealth of Macedonia nourished intellectual interests
there. In Syria schools were founded, where rhetoric and philosophy
VIEW OF PERGAMOS, FROM THE WEST, AFTER THE EXCAVATIONS OF I?
found a new home, such as those of Antioch, Sidon, Ephesus, and
Tarsus. More important was Pergamos, where there was a library
8oo THE PROSE.
second only to that of Alexandria, to which it was afterwards added.
The kings of this city, Attalus L, Ermenes II., and Attalus II., indeed
were for about a century formidable rivals of the Egyptian city, but
after them Pergamos sank into insignificance. The Isle of Rhodes,
however, preserved its superiority down to a late period, till at least
the second century after Christ. Yet Alexandria was the real home
of learning, and the means of transmitting the treasures of Greece to
posterity.
It was not for poetasters alone that, the library and museum of this
city was of service. We have seen that most of these had other
claims to distinction, and study of every sort was actively pursued by
a busy band of investigators. They separated learning into seven
branches, which, as the quadrivium and trivium, survived throughout
the Dark Ages, and only in this century, one might say, such is the
conservatism of educators, have they undergone serious modification.
This long-lived division was thus composed : Grammar, Rhetoric, Dia-
lectic or Logic, Arithmetic, Geometry, Astronomy, and Music. Gram-
mar, the first of these, was what we should be inclined to call philol-
ogy, and consisted of the preparation and explanation of texts. Cal-
limachus, the poet, as has been mentioned, was an authority in this
branch of learning. Zenodotus of Ephesus, his predecessor as libra-
rian, was intrusted with the care of collecting and revising the whole
body of Greek poetry. Two other men — Alexander the ^tolian and
Lycophron the Chalcidian — shared in the labor, and took the tragedies
and comedies respectively, while Zenodotus had charge of the Homeric
and other epic poems. A full list of all the grammarians of Alexan-
dria whose names and performances have come down to us would read
like a directory of that populous city, but among the most eminent
may be mentioned Aristophanes of Byzantium, about 264 B.C., and
Aristarchus of Samothrace, a century later. It would be hard to ex-
aggerate our indebtedness to these men for their services in preparing
the literature of Greece for future times. Living as they did while
the means of information were still easy of access, they accumulated
vast stores of material and abundant explanations. What Aristarchus
did in fixing the Homeric text and by way of illustration and inter-
pretation has been of especial importance to modern students. The
proper methods of work being established by these eminent men,
lexicons, commentaries, biographies, all the paraphernalia of thorough
literary history, were prepared by their many followers.
Nor was it literature alone that attracted their attention. The
mythological learning we have seen reflected in the poetry of the
Alexandrines, as, for example, in the lost poems of Callimachus.
Apollodorus of Athens, part of whose work has escaped destruction.
8o2 • THE PROSE.
collected a vast number of myths. Heraclitus, of uncertain date,
wrote a book, On Incredible Things, which contains brief accounts of
some of the most famous legends, which he seeks to explain on some
unmiraculous hypothesis. Others were Parthenius of Nicaea, 80 B.C.,
who collected a number of legendary love-stories, and Heracleides of
Pontus.
While pure literature was thus losing its original characteristics,
philosophy was fading into complete skepticism, but science, which
had long been the mainspring of such life as survived in letters, was
thriving in what was more immediately its own territory. So far as it
depended on observation, it failed to accomplish any great work : for
not only was this important method unknown, or nearly unknown, as
Aristotle's practice, in spite of his excellent theory, clearly shows ; but
the general preference of the Greeks — of which we have had abundant
instances — for a priori reasoning to painful study and experiment was
further encouraged by the philosophical opinion that the senses were
untrustworthy guides. In the exact sciences it was different ; here
neither observation nor the testimony of the senses was invoked,
and the abstract truth could not be denied. Hence it was that we
notice a marvelous growth in this branch of study. The early phil-
osophers, it will be remembered, had framed many bold hypotheses
about the universe which ascribed to number and form curious mysti-
cal properties, but a more precise notion of some of the principles of
scientific study had developed itself out of these crude beginnings.
Geometry, for instance, which, it is said, had taken its rise among the
Egyptians from the necessity of continual measurement of the lands
overflowed and altered by the annual inundations of the Nile, after
bejng carried to Greece by Thales, found many ardent students
there ; indeed, it became an important groundwork of education.
But it was in its old home, Egypt, that it secured a place as a science
in the hands of Euclid, about 300 B.C. It is not to be thought that
Euclid was the author of all the propositions that he collected in his
famous Elements ; some were doubtless his, but his main merit lay in
his selection and the arrangement of his compilation. For some time
this now undoubted fact was denied, for it was imagined that Greek
science, like Greek literature, sprang into existence fully formed, with-
out previous growth, by sheer force of genius ; but this unwarrant-
able assumption is now extinct, and without any diminution of
Euclid's fame.
While he also wrote treatises on Harmony, Optics, and Catoptrics,
which have come down to us, other works of his have failed to reach
us. The most valuable of what we have, is the Elements, and
when it is borne in mind that, as De Morgan said of him, " the sacred
PROGRESS OF SCIENTIFIC STUDIES. 803
writers excepted, no Greek has been so much read or so variously-
translated as Euclid," the importance of the scientific work done at
Alexandria is not to be easily over-estimated.
The Elements at once took the position that it now holds, becoming
the text-book for Greek schools in Alexandria and in other centers of
learning, such as Antioch, Damascus, and Edessa, the school of Nes-
torian Christians. It reached Europe in an interesting way. The
book soon attracted the attention of the conquering Arabs, who trans-
lated it in the reign of Haroun al Raschid, 786-809 A.D., and carried
it to Cordova, whence a copy was obtained by an Englishman in 1 120.
Other translations followed, but the study of geometry languished,
owing to the slavish devotion to Aristotle's logic until the revival of
learning. Not until the middle of the last century, however, did it
come into common use as a school-book.
In mechanics, Archimedes of Syracuse, about 287-212 B.C., easily
held the highest position. Diophantus, of uncertain date, though
possibly in the first half of the fourth century of our era, was the first
Greek writer on algebra, a subject which was carried further by the
Arabs. Apollonius, Eratosthenes, contemporaries of Archimedes,
were famous geometricians. Among other famous mathematicians
was Hypatia, who died A.D. 415, at the mature age of sixty-one, and
not as a young girl, as she is represented in Kingsley's novel. Her
father, Theon, also deserves mention.
Astronomy grew meanwhile in the hands of Eudoxus, Aristarchus,
Eratosthenes, and others. To Aristarchus of Samos, born between 281
and 264 B.C., belongs the credit of framing the heliocentric theory,
which then, as well as later, we are told, was regarded as an irreligious
notion. The general movement of astronomical theory was away
from this guess, which, in the absence of instruments and exact obser-
vation, could not be proved ; and not until two hundred years later
did Hipparchus actually establish astronomy as a science by inventing
methods of calculation which enabled men to make sure predictions.
He is supposed to have been the first to make a catalogue of all the
stars, and apparently he invented trigonometry, which useful method
he applied, however, to the geocentric theory. This theory was
adopted and developed by Ptolemy, who lived in the second century
of our era, and it became the universal explanation of astronomical
questions until it was disproved by Copernicus about two hundred
and fifty years ago. Ptolemy's great work on astronomy, in which he
expounded this theory, was translated into Arabic in the ninth cen-
tury, and reached Europe as one of the spoils of the Crusaders, being
put into Latin about 1200 A.D. The original Greek did not follow
until the fifteenth century, and was early printed.
8o4
THE PROSE.
All these instances, and the list is by no means complete, bring
abundant testimony of the significance of the scientific movement at
this time. Not all the good seed that was sown took root. We have
seen that the heliocentric system of Aristarchus of Samos, although
it was accepted and developed by Seleucus of Seleucia in Babylonia,
miscarried and failed to attain currency against the views of Ptolemy.
The geography of Ptolemy, moreover, was a text-book in European
schools for fourteen centuries. Nor was it to the mistaken or incom-
plete contributions alone that credit is due ; from that time forth it
was known to students .that the world was a sphere, and they under-
stood what was meant by the poles, the axis of the earth, the equator,
the arctic and antarctic circles, the solstice, etc., etc. Indeed it may
be noticed that the constant use of the Greek language in modern
times as the source of scientific terminology is in a way a recognition
of the deserts of the Alexandrines and their contemporaries, who gave
the names to their discoveries to which later investigators have been
compelled to adapt the new nomenclature. Hence the traditions of
the beginnings of exact science are preserved in its terminology, just
as the growth of the sciences starting from observation, that was at
this time somewhat neglected, bear proof of their separate history
in the common names of objects. This is testified by the presence of
Greek names in, for example, anatomical terms, although anatomy is
a subject which made less advance among the Alexandrine Greeks
than one might have expected in view of their untiring zeal in acquir-
ing learning. It was, to be sure, studied at this time, but its free
growth was impeded by the necessity of dissect-
ing apes and other animals rather than human
subjects — a fact due probably to the long sur-
vival of the Greek reverence for the human body ;
but such success as they attained — and it is very
considerable — is indicated by the terminology, and
later discoveries tell their history in the same way.
The science of medicine was in fact established
by Hippocrates, the contemporary of Pericles ; it
was in no wise discovered or created by him, for
the history of Greek medicine, or rather of sur-
gery, finds it already established — to be sure in great simplicity — in the
Homeric poems. What Hippocrates did was to co-ordinate the
results of long experience and study, to build up a tolerably complete
edifice out of the material already provided by remoter generations.
He brought new contributions to the common stock, it is true, but he
created nothing, and medical science not at all.
During many centuries a crude system of therapeutics had been
HIPPOCRATES.
THE ORIGIN OF MEDICAL SCIENCE. 805
growing up, the origin of which was ascribed in popular tradition to
Asclepius, who was said to have introduced the healing art into Greece
from Egypt. Temples were dedicated to
this son of Apollo, whither the sick would
resort to receive advice through dreams and
from the priests, who took care to preserve
records of approved remedies. These were
also inscribed upon separate tablets in the
temples, and were further disseminated
among the populace by the Asclepiads, who
established schools, notably at Cnidos and
Cos, which last was in existence 600 B.C.
There, too, Hippocrates received his early asclepius
medical education. It was, moreover, in
these schools that the Hippocratic oath was first formulated. Other
contributions to early information on the subject came from the men
in charge of gymnasiums, who naturally had acquired skill in treating
the sprains, bruises, and fractures, as well as more complicated results
of accidents and overwork. Hippocrates himself is alleged to have
been a lineal descendant of Asclepius on his father's side, and on
his mother's of Heracles, the inventor of baths, among other claims to
respect ; possibly the fact that she was by profession a midwife may
have had as much influence in determining his tastes as his divine
descent. For many centuries he remained the greatest of physicians,
and the work that he accomplished is the foundation of the present
science. After his death, medicine knew the same fate as the
rest of the intellectual work of the Greeks, and it was in Alex-
andria, the new home of intelligence, that it woke up again to
life. The study of anatomy began there under the direction of
Herophilus, about 3CX) B.C., and of Erasistratus, 280 B.C., while
the whole medical work of the Greeks culminated in Galen, who
was born at Pergamos, 131 A.D. He was a most fertile writer,
for he composed one hundred and twenty-five works on philosoph-
ical, mathematical, grammatical, and legal subjects, and on medicine
one hundred and thirty-one, of which last eighty-three have come
down to us. He, too, profited by the anatomical studies of Alexan-
dria, but the full value of this aid was much impaired by the decay of
the zealous investigations established by the anatomists just men-
tioned. After their death medical science became tainted with phil-
osophy, and two schools, the Empirical and the Dogmatic, who really
prolonged the controversy between the followers of Herophilus and
Erasistratus concerning the merits of Hippocrates, devoted their time
to discussion rather than to study. The Empirics maintained that
8o6 THE PROSE.
practice was sufficient for any physician, that groping among muscles
and bones was pedantic waste of time, and their rivals held exactly
opposite views, thus maintaining a quarrel which is eternal between
men with regard to the proper use of scientific methods. As one
result, direct anatomical investigation gradually disappeared ; the
study was regarded as degrading, subjects became rare, Galen himself
dissected apes rather than human bodies, vivisection was denounced
as cruel by men who saw nothing wrong in gladiatorial combats, as it
is now attacked by sportsmen when they are resting from the chase.
But what was a more perturbing influence upon the merit of Galen's
work was his devoted allegiance to the philosophy of Aristotle, but on
the other hand this adherence to the Stagirite gave him for centu-
ries an indisputable place alongside of that intellectual tyrant. Only
since medicine has freed itself of alliance with philosophical theories
has it really grown to maturity, yet, in spite of its theoretical defects,
the practical merits of the Greek system accomplished a vast amount
of good ; indeed, it may be said that the results of the work of the
Alexandrines in medicine are second only to what they accomplished
in grammatical study, and the terminology of anatomical science attests
their conquests just as the names of towns in America indicate the
race of those who founded them. Nor was it in these studies alone
that their mark was left ; dietetics, pharmacy, and surgery made great
advance, and Greek physicians made their way into remote regions.
To have studied in Alexandria was in itself a warrant of knowledge
and skill. Yet, of course, not all they taught still finds approval ; in
pharmacy, for example, they recommended most detestable witches'
broth, and compounded vile messes that flourished throughout the
Middle Ages, and still survive to the delight of rustics ; but they at
least made a beginning.
Galen appears to have enjoyed far less fame while living than that
which afterward gathered about his name ; for that matter, no one
lifetime could have known such great celebrity, but his reputation for
enormous learning was very great. He was regarded as a receptacle
of the wisdom of that time in other matters, too, than medicine. Only
after his death, however, did he acquire the position he so long held
as the one great leader of medicine. The overthrow of his authority,
as well as that of the Ptolemaic system — which were curiously near
in time — and the diminution of Aristotle's once omnipotent sway, are
interesting and suggestive facts in the history of thought, for it may
be that they possibly forebode a similar reconstruction of men's opin-
ions in other matters, when it shall be seen that the whole literary
fabric of Greece, built up as it was on a form of rhetorical expression
that owed its sonority to religious enthusiasm, must give way before
MODERN REVERENCE FOR GREEK MODELS. 807
simpler methods of statement. As it is at present, modern literature
obviously rests on that of Greece, and the most admired models of
that country were the natural development of emotional utterances
that have now become mere literary traditions. Its poetry grew out
of a form of religious feeling that is a thing wholly of the past, and the
prose developed out of the artificial, complicated construction of the
dithyramb ; its antitheses and balanced phrases pervaded the work of
all the orators and prose-writers, carrying with it a general impression
of the great value of mere rhetoric. In modern times the conditions
are altered, and the unsatisfactoriness of the old inspiration may per-
haps be seen in the dependence of literature on conventional models
that are now authorities, but not truly inspiring sources, as they were
in their own time.
The solvent that has wrought the momentous change in the way
of regarding the universe is science. It has altered the old way of
regarding the world ; it destroyed the authority of Galen and Ptolemy
and inflicted grievous blows on Aristotle ; since it has thus affected
our knowledge of facts, it brings forth new lessons from the facts,
and evokes different emotions, which demand other forms of expres-
sion. In other words, the emotional, wondering way of regarding life
is being superseded by the enormous collection of facts that science is
amassing, and the phraseology that was used to express obsolescent
emotion sits ill on modern ways of thought and feeling. When
men's minds were filled with awe they spoke differently from men who
are forever dispassionately seeking and finding explanations of all
observed phenomena, — indeed, the mere habit of scientific statement
cannot be without influence ; while the change of mental attitude
must in time be as apparent in men's words as in their thoughts, and
then Greek literature will doubtless retain its place as a perfectly nat-
ural expression of great and important thoughts, but it will perhaps
be no longer considered necessary to say a thing in a certain way be-
cause the Greeks so said it.
At present the worst thing about literature is that it is made up
to too great an extent of literary methods. This vice began to
make its appearance with the downfall of Hellenic independence,
and, as Horace said, conquered Greece soon made captive conquering
Rome. From Rome it has been bequeathed to Europe, and thence
it has naturally found its way over the rest of the civilized world.
III.
That new capital of the world, Rome, attracted countless Greeks
of various kinds, and the Greek language became a necessary part of
8o8 THE PROSE.
the education of every cultivated Roman. As we shall see later, that
city became the home of educated Greeks who gave instruction in
their own language, in rhetoric, and in philosophy. They swarmed
thither in such numbers that the senate twice passed laws expelling
them from the city as corrupters of the sterner Roman virtue. Indeed,
the rigid Cato objected to Greek physicians, and sought to have his
fellow-countrymen allowed to die in the old-fashioned way. In spite
of this morbid patriotism, however, the superiority of the Greek
literature and philosophy asserted itself and found admirers and fol-
lowers in their new home. The language became a common medium
for the cultivated classes, not only in Rome, but throughout the
civilized world. The Greeks, who possessed all the flower of culture,
did not need to study foreign tongues, and they appear not to have
devoted themselves to acquiring them, any more than did the French
in the last century when all people of education had to learn that
language. Thus, not long after the Macedonian conquest, Berosus in
Babylon, Menander in Tyre, and Manetho in Egypt, compiled the
annals of their country from original sources, writing them in Greek
for the use of Greeks. When medicine, philosophy, astronomy, and
doubtless literature, made their way eastward, it was by means of
translations into the various tongues ; and these translations, obviously
enough, were not made by the Greeks themselves. In Rome, as was
said above, Greek was universally known by all educated men. Nor
was it merely the excellence of Greek learning and letters that gave
this language so great importance. Ever since the Greek colonists
had moved westward to Sicily and southern Italy their influence had
been felt, and traces of it abound in early Italian history. The Greeks
had given the Italians their alphabet, had taught them to read and to
write, and the number of Greek words incorporated at an early date
into the Latin shows how much the Italians were indebted to them
for the beginnings of civilization. The Italian mythology was made
over into a close imitation of that of Greece.
The full extent of the dependence of the Romans will be made
clear when we come to the study of their literature, where it will be
seen how thoroughly their civilization drew its life from the smaller
country. Here it is well, however, to show its effect upon the Greeks,
who were only maintained in their very natural pride by their
acknowledged superiority. No one of them looked upon the Romans
as their intellectual equals ; they never studied the Latin language
except so far as their business required, and the Latin literature they
almost wholly ignored. This superiority to their conquerors in
matters of art and literature fully made up to them for the lack of
material power ; they were able to despise the gross success of their
THE LITERARY INTERESTS OF GREECE AND ROME. 809
conquerors, and by their continual assertion of their own excellence
they undoubtedly helped to preserve their authority, for the continual
assertion of one's merits is the surest method of obtaining recognition.
While the Greeks have not failed to receive the praise which is due
to their marvelous performance, there is yet one thing of which at
times sight has been lost, and that is how very nearly literature and
art were the sole outlet for the energies of an active-minded people.
With the Romans they were but a part of a large number of interests,
some of which were directly hostile to an intellectual or artistic life.
The meagre size of Greece, its lack of vast political ideals, its pro-
vincialism in matters of statecraft, all tended to diminish the number
of distracting interests, and enabled the attention of intelligent men
to concentrate itself upon literature and art. It was in very much
the same way that the sufferings of the Jews intensified their religious
fervor; while, on the other hand, the large ambitions and wide
interests of the Romans left art and letters subordinate to the many
conflicting claims of practical life. In both Greece and Rome, as
elsewhere, enthusiasm expressed itself in literature and art, but in
Greece these were more exclusively the outlets than in other countries.
Hence we may be justified in reminding those who find their ideals of
life in that land alone, that its undeniable merit was purchased at the
cost of many things which also have their preciousness and importance,
and that it is possible to pay too high a price for literary and artistic
excellence, if these can be attained only with any sensible diminution
of other interests, political, social, or scientific. The wider range of
objects pursued may necessarily involve a change, which will seem
ruinous to those who demand that the future, to be admirable, must
repeat the past. All this, it should be said, is far from a denial of the
deserts of the Greeks.
IV.
All these facts show how closely bound was Rome with Greece,
and in the history of Polybius, a Greek, which he wrote in his own
language, we may see the maturer Hellenic mind applied to the
study of events after a fashion that the Romans could not then
imitate. Polybius was born at Megalopolis, a city in Arcadia, about
204 B.C. His father was one of the leading men in the Achaean
League, that attempt at federation of Greek states which followed
upon the feeble alliances that crumbled before the single-hearted
power of Macedon. Unsatisfactory as the League was, it held out
against that country and only succumbed to Rome. In 167 B.C.
Polybius was carried to that city as a hostage, among a thousand
of his countrymen, and remained in exile for seventeen years. Dur-
8lo THE PROSE.
ing this long absence from home Polybius was able to observe the
Roman civilization, and his intimacy with the sons of -^milius
Paulus, and particularly with the one who was afterwards Scipio
Africanus the younger, was of especial service : he accompanied him
on his various campaigns, and later he was present with him at the
conquest of Carthage. This experience taught Polybius how hopeless
would be any resistance of the Achaeans to the invincible might of
Rome, and he urged his fellow-countrymen to accept the inevitable
and make the best terms they could. Like most good advice, how-
ever, that which he gave was found to be sound only when the oppo-
site had been followed. After the Achaeans had been defeated they
acknowledged their error, and put up a statue to Polybius that bore
an inscription saying that, if his words had been followed, Hellas would
have been saved. Polybius was able to mitigate some of the severi-
ties that the Romans had imposed upon their prostrate foes, and for
this intervention he received new honors. This was about 145 B.C.,
and the rest of his life, that is to say, until about 122 B.C., he appears
to have devoted to the preparation and composition of his history.
This history consisted of forty books and covered the period between
220 and 146 B.C. The first date was that at which the history of
Timaeus, since lost, came to an end. The other date was chosen as
that when Corinth fell and the independence of Greece vanished. At
first the history consisted of two distinct parts, afterwards combined
into a single work. In the first of these he began with the Second
Punic War, the Social War in Greece, and the war between Antiochus
and Ptolemy Philopater in Asia, and ended with the overthrow of the
Macedonian kingdom in 168 B.C. The second part continued the his-
tory until the date above mentioned. It should be added that the
whole was introduced by a brief sketch of Roman history between the
capture of the city by the Gauls and the beginning of the second
Punic War, with abundant references to other contemporary events.
Polybius has suffered from the fact that he was not one of the
classic Greek historians ; he has experienced a full share of the con-
tempt that educated men have felt and expressed for everything
Greek that belongs to the post-Athenian period, and has been a vic-
tim of a blight as mysterious and unreasonable as social distinctions.
Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon are in the blue book ; Poly-
bius lives beyond the recognized borders ; he is a social waif. This
is, however, scarcely a distinction that can be acknowledged by a
student, and besides the importance of the historian's statements,
there is in his work a quality that demands attention and admiration :
this is his conception of history as a branch of science. He certainly
lacks the charm of Herodotus, the unrivaled dignity of Thucydides,
EXTRACTS FROM POLYBIUS. 8ll
and the graceful art of Xenophon, but the aim of his history, to
point out,
" in what manner, and through what kind of government, almost the whole
habitable world, in less than fifty-three years, was reduced beneath the
Roman yoke,"
clearly shows a wide comprehension of his task. He did not merely
chronicle events ; he saw, what it is always difficult for a contempo-
rary to see, their real universal significance and their relation to the
world's progress.
" Before this period," he says with regard to the date he had chosen for
beginning, "the great transactions of the world were single, distinct, and
unconnected, both in place and time ; while each proceeded from motives
peculiar to itself, and was directed to its proper end. But from this time
history assumes an entire and perfect body. The affairs of Italy and Africa
were now conjoined with those of Asia and of Greece : and all moved to-
gether towards one fixed and single point."
He was then justified in boasting that he was the first to write a
universal history.
" There are many, indeed, who have written an account of particular wars:
and among them, some perhaps have added a few coincident events. But
no man, as far at least as I can learn, has ever yet employed his pains, in
collecting all the great transactions of the world into one regular and
consistent body ; remarking also the time of their commencement, the mo-
tives to which they owed their birth, and the end to which they were directed.
I therefore judged it to be a task that might prove highly useful to the world,
to rescue from oblivion this great and most instructive act of Fortune. For
in all the vast variety of disorders, struggles, changes, which the power of
this deity introduces into human life, we shall find none equal to that long
and desperate scene of contention, none worthy to be compared for their im-
portance with those events which have happened in the pre.sent age."
Certainly this is no exaggeration of the importance of the Punic
Wars and of the overthrow of the Macedonian dominion, to say
nothing of the subjection of Greece to this new power, and it is
easy to see how deeply Polybius must have been influenced by the
sight of Macedonia, recently the conqueror of the world, yielding in
its turn to the Romans, who,
"disdaining to confine their conquests within the limits of a few countries
only, have forced almost the whole habitable world to pay submission to their
laws : and have raised their empire to that vast height of power, which is so
much the wonder of the present age, and which no future times can ever
hope to exceed."
8i2 THE PROSE.
History became universal when events clearly modified the whole
civilized world.
Such then was the grand aim of Polybius, one that has been fol-
lowed by those later historians who have endeavored to show the
mutual connections of events in history with one another. Another
question is the manner of the performance. As a narrator, Polybius
often lacks the attractive qualities of his great predecessors, yet it
cannot be denied that he has well observed his rule of stating the
connection between the various incidents that he records. This
becomes clear when we remember that he finds the principle animating
and conducting these great changes, not in any great man, but in the
Roman people themselves. There is no hero in his history, but it
teaches us what Rome was and did in its early steps to greatness.
Thus in speaking of the difference between Carthage, which employed
mercenaries, and Rome with its army of citizens, he says:
" Hence it happens, that the Romans, though at first defeated, are always
able to renew the war ; and that the Carthaginian armies never are renewed
without great difficulty. Add to this, that the Romans, fighting for their
country and their children, never suffer their ardor to be slackened ; but
persist with same steady spirit, till they become superior to their enemies."
This spirit of analysis carries him further ; thus a few pages later
we find him saying:
" But among all the useful institutions that demonstrate the superior
excellence of the Roman government, the most considerable perhaps is the
opinion which the people are taught to hold concerning the gods : and that
which other men regard as an object of disgrace appears in my judgment
to be the very thing by which this republic chiefly is sustained. I mean
Superstition The ancients therefore acted not absurdly, nor without
good reason, when they inculcated the notions concerning the gods, and the
belief of infernal punishments ; but much more those of the present age are
to be charged with rashness and absurdity, in endeavouring to extirpate
these opinions."
For among the Greeks, he goes on to say, there is no honesty, and
among the Romans no taint of crime, in the treatment of public
moneys.
This tendency of Polybius to see things in their full importance,
and to describe them with a view to the instruction which they can
give to his readers, is one that throws considerable light upon the
intellectual interests of his time, for every historian, like every thinking
man, is affected by the period in which he lives. Just as Sir Walter
Scott's vivid and picturesque presentation of the Middle Ages, itself
the result of the renewed interest in the past and the intensity given
to national patriotism by the Napoleonic wars, made over the methods
THE FUNCTIONS OF THE HISTORIAN. 813
of historians who followed him and taught them something of his
brilliancy in drawing the past ; and just as now a historian only dis-
charges his duty when he explains the growth and coherence of events,
so the method of Polybius shows him the product of a time when
science ruled and helped to modify men's way of thinking. We find
science not only in the books of geometers and astronomers, but also
affecting the poets ; and in the rationalizing of Polybius, in his orderly
arrangement and search for hidden causes, we may detect the con-
temporary of the great grammarians, mathematicians, and astronomers.
The vastness of his design indicates the new views that existed con-
cerning the power of accumulated learning to interpret even the
widest problems. The decay of the Greek notion of the importance
of the city as the political unit is another token of the broader scope
of intellectual interests in these later times.
The work of Polybius does not have its sole value as an indication
and expression of the cosmopolitanism which the Romans were
unconsciously putting into practice from reasons of state, just as
England has extended its power over the globe from a series of
reasons that had been based on pounds and shillings ; nor is its only
interest that of indicating the intellectual activity of the Greek mind.
What we have to be additionally grateful for is that we have any '
history at all of this period. Polybius is the first to break the silence
of a century and a half which is the long stretch of time between the
death of Xenophon and his birth. There were, to be sure, plenty of
historians of greater or less degree during that interval ; the names of
more than one hundred have come down to us, but their names alone ;
time has spared us practically nothing of their work. Of Polybius we
have, to be sure, the recital of but the half-century after 219 B.C., but
this is of great importance in the general dearth of information.
Now, of all the precautions that have been mentioned, the first to which a com-
mander should attend, is that of observing secresy. That neither the joy which
springs from an unexpected prospect of success, nor yet the dread of a miscarriage ;
that neither friendship nor affection may prevail upon him, to communicate his design
to any persons, except those alone without whose assistance it cannot be carried into
execution : and not even to these, till the time in which their services are severally
required obliges him to disclose it. Nor is it necessary only, that the tongue be silent ;
but much more, that the mind also make not any discovery. For it has often hap-
pened, that men, who have carefully restrained themselves from speaking, have some-
times by their countenance alone, and sometimes by their actions, very clearly mani-
fested their designs. A second thing to be considered are the different routes, either
by day or by night, and the manner of performing them, both upon land and sea.
The third, and indeed the greatest object is, to know the differences of the times that
depend upon the heavens; and to be able to accommodate them to the execution of
any design. Nor is the manner of executing any enterprize to be regarded as a
point of small importance. For this alone has often made things practicable which
appeared to be impossible ; and rendered others impracticable, which were easy to
be performed.' In the last place, great attention should be paid to signals and counter-
8 14 THE PROSE.
signals ; as well as to the choice of the persons, through whose means, and with whose
assistance, the undertaking is to be accomplished.
Among the things that are to be learned in this method, one of the most necessary
is the investigation of the theory of the days and nights. If indeed the days and
nights were at all times equal, there would be no need of study, in order to acquire a
knowledge which would in that case be common and obvious to all. But since they
are different, not only each from the other, but also from themselves, it is plainly a
matter of great importance, to know the laws by which they are severally diminished
or increased. For, unless he be acquainted with these differences, how shall a com-
mander be able to measure with exactness the time of a concerted march, either by
night or by day ? How can he be assured, without this knowledge, that he shall not
either arrive too early, or too late .'' It happens also upon such occasions, and indeed
upon such alone, that the first of these mistakes is more dangerous than the other.
For he who arrives too late, is only forced to abandon his design. Perceiving his
error, while he is yet at a distance, he may return back again with safety. But he
who comes before the appointed time, being discovered by the enemy upon his
approach, not only fails in the intended enterprize, but is in danger also of suffering
an entire defeat. It is time indeed, which principally governs in all human actions ;
and most particularly in the affairs of war. A commander therefore should be per-
fectly acquainted with the time of the summer and the winter solstice ; the equinoxes ;
and the different degrees of the diminution or increase of the nights and days, as they
fall between the equinoctial points. For this is the only method that can enable him
to adjust his motions to the course of time, either by land or sea.
Thus again King Philip, when he attempted to take Melite in the manner that has
before been mentioned, was guilty of a double error. For not only the ladders which
he carried were too short ; but he failed also with respect to the time. Instead of
coming to the place in the middle of the night, as it had been concerted, when the
people would have been all fast asleep, he began his march from Larissa at an early
hour; and, having entered the territory of the Melitaeans, as it was neither safe for
him to halt, lest the enemy should gain notice of his approach, nor possible to return
back again without being perceived, he was compelled by necessity to advance, and
arrived at the city before the inhabitants were yet gone to rest. But as he could not
scale the walls, because the ladders were not proportioned to the height ; so neither
was he able to enter through the gate, because the time of the attack prevented his
friends that were within the city from favouring his entrance. At last therefore,
having only provoked the rage of the inhabitants, and lost many of his men, he was
forced to return back without accomplishing his purpose ; and instructed all mankind
for the time to come, to be suspicious of his designs, and set themselves on their
guard against him.
V.
After his death there occurs another period of silence, and indeed we
may say that of the two centuries before the Christian era our informa-
tion is far scantier than is that of two centuries earlier. Two hundred
names, thus averaging one for each year, show the extent of our loss,
but excepting the five books and the fragments of Polybius, the
abridgment of the mythological and genealogical history of Apol-
lodorus, and Sallust, Caesar, Diodorus Siculus, Dionysius of Halicar-
nassus, and Livy, we have nothing. All of the works of these writers,
with the single exception of Caesar, have been handed down to us in
a mutilated condition, and the crumbs that we have received from so
full a feast give us but an insufificient record of a momentous age.
Diodorus Siculus, or the Sicilian — he was born at Agyrium, in
THE EARLY HISTORIANS. 8lS
Sicily — was a contemporary of Caesar and Augustus; his exact dates,
however, are not known. He tells us that he spent thirty years pre-
paring for the composition of his history by traveling in Europe and
Asia, as well as in Egypt, and that Latin as well as Greek sources
were open to him. His aim was a grand one :
" Having diligently perused and examined the works of several authors, I
determined to compose an entire history, from which the reader might reap
much advantage, with little labour and pains."
This he wrote in forty books, beginning with the Trojan War and
ending with 60 B.C., the date of Caesar's consulship, a period of about
eleven hundred years. The first six books contained the early his-
tory of Asia and the Greeks ; the next eleven carried the story on to
the death of Alexander the Great ; and the remainder narrated fur-
ther events until Caesar's war against the Gauls. Of this work we
have the first five books, recounting the early history of Egypt, Ethi-
opia, Asia, and Greece, and books 11-20, from the beginning of the
second Persian War to the death of Alexander, and but fragments of
the rest. This work, which its author called a historical library, even
in the defective state in which it reaches us thus covers a great deal
of ground. It lacks, however, great interest, belonging as it does to
a time when books were made by compilation from various authori-
ties, with no marked discretion in the choice. Moreover, he has con-
fused what was already obscure by a number of chronological inaccu-
racies. It is cruel to be ungrateful for any light that can be thrown
on Greek history, but that which Diodorus gives us has found any-
thing but lavish praise.
The early history of the Romans was written by Dionysius of HaH-
carnassus, where he was born in the second quarter of the last century
before Christ. He betook himself to Rome in 29 B.C., probably giv-
ing instruction there in rhetoric, and preparing his history. He wrote
a number of books on both subjects. Those on rhetoric are intelli-
gent ; and his history, although his method ill bears the test of mod-
ern scientific examination, contains a vast mass of information. Ob-
viously, archaeology was then an unknown science, and the explana-
tion of the past lay beyond the powers of any man, but the accumu-
lation of material that he made has been found of service in later
times.
With these men should be mentioned Strabo, who lived from
about 60 B.C. until about 24 A.D., and was thus a contemporary of
Dionysius of Halicarnassus. His Description of the Earth, in seven-
teen books, contains abundant historical facts, besides many interest-
ing descriptions of places that the author had himself seen. It was
8i6 THE PROSE.
not a mere geography that he wrote, but rather a sort of manual of
general information about the different regions he describes.
Flavius Josephus, born about 37 A.D., is a marked instance of the cos-
mopolitanism that was growing up with the increasing power of Rome.
He w^s a Jew of distinguished descent who saw the invincibility of
Rome, and wrote his histories for the purpose of commending the
Jews to their conquerors. It would be unfair to explain this inten-
tion on the part of the historian as a simple lack of patriotism. An
acknowledgment of the power of Rome was at that time no more
than an acknowledgment of the power of civilization. We have
seen that city absorbing the intellectual activity of the Greeks, and
that the Jews should seek to find a place in it was neither strange
nor new. In Alexandria, ever since its foundation, they had begun
the life they have since led of comparative political isolation within
the state. They were then, as now, active in trade, and an element
of great importance in Rome as well as elsewhere. That Josephus
should have endeavored to set his fellow-religionists in a favorable
light was perhaps the best service that he could have done them. His
history of the Jewish War, which he first composed in his own lan-
guage and then translated into Greek, was much admired in Rome,
where the author was treated with great respect. Another book, on
Jewish Antiquities, in twenty books, begins with the creation of the
world and brings the record down to 66 A.D., when Nero was emperor.
Here he made an especial effort to conciliate the Romans, speaking
of the books of the Old Testament as nothing more than ancient his-
tory, with no claim to divine authority. Yet he makes very clear
the difference between Judaism and Paganism, in spite of his efforts
to smooth them away.
When Moses had thus addressed himself to God, he smote the sea with
his rod, which parted asunder at the stroke, and receiving those waters into
itself, left the ground dry, as* a road, and place of flight for the Hebrews.
Now when Moses saw this appearance of God, and that the sea went out of
its own place, and left dry land, he went first of all into it, and bid the He-
brews to follow him along that divine road, and to rejoice at the danger their
enemies that followed them were in ; and gave thanks to God for this so
surprising a deliverance which appeared from him.
Now while these Hebrews made no stay, but went on earnestly, as led by
God's presence with them, the Egyptians supposed at first that they were
distracted, and were going rashly upon manifest destruction. But when
they saw that they were gone a great way without any harm, and that no
obstacle or difficulty fell m their journey, they made haste to pursue them,
hoping that the sea would be calm for them also. They put their horse fore-
most, and went down themselves into the sea. Now the Hebrews, while
these were putting on their armour, and therein spending their time, were
beforehand with them, and escaped them, and got first over to the land on
EXTRACT FROM JOSEPH US.
817
the other side without any hurt. Whence the others were encouraged, and
more courageously pursued them, as hoping no harm would come to them
neither : but the Egyptians were not aware that they went into a road made
for the Hebrews, and not for others ; that this road was made for the deliv-
erance of those in danger, but not for those that were earnest to make use
of it for the others' destruction. As soon, therefore, as ever the whole
Egyptian army was within it, the sea flowed to its own place, and came down
with a torrent raised by storms of wind, and encompassed the Egyptians.
Showers of rain also came down from the sky, and dreadful thunders, and
lightning, and flashes of fire. Thunderbolts also were darted upon them.
Nor was there any thing which used to be sent by God upon men, as indica-
tions of his wrath, which did not happen at this time, for a dark and dismal
night oppressed them. And thus did all these men perish, so that there was
not one man left to be a messenger of this calamity to the rest of the Egyp-
tians. But the Hebrews were not able to contain themselves for joy at their
wonderful deliverance, and destruction of their enemies ; now indeed sup-
posing themselves firmly delivered, when those that would have forced them
into slavery were destroyed, and when they found they had God so evidently
for their protector. And now these Hebrews having escaped the danger
they were in, after this manner, and besides that, seeing their enemies pun-
ished in such a way as is never recorded of any other men whomsoever, were
all the night employed in singing of hymns and in mirth. Moses also com-
posed a song unto God, containing his praises, and a thanksgiving for his
kindness, in Hexameter verse.
As for myself, I have delivered every part of this history as I found it in
the sacred books. Nor let any one wonder at the strangeness of the narra-
tion, if a way were discovered to those men of old time, who were free from
the wickedness of the modern ages, whether it happened by the will of God,
or whether it happened of its own accord ; while, for the sake of those that
accompanied Alexander, king of Macedonia, who yet lived comparatively
but a little while ago, the Pamphylian sea retired and afforded a pas-
sage through itself, when they had no other way to go ; I mean, when it
was the will of God to destroy the monarchy of the Persians. And this is
confessed to be true by all that have written about the actions of Alexander.
But as to these events, let every one determine as he pleases.
CHAPTER IV.— PLUTARCH.
I, — Plutarch. His Life and Work. His Metiiod. His Attractive Simplicity. His
Influence. H. — His Naturalness and Impartiality. III. — Extracts. IV. — His
Morals. Extracts.
T.
PERHAPS the most important of the later historians is Plutarch,
who did more than any other man toward making posterity-
acquainted with both Greeks and Romans. He was born at Chaeronia,
in Bceotia, about the middle
of the first century of our era.
Like most ambitious young
Greeks he found his way to
Rome, the capital of the
world, where he gave instruc-
tion in philosophy and rhet-
oric to audiences eager to
absorb Greek culture. While
in Italy he used only his own
language, which was familiar
to all cultivated people. Later
he returned to his native city,
where he held positions of
honor, and he appears to have
been also a priest of Apollo
at Delphi. The work which
has made him famous is his
Lives of Eminent Greeks and
Romans, which he composed
probably after his return to
Chaeronia. The date of his
death is unknown. These
biographies, or Parallel Lives,
as he called them, are forty-six
in number, and appear in the
following order: i. Theseus and Romulus. 2. Lycurgus and Numa.
3. Solon and Valerius Publicola. 4. Themistocles and Camillus.
5. Pericles and Q. Fabius Maximus. 6. Alcibiades and Coriolanus.
PLUTARCH.
PLUTARCH'S LIVES AND THEIR INFLUENCE. 819
7. Timoleon and Aemilius Paulus. 8. Pelopidas and Marcellus.
9. Aristides and Cato the Elder. 10. Philopoemon and Flaminius.
II. Pyrrhus and Marius. 12. Lycander and Sulla. 13. Cimon and
Lucullus. 14. Nicias and Crassus. 15. Ermenes and Sertorius.
16. Agesilaus and Pompeius. 17. Alexander and Caesar. 18. Pho-
cion and Cato the Younger. 19. Agis and Cleomenes, and the two
Gracchi, Tiberius and Caius. 20. Demosthenes and Cicero. 21. De-
metrius Poliorketes and Marcus Antonius. 22. Dion and M. Junius
Brutus. Lives of Artaxerxes Mnemon, Aratus, Galbo and Otho, and,
in some editions, of Homer, follow these, although with no parallel
order. The following biographies have been lost : Epaminondas,
Scipio, Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, Nero, Vitellius, Hesiod,
Pindar, Crates the Cynic, Daiphantus, Aristomenes, and the poet
Aratus.
His aim was a modest one; in his Life of Alexander he acknowl-
edged that he did not give the actions in full detail, and with a scrupu-
lous exactness, but rather in a short summary, because he was writing
not histories, but lives.
" Nor is it," he goes on, " always in the most distinguished achievements
that men's virtues or vices may be best discerned ; but very often an action
of small note, a short saying, or a jest, shall distinguish a person's real char-
acter more than the greatest sieges or the most important battles. There-
fore, as painters in their portraits labour the likeness in the face, and par-
ticularly about the eyes, in which the peculiar turn of mind most appears,
and run over the rest with a more careless hand ; so we must be permitted
to strike off the features of the soul, in order to give a real likeness of these
great men, and leave to others the circumstantial detail of their labours and
achievements."
The faults which he enumerates have been detected by many read-
ers ; and attention has been often called to his errors, especially in the
Roman lives, and to the disorderly arrangement that is to be found
in nearly all. Yet, granting these flaws, the existence of which he was
the first to point out, it is yet undeniable that he succeeded in what
he undertook to do, and this was to represent, so far as he could, the
personal characteristics of the various leading men of Greece and
Rome. The time in which he wrote was one of moral decay, and by
his pictures of a nobler past he hoped to revive an interest in virtue
and right living. So much he did not accomplish, for it was impossible
for any series of biographies to avert the decadence of Roman civili-
zation ; but the Lives have been of great importance in modern times,
not only on account of the information which they have contained
about the ancients, but also as direct stimulants to men who were
seeking for good models. The conditions under which he wrote nat-
820 PLUTARCH.
urally modified his way of looking at the past, and to a contemporary
of Nero it would seem that the one thing the world lacked was politi-
cal virtue, hence Plutarch sets the portraits of wise rulers and leaders
in such a light as shall best convey moral instruction. This he has
done by presenting them as human beings, by recording their personal
traits rather than the marches and countermarches of their campaigns,
by giving us the information for which there is an eternal and insatia-
ble hunger, that, namely, about the nature of men, not human nature
in the abstract — the appetite for that is soon stayed — but as it has
appeared in the past and appears to-day, not merely in emperors and
generals, but in our fellow-citizens and next-door neighbors. Hence
almost the only persons of antiquity whom we may be said to know
are those who have been fortunate enough to have him for their
biographer ; of the undistinguished citizens we know scarcely anything.
He has filled a gallery with statues of illustrious men copied from the
life. One result of this has been that we always think of the ancients
as a collection of statues, our only conception of them is as doing some
important thing ; we have no knowledge of anything else. Plutarch
is by far the most valuable interpreter that we have between antiquity
and modern times, and in these holds a position unshared by any
classic or post-classic writer. Another result of the vividness of his
representation of great men has been his authority at two distinct
periods in modern history when individuality has made its appearance
as a novel force. It is not a mere accident that Plutarch enjoyed a
revival of fame at the time of the Renaissance, when egoism broke the
monotonous bonds of the Middle Ages, and again in the last century
when the modern hero entered poetry and fiction as the representative
of the development of personality as a social and political force.
Amyot's translation of Plutarch's Lives in 1559 — it appeared in
English form, twenty years later, — gave the men of that gener-
ation not a mere collection of rare facts, but new views of life. As
Plutarch's best pupil, Montaigne, said, speaking of the studies suitable
for a young man : " What profit shall he not reap, as to the business
of men, by reading the lives of Plutarch ? But, withal, let my tutor
remember to what end his instructions are principally directed, and
that he does not so much imprint in his pupil's memory the date of
the ruin of Carthage, as the manners of Hannibal and Scipio ; nor so
much where Marcellus died, as why it was unworthy of his duty that
he died there." He was certainly justified in saying that he never
seriously settled himself to the reading of any book of solid learning
but Plutarch and Seneca. Indeed Plutarch was a writer of the highest
authority among Montaigne's contemporaries, as with Bacon and all
of the men of that day who were seeking to draw inspiration from
PLUTARCH'S POPULARITY IN MODERN TIMES. 821
antiquity. North's Plutarch inspired three of Shakspere's plays, — Ju-
lius Caesar, Antony and Cleopatra, and Coriolanus, — and the book was
doubtless the most important part of his classical education, as it was
that of many generations of readers. Moreover, although Shakspere
drew the suggestions of his plays from many different sources, he
never followed Bandello or any Italian novelist with half the fidelity
that he showed in constructing his Julius Caesar, for instance, on the
very words of Plutarch. What higher proof could there be of the
biographer's vividness and truth ? The list of the distinguished men
who admired him is a long one : Racine, Bayle, Henri IV. were among
the early ones in France ; Falkland, Clarendon, and Sydney, in Eng-
land, drew lessons in courage and patriotism from his pages. While
Plutarch never lost his popularity, we may notice a recrudescence of
his authority in the latter half of the eighteenth century, when the
lessons that were taught in his Lives found apt pupils among a gen-
eration who were preparing for an outbreak against despotism.
Rousseau, Franklin, and others took delight in the pictures of great
men, and the influence of the book may be seen in the imitation of
Plutarch's heroes by the distinguished personages of the time. The
very name of the Society of the Cincinnati ; the pseudonyms under
which patriots conveyed their thoughts to the world, such as Gracchus
and Publicola, as well as the countless references to his pages, make
clear the extent of Plutarch's influence.
II.
The quality by means of which he moved his readers at these
important periods is that of drawing the men as they were. In this
art he is a master, and it is the more conspicuous on account of his
dim vision of great movements in histor)\ Of vast political complica-
tions he has nothing to say ; he knows only the men who were con-
spicuous in them, and these he brings before us with the utmost dis-
tinctness. His favorite method is to use anecdotes to illustrate their
prominent qualities. They follow one another, as in an old man's talk,
securing their long literary life by means of the earnestness that went
to their collection and utterance, and not at all to any attempt at
literary grace. Who that reads Plutarch thinks of him as a Greek
writer? He is a perfect cosmopolitan, at home everywhere and in
every language. He has the right of citizenship in French, English,
and German ; he never impresses us as a translated Greek. And this
position, in which he has no rival, he owes to the simplicity which is
much rarer and nobler than literary art.
822 PLUTARCH.
"I began the Lives," he said, "for the benefit of others, and I continue
them for my own," and by pleasing himself, with absolute disregard of con-
ventional laws, he has pleased whole generations of men. " For it does not
necessarily follow," he says in the Life of Pericles, " that if a piece of work
please for its gracefulness, therefore he that wrought it deserves our admira-
tion. . . . But virtue, by the bare statement of its actions, can so affect men's
minds as to create at once both admiration of the things done and desire to
imitate them. . . . And so," he goes on, "we have thought fit to spend our
time and pains in writing of the lives of famous persons."
Indeed, while every other way of regarding the world is subject to
change, and literary fashions, political ideals, historical proportions,
vary at different times, ethical laws remain as firmly fixed as physical
laws, the eternal conditions of human existence ; and Plutarch, by
regarding them, while yet avoiding preaching, has won his place among
the immortals.
The moral aim of his biographical work was doubtless clearer to
himself and to his contemporaries than it is to us. The parallelism of
the several Greek and Roman lives, with the final comparison between
the members of each pair, was quite as important to him as anything
else ; and probably those to whom the question of the relative superi-
ority of Greece or Rome was an open one found a delight which we
do not share in weighing the newer against the older civilization and in
reading Plutarch's thoughtful summing-up. He kept the former glory
of Greece in honor, and paid the highest tribute possible to Rome by
treating the two nations with equal respect. The difificulty of drawing
the comparisons was great, and Plutarch has naturally not escaped the
charge of partiality to his own countrymen, but he has escaped con-
viction by the disagreement of the jury. It would not be so easy to
panel a new one, for we care less for the proportional merits of his
heroes than for the humanity in each one, and perhaps we are free to
admire him more than did the ancients, because we are not under the
necessity of making up our minds on what is after all a side issue. It
is only the abundance of human nature that gives books immortal life,
and Plutarch's fame has grown with the approach of indifference to
what he perhaps thought was the important part of his work. His
greatest merit was in good part an unconscious one, as is often the
case with the best books. At least, when we speak of Plutarch's
Lives, we mean the biographical part, and not the weighing of two
men in a balance : those pages we are apt to leave unread, like the
moral of a fable.
What we do admire is the way in Avhich the petty traits that he
lovingly records illuminate the great ones, as they do in life. Not all
gossip has this power, any more than long accumulation of details is
realism in the composition of a novel. Everything depends on the
EXTRACT FROM PLUTARCH'S TIMOLEON. 823
artist, and Plutarch gives us the air of the great men he writes about, —
their nature — by his wise tact, just as a great painter can draw a striking
likeness with two or three charcoal lines. He narrates trifles, but he
does not narrate them trivially ; he sees the men he writes about, and
he puts them before us without any preconceived notion of what the
dignity of the biographer's art demands ; and the result is that one of
the latest of the Greeks maintains the accustomed supremacy of his
country by setting the standard of biography for future times.
III.
Although Greece had in his time produced several persons of extraor-
dinary worth, and much renowned for their achievements, such as Timotheus
and Agesilaus and Pelopidas and (Timoleon's chief model) Epaminondas,
yet the lustre of their best actions was obscured by a degree of violence and
labor, insomuch that some of them were matter of blame and of repentance ;
whereas there is not any one act of Timoleon's, setting aside the necessity
he was placed under in reference to his brother, to which, as Timaeus observes,
we may not fitly apply that exclamation of Sophocles :
O gods ! what Venus, or what grace divine,
Did here with human workmanship combine ?
For as the poetry of Antimachus and the painting of Dionysius, the artists
of Colophon, though full of force and vigor, yet appeared to be strained and
elaborate in comparison with the pictures of Nicomachus and the verses
of Homer, which, besides their general strength and beauty, have the peculiar
charm of seeming to have been executed with perfect ease and readiness ;
so the expeditions and acts of Epaminondas or Agesilaus, that were full of
toil and effort, when compared with the easy and natural as well as noble and
glorious achievements of Timoleon, compel our fair and unbiassed judgment
to pronounce the latter not indeed the effect of fortune, but the success of
fortunate merit. Though he himself indeed ascribed that success to the sole
favor of fortune ; and both in the letters which he wrote to his friends at
Corinth, and in the speeches he made to the people of Syracuse, he would
say that he was thankful unto God, who, designing to save Sicily, was pleased
to honor him with the name and title of the deliverance he vouchsafed it.
And having built a chapel in his house, he there sacrificed to Good Hap, as
a deity that had favored him, and devoted the house itself to the Sacred
Genius ; it being a house which the Syracusans had selected for him, as a
special reward and monument of his brave exploits, granting him together
with it the most agreeable and beautiful piece of land in the whole country,
where he kept his residence for the most part, and enjoyed a private life with
his wife and children, who came to him from Corinth. For he returned thither
no rnore, unwilling to be concerned in the broils and tumults of Greece, or to
expose himself to public envy (the fatal mischief which great commanders
continually run into, from the insatiable appetite for honors and authority) ;
but wisely chose to spend the remainder of his days in Sicily, and there par-
take of the blessings he himself had procured, the greatest of which was to
824 PLUTARCH.
behold so many cities flourish, and so many thousands of people live happy
through his means.
As, however, not only, as Simonides says, " on every lark must grow a
crest," but also in every democracy there must spring up a false accuser ;
so was it at Syracuse : two of their popular spokesmen, Laphystius and
Demaenetus by name, fell to slander Timoleon. The former of whom requir-
ing him to put in sureties that he would answer to an indictment that would
be brought against him, Timoleon would not suffer the citizens, who were
incensed at this demand, to oppose it or hinder the proceeding, since he of
his own accord had been, he said, at all that trouble, and run so many danger-
ous risks for this very end and purpose, that every one who wished to try
matters by law should freely have recourse to it. And when Demaenetus, in
full audience of the people, laid several things to his charge which had been
done while he was general, he made no other reply to him, but only said he
was much indebted to the gods for granting the request he had so often
made them, namely, that he might live to see the Syracusans enjoy that
liberty of speech which they now seemed to be masters of. Timoleon, there-
fore, having by confession of all done the greatest and the noblest things of
any Greek of his age, and alone distinguished himself in those actions to
which their orators and philosophers, in their harangues and panegyrics at
their solemn national assemblies, used to exhort and incite the Greeks, and
being withdrawn beforehand by happy fortune, unspotted and without blood,
from the calamities of civil war, in which ancient Greece was soon after
involved ; having also given full proof, as of his sage conduct and manly
courage to the barbarians and tyrants, so of his justice and gentleness to the
Greeks, and his friends in general ; having raised, too, the greater part of
those trophies he won in battle, without any tears shed or any mourning worn
by the citizens either of Syracuse or Corinth, and within less than eight years'
space delivered Sicily from its inveterate grievances and intestine distempers,
and given it up free to the native inhabitants, began, as he was now growing
old, to find his eyes fail, and awhile after became perfectly blind. Not that
he had done anything himself which might occasion this defect, or was
deprived of his sight by any outrage of fortune ; it seems rather to have been
some inbred and hereditary weakness that was founded in natural causes,
which by length of time came to discover itself. For it is said that several
of his kindred and family were subject to the like gradual decay, and lost all
use of their eyes, as he did, in their declining years. Athanis the historian
tells us that even during the war against Hippo and Mamercus, while he
was in camp at Mylae, there appeared a white speck within his eye, from
whence all could foresee the deprivation that was coming on him ; this, how-
ever, did not hinder him then from continuing the siege and prosecuting
the war till he got both tyrants into his power ; but upon his coming back
to Syracuse, he presently resigned the authority of sole commander, and
besought the citizens to excuse him from any further service, since things
were already brought to so fair an issue. Nor is it so much to be wondered
that he himself should bear the misfortune without any marks of trouble ;
but the respect and gratitude which the Syracusans showed him when he was
entirely blind may justly deserve our admiration. They used to go them-
selves to visit him in troops, and brought all the strangers that travelled
through their country to his house and manor, that they also might have the
pleasure to see their noble benefactor ; making it the great matter of their joy
and exultation that when, after so many brave and happy exploits, he might
EXTRACT FROM PLUTARCH'S TIMOLEON. 825
have returned with triumph into Greece, he should disregard all the glorious
preparations that were made to receive him, and choose rather to stay here
and end his days among them. Of the various things decreed and done in
honor of Timoleon, I consider one most signal testimony to have been the
vote which they passed, that, whenever they should be at war with any foreign
nation, they should make use of none but a Corinthian general. The method,
also, of their proceeding in council, was a noble demonstration of the same
deference for his person. For, determining matters of less consequence
themselves, they always called him to advise in the more difficult cases, and
such as were of greater moment. He was, on these occasions, carried through
the market-place in a litter, and brought in, sitting, into the theatre, where the
people with one voice saluted him by his name ; and then, after returning
the courtesy, and pausing for a time, till the noise of their gratulations and
blessings began to cease, he heard the business in debate, and delivered his
opinion. This being confirmed by a general suffrage, his servants went back
with the litter through the midst of the assembly, the people waiting on him
out with acclamations and applauses, and then returning to consider other
public matters which they could despatch in his absence. Being thus cher-
ished in his old age, with all the respect and tenderness due to a common
father, he was seized with a very slight indisposition, which, however, was
sufficient, with the aid of time, to put a period to his life. There was an
allotment then of certain days given, within the space of which the Syra-
cusans were to provide whatever should be necessary for his burial, and all
the neighboring country people and strangers were to make their appearance
in a body ; so that the funeral pomp was set out with great splendor and
magnificence in all other respects, and the bier, decked with ornaments and
trophies, was borne by a select body of young men over that ground where
the palace and castle of Dionysius stood before they were demolished by
Timoleon. There attended on the solemnity several thousands of men and
women, all crowned with flowers, and arrayed in fresh and clean attire, which
make it look like the procession of a public festival ; while the language of
all, and their tears mingling with their praise and benediction of the dead
Timoleon, manifestly showed that it was not any superficial honor or com-
manded homage which they paid him, but the testimony of a just sorrow for
his death, and the expression of true affection. The bier at length being
placed upon the pile of wood that was kindled to consume his corpse, Deme-
trius, one of their loudest criers, proceeded to read a proclamation, to the
following purpose : " The people of Syracuse has made a special decree
to inter Timoleon, the son of Timodemus, the Corinthian, at the common
expense of two hundred minas, and to honor his memory forever, by the
establishment of annual prizes to be competed for in music, and horse-races,
and all sorts of bodily exercise ; and this because he suppressed the tyrants,
overthrew the barbarians, replenished the principal cities, that were desolate,
with new inhabitants; and then restored the Sicilian Greeks to the privilege
of living by their own laws." Besides this, they made a tomb for him in
the market-place, which they afterwards built round with colonnades, and
attached to it places of exercise for the young men, and gave to it the name
of the Timoleonteum. And keeping to that form and order of civil policy
and observing those laws and constitutions which he left them, they lived
themselves a long time in great prosperity.
826 PLUTARCH.
IV.
Besides his Lives, Plutarch left many writings which are conveniently
put together under the title of Morals. The subjects that he treats
in these essays are manifold, and the essays themselves are not all of
the same importance. Some appear to be notes of lectures in which
trifles are discussed, others again are thoughtful dissertations on the
most serious problems of life. Throughout, Plutarch's interest in
moral questions is continually manifest, and there is nothing more
charming than his attitude toward the world as it appears on almost
every page. When we think of the condition of the ancient world at
this time, as we shall find it pictured by Juvenal and other Roman
writers, we are struck by Plutarch's innocence and simplicity ; we seem
to have found a writer of the Golden Age, not of literature, to be sure,
but of morals. He seems wrapped up against the corruption that sur-
rounded him in his knowledge of the past from which he continually
draws lessons of uprightness and honesty. The old mythology is re-
ferred to by him as a storehouse of moral lessons ; he brings instruction
from all the philosophical systems, especially from his master, Plato ;
and he continually refers to the teachings to be drawn from the study
of ancient history. So marked is the moral tendency of these writings
that some have thought that Plutarch must have been a Christian in
disguise, or at least have had knowledge of Christian writings. It is,
however, an unfounded assumption ; what is fairer is to see in his work
one of the many bits of evidence that go to show the general moral
reaction against the widespread corruption of the time. This feeling,
which was one of the antecedent causes as well as a most powerful
ally of Christianity, was evoked in the mind of every thoughtful man by
the sight of the collapse of paganism, and the only hope for humanity
seemed to lie in a reinforcement of the moral teachings of the past,
whence a universal religion might be drawn by combining the various
elements of truth from all available sources. And Plutarch only anti-
cipated the early Fathers of the Church in the prominence he gave to
Plato when they saw in Greek philosophy a revelation of divine truth.
If for nothing else, the moral writings of Plutarch would be valuable
as indications of the last struggles of paganism to raise itself to the
highest level, and of the interest in ethical questions which could not
fail to make the lessons of Christianity acceptable. They prove that
there was a generally felt need of a loftier teaching, that the world was
ready for the reception of a new code of morals. We shall find some
of his Roman contemporaries bringing forward abundant evidence of
the crying need of a new dispensation, but it is in these times that
PLUTARCH'S MORAL ESSAYS. 827
those who escape the infection are most concerned about the state of
affairs. This is natural — otherwise, to be sure, it would not happen —
it is when our house is burning that we are most interested about the
means of extinguishing fire.
The long study of ethical questions by the various schools of philo-
sophy had differed as to the measures to be applied, but they had
agreed in seeking a cure. Indeed, since the days of Socrates, phil-
osophy had grown more ethical as the times grew worse, and the old
religion faded out, and dejection and despair were the alternatives
of indifference and recklessness. The old world was practically
moribund.
Now, if truth be a ray of the divinity, as Plato says it is, and the source of
all the good that derives upon either gods or men, then certainly the flatterer
must be looked upon as a public enemy to all the gods, and especially to
Apollo ; for he always acts counter to that celebrated oracle of his, Know
thyself, endeavoring to make every man his own cheat, by keeping him
ignorant of the good and ill qualities that are in him ; whereupon the good
never arrive at perfection, and the ill grow incorrigible.
Did flattery, indeed, as most other misfortunes do, generally or altogether
wait on the debauched and ignoble part of mankind, the mischief were of
less consequence, and might admit of an easier prevention. But, as worms
breed most in sweet and tender woods, so usually the most obliging, the
most brave and generous tempers readiliest receive and longest entertain
the flattering insect that hangs and grows upon them. And since, to use
Simonides' expression, it is not for persons of a narrow fortune, but for
gentlemen of estates, to keep a good stable of horses ; so never saw we flat-
tery the attendant of the poor, the inglorious and inconsiderable plebeian,
but of the grandees of the world, the distemper and bane of great families
and affairs, the plague in kings' chambers, and the ruin of their kingdoms.
Therefore it is a business of no small importance, and one which requires no
ordinary circumspection, so to be able to know a flatterer in every shape he
assumes, that the counterfeit resemblance some time or other bring not true
friendship itself into suspicion and disrepute. For parasites — like lice, which
desert a dying man, whose palled and vapid blood can feed them no longer —
never intermix in dry and insipid business where there is nothing to be got ;
but prey upon a noble quarry, the ministers of state and potentates of the
earth, and afterwards lousily shirk off if the greatness of their fortune chance
to leave them. But it will not be wisdom in us to stay till such fatal junctures,
and then try the experiment, which will not only be useless, but dangerous
and hurtful ; for it is a deplorable thing for a man to find himself then des-
titute of friends when he most wants them and has no opportunity either of
exchanging his false and faithless friend for a fast and honest one. And
therefore we should rather try our friend, as we do our money, whether or
not he be passable and current, before we need him. For it is not enough
to discover the cheat to our cost, but we must so understand the flatterer,
that he put no cheat upon us ; otherwise we should act like those who must
needs take poison to know its strength, and foolishly hazard their lives to
inform their judgment. And as we cannot approve of this carelessness, so
neither can we of that too scrupulous humor of those who, taking the measures
828 PLUTARCH.
of true friendship only from the bare honesty and usefulness of the man,
immediately suspect a pleasant and easy conversation for a cheat. For a
friend is not a dull tasteless thing, nor does the decorum of friendship consist
in sourness and austerity of temper, but its very port and gravity is soft and
amiable, —
Where Love and all the Graces do reside.
For it is not only a comfort to the afflicted,
To enjoy the courtesy of his kindest friend,
as Euripides speaks ; but friendship extends itself to both fortunes, as well
brightens and adorns prosperity as allays the sorrows that attend adversity.
And as Evenus used to say that fire makes the best sauce, so friendship,
wherewith God has seasoned the circumstances of our mortality, gives a relish
to every condition, renders them all easy, sweet, and agreeable enough. And
indeed, did not the laws of friendship admit of a little pleasantry and good
humor, why should the parasite insinuate himself under that disguise? And
yet he, as counterfeit gold imitates the brightness and lustre of the true,
always puts on the easiness and freedom of a friend, is always pleasant and
obliging, and ready to comply with the humor of his company. And there-
fore it is no way reasonable either, to look upon every just .character that is
given us as a piece of flattery ; for certainly a due and seasonable commenda-
tion is as much the duty of one friend to another as a pertinent and serious
reprehension ; nay, indeed, a sour querulous temper is perfectly repugnant
to the laws of friendship and conversation ; whereas a man takes a chiding
patiently from a friend who is as ready to praise his virtues as to animadvert
upon his vices, willingly persuading himself that mere necessity obliged him
to reprimand, whom kindness had first moved to commend.
But what is at length in death, that is so grievous and troublesome ? For
I know not how it comes to pass that, when it is so familiar and as it were
related to us, it should seem so terrible. How can it be rational to wonder
if that cleaves asunder which is divisible, if that melts whose nature is lique-
faction, if that burns which is combustible, and so, by a parity of reason, if
that perisheth which by nature is perishable ! For when is it that death is
not in us ! For, as Heraclitus saith, it is the same thing to be dead and
alive, asleep and awake, a young man and decrepit ; for these alternately are
changed one into another. For as a potter can form the shape of an animal
out of his clay and then as easily deface it, and can repeat this backwards
and forwards as often as he pleaseth, so Nature too out of the same materials
fashioned first our grandfathers, next our fathers, then us, and in process of
time will engender others, and again others upon these. For as the flood of
our generation glides on without any intermission and will never stop, so in
the other direction the stream of our corruption flows eternally on, whether
it be called Acheron or Cocytus by the poets. So that the same cause which
first showed us the light of the sun carries us down to infernal darkness.
And in my mind, the air which encompasseth us seems to be a lively image
of the thing ; for it brings on the vicissitudes of night and day, life and death,
sleeping and waking. For this cause it is that life is called a fatal debt,
which our fathers contracted and we are bound to pay ; which is to be done
calmly and without any complaint, when the creditor demands it ; and by
this means we shall show ourselves men of sedate passions. And I believe
Nature, knowing the confusion and shortness of our life, hath industriously
concealed the end of it from us, this making for our advantage. For if we
EXTRACT FROM PLUTARCH'S ESSAYS. 829
were sensible of it beforehand, some would pine away with untimely sorrow,
and would die before their death came. For she saw the woes of this life,
and with what a torrent of cares it is overflowed — which if thou didst under-
take to number, thou wouldst grow angry with it, and confirm that opinion
which hath a vogue amongst some, that death is more desirable than life.
And did we in like manner but take an impartial survey of those troubles,
lapses, and infirmities incident to our nature, we should find we stood in no
need of a friend to praise and extol our virtues, but of one rather that would
chide and reprimand us for our vices. For first, there are but few who will
venture to deal thus roundly and impartially with their friends, and fewer
yet who know the art of it, men generally mistaking railing and ill language
for a decent and friendly reproof. And then a chiding, like any other physic,
if ill-timed, racks and torments you to no purpose, and works in a manner
the same effect with pain that flattery does with pleasure. For an unseason-
able reprehension may be equally mischievous with an unseasonable com-
mendation, and force your friend to throw himself upon the flatterer ; like
water which, leaving the too precipitous and rugged hills, rolls down upon
the humble valleys below. And therefore we ought to qualify and allay the
sharpness of our reproofs with a due temper of candor and moderation, — as
we would soften light which is too powerful for a distempered eye, — lest our
friends, being plagued and ranted upon every trivial occasion, should at last
fly to the flatterer's shade for their ease and quiet. For all vice, Philopappus,
is to be corrected by an intermediate virtue, and not by its contrary extreme,
as some do who, to shake off that sheepish bashfulness which hangs upon
their natures, learn to be impudent ; to lay aside their country breeding,
endeavor to be comical ; to avoid the imputation of softness and cowardice,
turn bullies ; out of an abhorrence of superstition, commence atheists ; and
rather than be reputed fools, play the knave ; forcing their inclinations, like
a crooked stick, to the opposite extreme, for want of skill to set them straight.
But it is highly rude to endeavor to avoid the suspicion of flattery by only
being insignificantly troublesome, and it argues an ungenteel, unconversable
temper in a man to show his just abhorrency of mean and servile ends in his
friendship only by a sour and disagreeable behavior ; like the freedman in
the comedy, who would needs persuade himself that his railing accusation
fell within the limits of that freedom in discourse which every one had right
to with his equals. Since, therefore, it is absurd to incur the suspicion of a
flatterer by an over-obliging and obsequious humor, and as absurd, on the
other hand, in endeavoring to decline it by an immoderate latitude in our
apprehensions, to lose the enjoyments and salutary admonitions of a friendly
conversation, and since the measures of what is just and proper in this, as in
other things, are to be taken from decency and moderation ; the nature of
the argument seems to require me to conclude it with a discourse upon this
subject.
CHAPTER v.— LUCIAN.
I, — Lucian, the Satirist. The First of the Moderns. More Greek than the Greeks of
his Time. His Life. II. — His Onslaughts upon the Moribund Religion. His
Dialogues. III. — The Broad Burlesque which he sometimes Employs against
Gods, Philosophers, and Men of Letters. IV.— His Later Fame. His Notion of
Hades. His Treatment of Gross Superstitions. Alexander the Medium. Various
Writings of his. V. — His Wit, Comparison between it and the Same Quality as
Exhibited by Others. His Denunciation of Science. His Exhibition of the
General Condition of the Greek Man of Letters in those Times.
I.
WHILE Plutarch thus presents us a picture of what was best in the
old religion and early society, and drew from them lessons that
should counteract the corruption of his day, Lucian, on the other
hand, broke with the past, derided its religion, scorned its philosophy,
denounced his contemporaries as well, with no occult purpose of
favoring any sect, but merely to show the age its own rottenness.
Plutarch fought wrongdoing with good advice and good examples from
early history : Lucian's weapons were ridicule and satire. Plutarch
has been well called the last of the ancients, and Lucian the first of
the moderns. Yet, true as this statement is, Lucian still shows many
of the qualities of an ancient in the artistic completeness of his work,
the lightness and certainty of his touch, and in his freedom from deep
imprecations. He says what he has to say without sullen wrath, and,
having said it, he stops.
Lucian's possession of this classic quality is the more striking in
view of the fact that he was not a Greek. He was born at Samorata,
near Antioch, at an uncertain date in the second century of our era,
I20 A.D., or 140 A.D., and, like Socrates, began to prepare himself to
be a sculptor. But, if we may believe the account that he gives in
one of his writings, he broke the piece of marble on which he was at
work, an accident for which he was promptly punished, and in a dream
Science appeared to him, exhibiting to him the rewards that awaited
the successful sophist, and these persuaded him to devote himself to
this profession. He studied at home, and practiced for some, time at
Antioch ; then he traveled, like the itinerant lecturers of the present
day, through foreign lands, declaiming and writing his own compo-
sitions. He appears to have passed through Asia Minor, Greece,
LUCIAN'S ATTACK ON THE OLD RELIGION. 831
and Gaul, and everywhere to have been successful. His audiences
demanded of these wandering sophists the slightest intellectual
food. Just as now, in these days of science, diluted information of
familiar facts, with a number of photographic views, gives delight for
an hour, so then literary jugglery was deemed a fascinating amuse-
ment, and audiences applauded mock praise of a fly, and similarly
ingenious parodies. Lucian after leaving Gaul, which was a most
fruitful territory for those who lived by this exercise of their wits,
visited Rome, and finally, when about forty years old, returned to
Greece and established himself at Athens. Then he determined to
abandon an occupation which had probably brought him a compe-
tence as well as supplied him with abundant material for satire, and
from this time he devoted himself to literature. Later, when an old
man, he was reduced to poverty and compelled to fill a minor office
in an Egyptian court of law. He died at an advanced age.
II.
The cleverest of Lucian's satires are those directed against the
moribund mythology. He lived in a period of gross superstition,
when paganism had revived for a last struggle against decay, and the
old traditions joined hands with all sorts of novel extravagances.
Lucian set his face against both. His attack upon the old Greek
mythology was especially ingenious. He wrote a number of short
dialogues in which the absurdities of the old beliefs were exposed
without passion, but merely as obvious facts that possibly had been
overlooked, though when once stated they could not be denied. The
poets had drawn pictures of greater or less length for centuries from
the abundant legendary history, and he might have defended himself
from attack by appealing to these familiar precedents. Writing them
in prose could not certainly be regarded as blasphemy, and even
serious persons who might have been pained would have found it hard
to put their finger on the offensive passages. This is, after all the
secret of his power ; he puts things before his readers exactly as they
were recorded, and if his statement is destructive, it is because the
facts are unworthy of admiration. Lucian simply records the myth ;
his irony is concealed, and the sting of the attack lies in the absurdi-
ties that poets have long hidden under a cloud of fine language. As
to the form that he chose, he explains it as a combination devised by
himself, of comedy and dialogue. Comedy, he says, was wholly devoted
to the services of Dionysus, it used to march to the sound of the
flute, and ridiculed the friends of the dialogue, calling them dreamers,
chasers of wild geese, etc., with no other aim than amusement and
83^
LUCIA N.
denunciation. Thus, as in the Clouds of Aristophanes, it represented
them floating in the air, or carefully measuring the leap of a flea, to
signify that the philosophers lived in the clouds. Dialogue was em-
ployed solely for grave discussion, and philosophical controversies on
nature and virtue, so that between dialogue and comedy there existed
complete discord. He, however, had ventured to combine the two,
although there seems to be no common ground between them. As to
stealing, there is none, he boasts in his works. " From whom could
I steal ? " he asks.
It will be noticed however, that while he invented this new form,
he is so far from being a creator, that
he merely combined two forms already
existing.
Here is an example of this part of his
work :
Alexander and Diogenes.
Diogenes. How is this, Alexander ? So
you were forced to die as well as the rest of
us !
Alex. As you see, Diogenes. Is it any-
thing so extraordinary that a mortal should
die !
DiOG. Ammon, then, was only passing a
joke upon us when he declared you his
son, while you were only the son of Philip ?
Alex. Undoubtedly ; I should scarce
have died if Ammon had been my father.
DiOG. Yet in support of this pretence a
tale was spread that your mother Olympias
had a mysterious intercourse with a dragon,
that the dragon was seen in her bed, that
you were the fruit of it, and that Philip was
erroneously reputed to be your father.
Alex. These reports did reach my ears
as they did yours ; but I perceive now that
^.^^..^.. Qf ^jj ^^^^ ^^g g^i^ q£ j^y mother and the
priest of Ammon not a word was true.
DioG. Their lies, however, were of great service to you in your enterprises ;
for many submitted to you merely because they took you for a god. — But
tell me, who succeeds you in that prodigious empire which cost you so much
trouble ?
Alex. I cannot tell, my good Diogenes ; I had made no dispositions
about it, except that when at the last gasp I gave ray seal-ring to Perdiccas. —
What makes you laugh, Diogenes ?
DioG. What should make me laugh, but that, while I behold you thus. I
remember all the fooleries acted by our Greeks, to please you ; how they
flattered you from your first acceding to the government, chose you their
EXTRACT FROM LUCIAN'S DIALOGUES. 833
commander in chief against the barbarians, some even associated you with
the twelve great deities, and built temples, and offered sacrifice to the sup-
posed son of the dragon. But, with permission, where did the Macedonians
bury you ?
Alex. This is the third day that I have been lying in state at Babylon.
In the mean time, Ptolemy, the captain of my satellites, has promised, as
soon as the present disturbances will afford him leisure, to convey me to
yEgypt, and inter me there, in order to procure me a place among the
Egyptian deities.
DiOG. And I shall not laugh, Alexander, when I see you, even in the king-
dom of the dead, still so silly as to wish to be an Anubis or Osiris ! But
soothe yourself with no such expectations, my divine sir ! He that has once
crossed our lake, and entered within the mouth of Tartarus, cannot return,
^acus takes too much care, and there is no joking with Cerberus. But are
you not greatly surprised, when you look round you and perceive what all is
come to, the satellites and satraps, and all the treasures and the kneeling
nations, and the great Babylon and Bactria, together with all the elephants ? —
and the high triumphal car on which you shone and were gazed at as a
meteor ! and the regal diadem on the head, and the purple flowing down in
ample folds, when you think upon the glorious life and the majesty and the
fame which you were forced to leave behind you ! That may well cause you
to lament ! — Why do you weep, silly man ! Did not your wise Aristotle
teach you how unsubstantial all those gifts of fortune are ?
Alex. Oh, that wise man, as you call him, was the vilest of all my flatter-
ers ! Tet me alone to say what Aristotle was ! For I best know how much
he was perpetually desiring to have of me, what letters he wrote to me, how
he abused my vain-glorious thirst of knowledge, how he was always compli-
menting me, and now praised me for my beauty (as if that too was in the
number of real goods), now on account of my exploits and my riches : for
even riches he pronounced to be a real good, to palliate the ignominy of his
accepting so much from me. My good Diogenes, the fellow was a charlatan,
who knew how to act his part in a masterly manner, no sage ! All the bene-
fit I reap from his wisdom is that I now bewail the loss of those things
which you have enumerated, because he taught me to regard them as the
greatest blessings.
DiOG. Do you know what ? Since we have no hellebore growing here,
I will prescribe another remedy for your grief. Repair to Lethe, and swal-
low some copious draughts of its waters, that will infallibly render you
insensible to the loss of the Aristotelian goods. — But are not those Clitus
and Calesthenes, whom I see, with some others hurrying towards you with
such fury as if they would enforce the law of retaliation against you, and tear
you to pieces in return for the injuries they formerly suffered from you ?
Strike therefore into this other road to Lethe, and, as I said, drink till these
phantasies leave you.
Menippus and Mercury.
Menippus. Where, then, are those beautiful men and women of whom there
was so much talk above. Mercury ? Be so good as to conduct me to them,
as I am quite a new-comer and know not how to find my way about.
Mercury, I have not time for it, dear Menippus : look, however, yonder ;
rather more to the right : there are Hyacinthus and Narcissus, and Nireus,
834
LUCIAN.
and Achilles, and Tyro, and Helena, and Leda, in short all the celebrated
beauties of antiquity, all together in a cluster.
Menippus. I see nothing but bare bones and skulls, in which nothing is to
be discriminated.
Mercury. Yet these bones, which appear to you so contemptible, have
been extolled by the poets to this day.
Menippus. But show me at least Helen ; for of myself I cannot find
her out.
Mercury. That skull there is the beautiful Helen.
Menippus. That, then, was the cause that all Greece was stowed together
in a thousand ships, that so many Greeks and barbarians were slain, and so
many cities razed to the ground ?
Mercury. My good Menippus, you should have seen her when alive !
You would for certain (as well as the old counsellors of Priam in the Iliad)
have confessed that Nemesis herself could not take it amiss —
if such celestial charms
For nine long years should set the world in arms.
He that looks upon a withered flower can indeed not discover how beauti-
ful it was while standing in full bloom and brilliant in its natural dyes.
Menippus. What I wonder at. Mercury, is how it came to pass that the
Greeks did not perceive that it was for the sake of such a transitory and
evanescent object that they gave themselves all that trouble.
Mercury. I have no time to philosophize with you, Menippus ; look thou
therefore for a place where you choose to lodge. I must go and fetch over
the rest of the dead.
III.
These simple dialogues are not the only ones of the sort. Others,
in which the burlesque is more prominent, are included among Lucian's
works ; in one, Jupiter is confronted by a sophist who makes short
LUCIAN'S RIDICULE OF THE GREEK DIVINITIES. 835
work of the king of the gods when he has a chance to cross-examine
him about the absolute power possessed by the Fates ; and in another
there is a long discussion in Olympus about the insolence of a philo-
sopher who has ventured to assert that the gods do not exist. Zeus
is furious over the suggestion ; he splutters and storms, imitating one
of the prologues of Euripides, while Athene uses Homeric language,
as he bids the gods to assemble in order to discuss the affair. Then
there is commotion in Olympus over questions of precedence. Most
of the new foreign deities are made out of gold, and so the old Greek
divinities, being represented in less costly marble, have to take the
back-seats. Poseidon — or Neptune in his Roman name — for example,
loses his temper because the Egyptian deity, the dog-faced Anubis,
was given a more honorable place than himself ; but finally Zeus
explains the state of affairs to the assembled gods. He tells them
that Damis, the sophist who denies the existence of the gods, has the
sympathy of the crowd who listened to him, but that they are waiting
to hear what his antagonist Timocles shall say before coming to a
final decision. The different deities suggest various courses ; Poseidon
proposes that Damis be killed by a thunderbolt ; Heracles proposes
to enter the hall and pull down the roof on his blasphemous head ;
Apollo tries to foretell the result of the discussion by a most ambigu-
ous oracle, but nothing is decided on. Suddenly the scene changes
to the scene of the debate, and Timocles tries to prove the existence
of the gods. His task is a difficult one, however, and when he
adduces the general consent of mankind, the order of the universe,
the impossibility that things could go on as they do without a pilot,
Damis meets him, until finally Timocles loses his temper and bursts
out in stormy abuse of his opponent, who runs away laughing. Zeus
is much pained at the discomfiture of his advocate, but Hermes com-
forts him by pointing out that he still has the majority on his side :
most of the Greeks, the wild rabble, and all the barbarians.
" True," answers Zeus, " but I had rather have a single champion like
Damis than be the ruler over ten thousand Baby Ions."
Again in the council of the gods there is a somewhat similar scene
when Momus appeals to Greece against the admission of a crowd of
foreign deities to Olympus, the upshot of which is that Zeus publishes
an edict stating in the preamble that the number of the gods had
grown inconveniently large, so that their meetings were tumultuous
assemblages in which a thousand incomprehensible jargons were
spoken, and that the supply of nectar and ambrosia threatened to
run short, the price having already risen, and that the intruders kept
836 LUCIAN.
thrusting themselves into the best seats ; therefore be it ordered that
steps be taken to decide who have proper claims to their places, etc.
If the gods fare ill at the hands of this merciless satirist, the philo-
sophers, even those whom he seemed to be aiding, could not con-
gratulate themselves on escaping his notice. In one dialogue, the
Sale of the Philosophers, he lets eminent representatives of each sect
announce their various qualifications and then be sold by auction, most
of them for some trifling sum. Socrates, however, fetches a good
round price, two talents, about two thousand dollars, Diogenes only
six cents. Pyrrho, the Sceptic, is unable to determine whether he is
sold or not. In a sort of sequel Lucian represents himself fleeing for
his life from the enraged philosophers, who have managed to escape
from Hades for a single day in order to avenge themselves. Lucian
is brought up for judgment before Philosophy itself, and in answer to
a question about his profession asserts that he is a hater of bragging,
humbug, lying, pride, and the whole breed of men infected with these
vices.
" By Hercules," says Philosophy, '* that's a business that exposes you to a
good deal of hatred." Lucian goes on : "I love, on the other hand, truth,
honesty, simplicity, and everything that is kindly, but I find very few with
whom I can exercise this talent. Indeed, there are more than fifty thousand
in the other camp, so that my affection runs the risk of perishing for lack of
practice."
This statement may be fairly taken as a just explanation of Lucian's
position as a satirist, and it agrees very well with his impartiality and
apparent lack of any other object than the desire to attack the special
cause of wrath then before him. He does not appear as an advocate
against religion when he laughs at the possible grotesqueness of the
popular beliefs, and in this very dialogue he discriminates between
the absurdities of individual philosophers and philosophy itself.
" Some of them," he says, " follow the precepts of philosophy and observe
its laws, and far be it from me to say anything wounding or insulting about
them ! "
This distinction is one more often made by those who are criticising
satirical writing than by satirists themselves, who are apt to see noth-
ing but harm in the objects of their wrath. Lucian held a brief for
general sanity, rather than one against any particular foible or folly
of society. He was a Greek, by nature if not by birth, and shunned
exaggeration, whereas the Roman satirists who set the fashion for
modern times worked themselves into a rage in order to make their
assault impressive. There is a rolling accompaniment of melodra-
HIS SUBTLE INTELLIGENCE. 837
matic thunder in their work which Lucian never employed ; they
attack everything in a sort of blind fury, while he dexterously inserts
his rapier into vital spots with an easy grace and an air of quiet com-
posure that the Roman satirists did not know. This self-possession,
apparent even in the excitement of conflict, is still more marked in
his choice of the objects to be condemned, for he was not a mere
sneerer at everything, but rather a man who detested a charlatan
because he loved an honest man, and he knew how to admire as well
as to dislike ; and this ability to see both sides, which is generally the
exclusive privilege of posterity, made his work effective at the time
and has kept it fresh and admirable ever since. The same fair-mind-
edness that he showed in his treatment of philosophy may be seen in
his discussion of literary subjects, as, for example, in the essay on the
proper way to write history. There he makes easy fun of the efforts
of various contemporary writers to imitate Thucydides and Herodotus,
and gives convincing proofs of their incompetence ; but this is not all :
he goes on to show how history should be written, with what pains
the facts were to be gathered, arranged, and described. In the
account of Demonax, that is included, though with grave doubts of
its authenticity, among his works, we may see again that the capacity
for seeing faults did not mar its author's appreciation of a fine char-
acter. Lucian was not a mere destroyer, for whom nothing was
good enough ; he also constructed models to replace those which he
destroyed. Thus, in this brief account of his dead friend, if we may
accept its genuineness, he says that he undertakes the task in order
to make him live, so far as possible, in the memory of virtuous men,
and further in order that young students of philosophy may not be
compelled to look back to antiquity for models, but may follow in
the footsteps of a philosopher of their own time. Then he goes on
to narrate a number of instances of the wit and wisdom of Demonax.
IV.
If the direct influence of Lucian on literature and philosophy
was slight, we may yet find much in his writings that not only secured
for this bold scoffer toleration during the Middle Ages, — when he was
read although with disapproval, as the harsh comments on the manu-
scripts show, — but also affected the literature of that time. To the
early Christians his denunciations of the old mythology and his proofs
of inSufificiency of philosophy must have been welcome support from
an unexpected ally, and it is easy to imagine with what delight they
would have read the opening of the Timon, when the misanthropist
taunts the King of the Gods with his incompetence :
838 LUCIAN.
" Zeus, protector of friendship, god of hosts, of friends, of the hearth-
stone, of lightning, of oaths, clouds, thunder, or whatever may be the name
under which thou art invoked by the wild brain of poets, especially when
they are in a boggle with the metre, for then they give thee all sorts of names
to hide the confusion of the sense and the lapses of the rhythm ; what has
become of the flash of your lightning, and the long roar of your thunder ?
All that must be sheer nonsense, a poetic fiction, a mere clatter of words.
And as for the boasted thunderbolts which thou hast always kept in thy
hand, they must have gone out and have lost the faintest spark of wrath
with evil-doers. . . . Thou liest asleep, as if drugged, so that thou dost not
overhear perjurers or see men doing injustice ; thy sight is dimmed, so thou
seest not human actions, and thou art become hard of hearing."
The whole of the dramatic sketch, for so much it really is, will be
found interesting; it presents a picture not merely of a decayed
Olympus where Zeus is doing his best to keep up the old state, and
bids Hermes to order Cyclops to put a new point on his thunderbolts,
but also of the society of Lucian's — indeed of all — time, when wealth
has proved a magnet for flattery. The piece is one of the fullest of
suggestion and moral instruction that Lucian ever wrote. But at this
moment it may be worth while merely to mention one of its qualities,
even if it be one of the least important, namely, the prominence given
to personifications in the dialogue, where Wealth and Poverty appear,
act, and speak like human beings, reaching back to the Plutus of
Aristophanes on one hand and to the Middle Ages on the other. Not
even in the Middle Ages, however, did such abstractions more nearly
exist than here. And other analogies are to be found : some of the
most vivid of the pictures that Lucian draws are those of scenes in the
lower world, when the souls of men make their appearance before the
infernal powers and are judged with hopeless severity. The scenes in
the Menippus, for example, could hardly be make more terrible by
even the mediaeval imagination, fed as it was on visions of horror, and
it is but a short step from the conceptions of this pagan to Dante's
Inferno. Thus, in the place where evil-doers are punished, Lucian
saw and heard, as he says, —
" only terrible things : the noise of whips, wheels, fetters, and racks ; the
lamentations of those who are consumed by the flames. Chimsera rends
them ; Cerberus devours them ; all are punished together, kings, slaves,
satraps, poor, rich, beggars, all are repenting their sins. We recognized a
few of these evil ones who had recently died ; but they tried to hide, and
turned away, or, if they did look at us, it was with a servile and flattering
expression. And yet these were the men who alive had been full of haughti-
ness and contempt."
Lucian by no means invented this list of horrors, for information
about the lower regions had been steadily growing more precise
HIS PICTURE OF THE LOWER WORLD. 839
throughout antiquity, as we may see by comparing Virgil's picture of
a retributive Hades with the pallid corner of the universe through
which Odysseus passed many centuries before, yet nowhere do we find
a more graphic statement of it than here, or one which came nearer
the mediaeval visions. Another touch which Lucian supplies is this ;
that the dead are mere skeletons, as they figure in the modern concep-
tions ; this we find in the same Menippus, in the first of the Dialogues
of the Dead, where Diogenes bids Pollux to tell the sturdy athletes
that in the other world there is no glow of health or strength, nothing
but dust, a mass of unbeautiful skulls, and far more vividly in the
piece called the Cataplus, or Ferrying Over, which describes the passage
across the Styx in Charon's bark with all the vividness of Bunyan.
It is a Greek Dance of Death that Lucian puts before us : the philo-
sopher Cyniscus complains that he has been forgotten so long ; Mega-
penthes, the tyrant, on the other hand, asks to be allowed to return
for a moment to finish his half-built palace, to tell his wife what is to
be her share of the property, to conquer his enemies. He offers to
give bonds for his speedy return. More solemn is his conviction of
infamous sins and his condemnation to the eternal memory of his
wicked life, for he alone is not allowed to drink of Lethe, which wipes
out the memory of the past.
In another sketch we find Charon coming forth from Hades to see
what sort of a place this world is which the dead always lament to
leave. Hermes serves as his guide, and Charon has a good oppor-
tunity to see men with their petty passions, vain ambitions, futile
hopes. As Hermes says :
" What would a man do, if, when he begins to build a house and hurries
the workmen, he should learn that when the roof was scarcely raised, he was
to leave it for his heirs and would not have the satisfaction of eating a single
meal there ? Another is glad because his wife has presented him with a
son ; he invites his friends to a supper ; he names his boy after his brother :
if he knew that the child would die at the age of seven, do you think he
would rejoice much at his birth ? He is happy because he sees the delight
of the father of a victor in the Olympic games ; but his neighbor, who is
following his son to the grave, does not see him and does not think how
slight is his hold upon his own boy. See the quarrels of men to enlarge
their estates, to heap up riches ; then before they have begun to enjoy them,
they are summoned away."
To this Charon makes answer:
"When I see all that, I fail to understand what charm men find in life,
and why they lament to leave it. If one considers kings, who pass for the
most fortunate of mortals, one sees that besides the instability and uncer-
tainty of their state, they are subject to more pain than pleasure, forever
exposed to fear, trouble, hatred, plots, resentment, flattery. I say nothing
840 LUCIAN.
of mourning, illness, sufferings, which are the common lot of all. Judge
from their miseries what must be those of simple citizens.
" Shall I tell you, Hermes, to what I liken men and their lives ? You have
seen foam-covered bubbles floating below a waterfall ; some, the lightest,
burst almost as soon as they are formed, others are longer-lived, and increase
in bulk by absorbing others that swell them up beyond measure, but soon
even they burst, for they cannot escape their fate. Such is the life of man.
All are puffed up with a little breath ; some more, some less ; these perish
speedily, their breath lasts but a moment ; the others perish when gathering
new force, but all burst at last."
Passages like these, and that in the Sacrifices, when he laughs at the
stories told about the gods of the ancients, show how ripe the world
was for a new dispensation, how great was the moral bent that some
of the philosophers had given to men's thoughts.
Before closing, it is important to speak of Lucian's descriptions of
society, as in a passage where he portrays the humiliations endured by
a philosopher in the house of a patron, and in his account of the so-
called magicians who lived upon the credulity and folly of men. Thus
one of them — Alexander by name — used to receive written questions
from the faithful, who would seal them carefully before handing them
in ; Alexander, however, managed to find out what the notes con-
tained, and would give wise answers. Something of the same kind
has been reported on similar authority in these later times. Lucian
exposed the charlatan's tricks, but with no more success than usually
attends the pricking of such bubbles. The whole story of this charlatan's
career is most interesting and instructive reading, as an example of
the curious working of superstition at this period when the old religion
was breaking up and Christianity was commonly regarded as a sort of
atheism. Alexander was born about 102 of our era, under the reign
of Trajan, and died about 172, when Marcus Aurelius was emperor.
No student can afford to overlook this brilliant picture of what we may
call the desperation of paganism that is drawn here. While the more
educated classes, in the wreck of the old religion, turned to the lessons
of philosophy for spiritual guidance and consolation, following the
teaching of the leading schools that almost without exception turned
from the contemplation of abstract questions to the study of life, the
lower classes, on the other hand, as they broke from the old tenets of
their faith, welcc^med foreign deities and novel rites in place of the
proved insufficiency of the old faith. Indeed, part of the success of
Christianity may well be ascribed to this hospitality to new ideas.
They adopted new divinities by right of conquest, and all manner of
oriental gods and superstitions found a new home throughout the
Roman empire, and it was among this motley band that Alexander
established himself with wonderful success. By the device of burying
HIS EXPOSURE OF A CHARLATAN. 841
tablets in the ground, soon to be exhumed, to announce the arrival of
a divine being, a plan that, slightly modified, has succeeded in this
country within the last half-century, he was at once accepted by men
who took a great deal of local pride in this manifestation of divine
preference. Alexander played his game with vast profit to himself
and his confederates. To the god whom he brought in the guise of a
serpent, he gave the name of Glycon and declared it a descendant of
Aesculapius ; his money he earned by the utterance of oracles and by
answering the questions contained in sealed notes. These he opened
after the fashion still followed by swindlers, and when this was impos-
sible he gave replies that might mean anything. How successful he
was is shown by Lucian's account of him, and it is further attested by
the discovery in modern times of three inscriptions, — one in Macedonia
and two at Carlsburg in Transylvania, — in which divine honors are
offered to Glycon. Coins bearing the same name have also been
found. The whole story cannot be recounted here, but it is well
worth reading for the light it throws on the condition of the time.
In Lucian's account of the death of Peregrinus, a Cynic philosopher,
we may see his repugnance to the Cynics, — a repugnance that he felt,
it is true, for all systems of philosophy, except his own Epicureanism,
and for scientific teaching as well. Doubt was his strongest feeling.
This essay is also of interest as showing the contempt that was felt by
a well-educated pagan for the early Christians.
In his True History Lucian wrote the first of the long line of impos-
sible adventures that have since become famous, an account of gro-
tesque travels, like those of Munchausen, Gulliver, etc. But to go
through the whole list of his various writings is impossible ; enough
have been mentioned to show their variety and the general tendency
of his brilliant work.
V.
Enough, too, has been quoted to illustrate his wit, a quality so rare
that if we look at the whole literature of the world we shall find that
those who really possessed it may be readily counted on our fingers.
Even wisdom by its side is as common as it is commonplace; and
besides Aristophanes, Lucian, Erasmus, Voltaire, and Heine, it would
be hard to name any one who would not be exalted by a place in the
second rank alongside of Cervantes and Moliere. However the list
may be made out, it is certainly worthy of note that there are no
applications for admission to it, except Rabelais, between Lucian and
Erasmus, and that in that lapse of time the use of the rapier was as
obsolete in controversy as is now that of the cross-bow in war. Indeed,
842 LUCIA N.
not until Voltaire did the world see such keen thrusts and so fatal stabs
inflicted without a bruise or portentous letting of blood. The Roman
clubbed his adversary ; and in the Middle Ages wit was something un-
holy. Even Erasmus was at times tongue-tied by authority ; Voltaire,
more than any one, reminds us of Lucian, as a master, not of verbal
fence, but of verbal offense, and, more than that, of a fatal venom. In
Lucian's case this dangerous gift was applied impartially to all society,
but with a consummate grace free from apparent malevolence. He
has more than almost any writer the quality that is rare at every period
and peculiar to none, the indefinable charm of a man of the world.
Perhaps the fact that he had nothing to prove only intensifies the
impression. In old days, to be sure, he was denounced for not recog-
nizing the truth of Christianity ; indeed, as was said above, he does
not distinguish between them and heretics; but at the present time
one of the severest charges brought against him is that in the Her-
motinus he spoke disrespectfully of geometry:
"It points absurd axioms, it asks you to imagine things without con-
sistence, invisible points, lines without breadth, and the like ; then it con-
structs on these unsubstantial foundations a building just like them, and so
pretends to demonstrate the truth, while starting from falsehood ; "
and similarly girds at astronomers in the Ikaromenippos ;
" Their sight is no better than ours ; most of them are half blind from
old age or weakness, and yet they boast that they can have distinct vision of
the limits of the heavens ; they measure the sun, penetrate the region
beyond the moon, and describe the size and shape of the stars. They
cannot tell you the distance from Megara to Athens, but they know just
how far the sun is from the moon ; they measure the height of the atmos-
phere, the depths of the ocean, the circumference of the earth, trace circles,
draw triangles in squares, with any number of spheres, and actually presume
to measure the heavens themselves ! "
Others, again, lament the unsatisfactoriness of his treatise on the
proper way of writing history. He is said to utter only common-
places, but unfortunately good advice is always commonplace.
Moreover, what we have left of his productions, and the supply is
not a scanty one, has a greater importance than that of attesting his
wit and intelligence, in showing us the general condition of the minds
of his contemporaries. Not only, as Gibbon has said (vol. i., cap. ii.)
can we be sure " that a writer conversant with the world would never
have ventured to expose the gods of his country to public ridicule,
had they not already been the objects of secret contempt among the
polished and enlightened orders of society," — for not only would
Lucian have never ventured to publish them, but they would not have
ROMAN- DEPENDENCE ON GREEK CIVILIZATION.
843
APOLLONIUS OF TYANA.
entered into his mind — but we may also gather much useful informa-
tion on the extremely interesting period in which he lived. The most
striking fact of this age is the new prominence of the Greeks and the
way in which their intellectual acuteness conquered the swiftly decay-
ing Romans. The influence of the Greek men of letters — for by that
phrase we may understand rhetoricians, sophists, and grammarians —
was enormous. It spread far into the East, for in Philostratus's Life
of Apollonius of Tyana, we find him talking in Greek to an Indian
king who amuses himself with listening to
recitations from Greek poets, although this
is the last book in the world to use as an au-
thority; but we also know from other sources
— what is in itself only credible — that Greek
rhetoricians made their way into Asia along
with the armies of Alexander the Great.
Their greatest influence was, however, in
Rome and throughout the whole vast Roman
empire, which offered a vast field for the
Greeks with their older and riper culture.
The rhetoricians and sophists were the
teachers of Rome; all the young men received their instructions
from these sole representatives of a higher civilization, in whose
hands alone lay the care of all intellectual matters. The whole
tone of Roman literature makes clear the wide-spread dependence
on later Greek models ; the interest of the Roman emperors in
these teachers was most active: Hadrian and the Antonines sup-
ported them with the weight of their authority ; they gave the
philosophers high positions, appointed them tutors to their sons,
listened to their debates and lectures, sought their society. Under
this powerful encouragement the tone of the Greek teachings im-
proved, and the consciousness of their intellectual superiority to the
Romans who ruled the world aroused their patriotism and ambition.
It is curious to notice their indifference to the work of the Roman
writers. Only once or twice had Plutarch quoted any Latin author,
and Lucian is equally contemptuous, while both praise not only
Greece, but especially Athens, the brain of Greece. With the decay
of the vast power of Rome, the self-satisfaction of the Greeks could
only grow stronger, and their efforts to maintain their pre-eminence
were many and interesting. To speak of literature alone, we find
countless fanciful discussions on trivial themes ; thus Lucian's eulogy
of the fly is an example of the futile exercise of intelligence com-
mon at periods of general apathy, such as we see among the later
writers of the Italian Renaissance, and possibly in some of the modern
844
LUCIA N;
verse-making of English bards who make very clear the schism be-
tween life and literary cleverness. Imaginary questions were put up
for discussion, such as the feelings of Hector on learning that Priam
had sat at the table of Achilles, and similar hypothetical problems
wherein everything depended on the ingenuity of the speaker. Con-
fused ethical questions had to be settled by the ready tongues and
quick wits of those practiced debaters.
Nor is it in prose alone that we find instances of this semi-dramatic
toying with the subjects of the older literature : in the Anthology
there are a number of epigrams treating various scenes of antiquity ;
thus, we come across such fantastic subjects as these : What Helen
might have said during the combat between Menelaus and Paris ; what
Agamemnon might have said when Achilles was armed ; words of
Achilles to Aias, to reconcile him with Odysseus, etc., — the list is
a long one, and serves to show how the later writers were never
wearied of threshing the old straw. The literary cleverness survived
the decay of genuine feeling, and inspired the continual rehandling of
the old themes in both prose and verse. After all, the warnings
against artificial literature are distinctly more numerous than impres-
sive, and the authority of the, ancient Greeks has served much more
as an admirable model than as a warning.
YOUNG MAN READING.
CHAPTER VL— PROSE WRITERS.— (:^«^/««^^.
I. — Literary Trifles not the Only Interests. The New View of Moral Greatness.
The Life of Epictetus. IL — Marcus Aurelius. His Work as a Writer. IIL —
Philostratus, and his Discussion of Literary and Artistic Subjects. IV. — The
Final Gatherings from Antiquity. Athenaeus, and his Collection of Anecdotes,
.^lian. Some Historians. V. — Pausanias. Longinus, and his Literary Criticism.
The Later Philosophy. VI. — In 529, the Closing of the University of Athens,
and the Conversion of the Temple of Hermes into a Monastery. VII. — Further
Fragments. The Thrashing of Thrashed Straw.
I.
IT was not mere trifling subjects like those ridiculed by Lucian that
were chattered about in this busy time. Some of the wandering
sophists discussed more serious questions : such were Dion Chrysos-
tomus, or golden-mouthed, so called from his eloquence ; Polemon of
Laodicea, Herodes Atticus, and Adrian of Tyre. Dion began as the
merest disclaimer of attractive novelties, but after his conversion to
the principles of a sounder philosophy he became a sort of itinerant
preacher, who wandered throughout the civilized world giving conso-
lation and advice from the teachings of the past, very much as the early
Christians carried the gospel from place to place. The account that
we have of Paul's preaching at Athens is but one of many examples
of the eagerness of the public to hear them who brought them instruc-
tion. A writer has pointed out the resemblance between the desire
of the Athenians to hear Paul's new teachings and the way in which
Dion was urged to preach, — for there is no other word for it — at the
Olympic games. Another curious similarity is this: Dion used to
choose a text from Homer, then, as ever, the great book, on which
he would speak, and at the conclusion he would invoke the kind
offices of Persuasion, the Muses, and Apollo to give his words convic-
tion. The whole story of the blending of Christianity with this
decaying society is too vast to be more than touched on here. More
appropriate to this place is the consideration of the influence of litera-
ture at this time on that which has followed it. But belonging to
both religion and literature is the philosophical teaching, already noted
in Dion Chrysostom, but more marked in Epictetus and Marcus Au-
relius. How wide-spread was the feeling that reform was necessary
846 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED).
we may judge from many instances; the depth of the corruption inev-
itably begot great efforts to eradicate it, and with the decay of the
beh'ef in the old mythology there existed the need of appealing to
other and more deeply seated principles that should direct right-doing.
Everywhere we see the ground being made ready for the reception of
Christianity, and in both Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius we may see
the most serious statements of the dignity of the moral law. While
these two men were alike in announcing this important truth, no
greater contrast can be found than that between their respective
conditions ; M. Aurelius was Emperor, Epictetus a slave. The two
men, however, met on a ground which does not concern itself with
social position. Both owed the direction of their thought to the
philosophy of the Stoics, and both taught the same lofty lessons. The
manual of Epictetus was not written down by him, but by one of his
disciples, Arrian, who took Xenophon for his model, and, as we shall
see below, besides writing a book on history which he called an Ana-
basis, and a minor treatise to which he gave a name already used by
Xenophon, remembering the service his model had done to Socrates,
recorded his own recollection of his master's talk.
Epictetus was born in Phrygia in the first century of our era, and
was the slave of a freedman in Rome at the time of Nero. In that
city he lived many years, until Domitian exiled the philosophers,
when he betook himself to Nicopolis, a town in Epeirus, and there he
is supposed to have died. All that we know of his life is his lameness,
his poverty, and his untiring zeal in teaching uprightness in thought
and conduct. The upshot of his maxims may be expressed in the
words, " Bear and forbear"; endurance and abstinence he forever
inculcated with an intensity of language which is very different from
the grace of the earlier philosophers. His commands have the severity
of laws, with no appeal, no mercy, and no recognition of human weak-
ness. How impressive his lessons were may be gathered from the
fact that two of the early Christians were able to adapt them, with but
slight modifications, for the study of the young. The rigor of what
we may call his statute book is modified in the Discourses, of which
four books have come down to us out of the eight in which Arrian set
forth his master's exposition of his doctrines. What in the manual is
uttered as an edict, is here urged by a direct, impressive eloquence
that was most convincing. He has no grace or charm, no tenderness,
and above all, none of the sympathy that gave Christianity its foot-
hold, but rather a force of rugged conviction. Yet the teachings of
the philosophers who acquired their enormous influence in the decay-
ing Roman empire in succession to the Greek rhetoricians and sophists
manifested in their new religious spirit the same intolerance of artistic
EXTRACT OF EPICTETUS 847
beauty that characterized the early Christianity. In its place the
Christians set the idea of moral beauty ; the philosophers, however,
not only looked on art as a degradation, they maintained the impor-
tance of an appeal to the reason. Epictetus is forever arguing, as the
philosophers had been trained for centuries to argue, but philosophy
never acquired a popular form ; its rewards were vague and intangible.
It appealed, too, only to the learned, and, wise as its lessons were, they
were too reasonable for general acceptance. It failed to inspire the
magnificent enthusiasm which a mighty religion calls forth.
It is circumstances (difficulties) which show what men are. Therefore
when a difficulty falls upon you, remember that God, like a trainer of wrestlers,
has matched you with a rough young man. For what purpose ? you may say.
Why, that you may become an Olympic conqueror ; but it is not accomplished
without sweat. In my opinion no man has had a more profitable difficulty
than you have had, if you choose to make use of it as an athlete would deal
with a young antagonist. We are now sending a scout to Rome ; but no
man sends a cowardly scout, who, if he only hears a noise and sees a shadow
anywhere, comes running back in terror and reports that the enemy is close
at hand. So now if you should come and tell us. Fearful is the state of affairs
at Rome, terrible is death, terrible is exile, terrible is calumny ; terrible is
poverty ; fly, my friends ; the enemy is near — we shall answer, Be gone, proph-
esy for yourself ; we have committed only one fault, that we sent such a scout.
' Diogenes, who was sent as a scout before you, made a different report to us.
He says that death is no evil, for neither is it base : he says that fame (repu-
tation) is the noise of madmen. And what has this spy said about pain, about
pleasure, and about poverty? He says that to be naked is better than any
purple robe, and to sleep on the bare ground is the softest bed ; and he gives
as a proof of each thing that he affirms, his own courage, his tranquillity, his
freedom, and the healthy appearance and compactness of his body. There
is no enemy near, he says ; all is peace. How so, Diogenes? See, he replies,
if I am struck, if I have been wounded, if I have fled from any man. This
is what a scout ought to be. But you come to us and tell us one thing after
another. Will you not go back, and you will see clearer when you have laid
aside fear ?
What then shall I do? What do you do when you leave a ship ? Do you
take away the helm or the oars ? What then do you take away ? You take
what is your own, your bottle and your wallet ; and now if you think of what
is your own, you will never claim what belongs to others. The emperor
(Domitian) says, T.ay aside your Laticlave. See, I put on the angusticlave.
Lay aside this also. See, I have only my toga. Lay aside your toga. See,
I am now naked. But you still raise my envy. Take then all my poor
body ; when, at a man's command, I can throw away my poor body, do I still
fear him ? '
But a certain person will not leave me the succession to his estate. What
then ? had I forgotten that not one of these things was mine ? How then do
we call them mine? Just as we call the bed in the inn. If then the inn-
keeper at his death leaves you the beds ; all well ; but if he leaves them to
another, he will have them, and you will seek another bed. If then you shall
not find one, you will sleep on the ground : only sleep with a good will and
snore, and remember that tragedies have their place among the rich and kings
848 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED).
and tyrants, but no poor man fills a part in a tragedy, except as one of the
chorus. Kings indeed commence with prosperity : " Ornament the palace
with garlands " : then about the third or fourth act they call out, " Oh Ci-
thaeron, why didst thou receive me ? " Slave, where are the crowns, where
the diadem ? The guards help thee not at all. When then you approach
any of these persons, remember this, that you are approaching a tragedian,
not the actor, but Oedipus himself. But you say. Such a man is happy ; for
he walks about with many, and I also place myself with the many and walk
about with many. In sum remember this : the door is open ; be not more
timid than little children, but as they say, when the thing does not please
them, " I will play no longer," so do you, when things seem to you of
such a kind, say " I will no longer play," and be gone : but if you stay, do
not complain.
II.
The Thoughts of Marcus Aurelius, the last of the great pagan
moralists, show us the same intense feeling of the claims of duty,
expressed with a certain tendency to meditation on the emptiness of
all things, that is rather a matter of sentiment than of cold reason. In
some measure, doubtless, this new spirit was a result of the inevitable
absence of companions enforced upon the emperor by his high position.
His loneliness intensified his experience of the incapacity of any earthly
grandeur to supply the place of an approving conscience, and hence
he modifies the rigid tone of Epictetus, and turns continually to the
statement of the need of toleration. Thus: (ix. 11.)
" If thou art able, correct by teaching those who do wrong ; but if thou
canst not, remember that indulgence is given thee for this purpose. And
the gods too are indulgent to such persons ; and for some purposes they
even help them to get health, wealth, reputation ; so kind they are. And it
is in thy power also ; or say, who hinders thee ? "
Elsewhere he speaks of the need of love for all men, and of kindness
towards all. This tendency, however, is not to be fully accounted for
as a personal peculiarity of the emperor's, for in Seneca and others
we notice a similar change, as if the lessons of philosophy, when they
had become more nearly popular, had acquired a humaner tone. In
Marcus Aurelius, indeed, we find many references to that much abused
conception, the brotherhood of men, " to care for all men is according
to men's nature." No writer, too, has had a more vivid feeling of the
two infinities, of the past and the future, that bound the imaginary
movement that we call the present :
" Consider, for example, the times of Vespasian. Thou wilt see all these
things, people marrying, bringing up children, sick, dying, warring, feasting,
trafficking, cultivating the ground, flattering, obstinately arrogant, suspect-
ing, plotting, wishing for some to die, grumbling about the present, loving.
THE WRITINGS OF PHILOSTRA TUS. 849
heaping up treasure, desiring consulship, kingly power. Well then, that life
of these people no longer exists at all. Again, remove to the times of Trajan.
Again, all is the same. Their life too is gone. In like manner view also the
other epochs of time and of whole nations, and see how many after great
efforts soon fell and were resolved into the elements. But chiefly thou
shouldst think of those whom thou hast thyself known distracting themselves
about idle things, neglecting to do what was in accordance with their proper
constitution and to hold firmly to this and to be content with it." And
again, "Some things are hurrying into existence, and others are hurrying out
of it ; and of that which is coming into existence part is already extinguished.
Motions and changes are continually renewing the world, just as the unin-
terrupted course of time is always renewing the infinite duration of ages. In
this flowing stream, then, on which there is no abiding, what is there of the
things which hurry by on which a man would set a high price ? It would be
just as if a man should fall in love with one of the sparrows which fly by, but
It has already passed out of sight." And this, " But perhaps the desire of the
thing called fame will torment thee — See how soon everything is forgotten,
and look at the chaos of infinite time on each side of the present, and the
emptiness of applause, and the changeableness and want of judgment in those
who pretend to give praise, and the narrowness of the space within which it
is circumscribed."
This exalted thought, with the tendency to mysticism that occa-
sionally shows itself, has comforted many minds, in spite of its apparent
austerity, by means of its undebatable sincerity and dignity. The
upshot of its teaching is virtue and a reasonable, determined virtue,
which is surely a good fruit by which to judge its value for mankind.
On returning to literature we find an abundance of less important
work. Thus Philostratus, born at about 172 A.D., presents a state of
society from which mankind might well have turned with a feeling of
weariness. His life of Apollonius of Tyana recounts the impossible
adventures of a famous charlatan, who deceived a credulous public by
alleged walking in the air, prophecy, and other accomplishments that
never fail to find supporters among people intelligent in other respects,
for the disposition to believe is often stronger than the proof of the
facts which are believed. Besides this curious book, he wrote some
Lives of the Sophists, which well portray these men. In addition to
the older ones from Gorgias to Socrates, he describes the later ones
who flourished not long before his own time, and about them he has
collected a considerable amount of information. In the Heroica
another Philostratus, a relative, has written a dialogue concerning the
heroes of the Trojan war. It is a collection of mythological discus-
sions treating those famous men from the point of view of a man
who is prepared to discredit Homer, and who brings much evidence
from the lost cyclic poets. Homer is blamed for his partiality to
Odysseus and his unkind treatment of Palamedes. Possibly the point
of view, besides suggesting the general rupture with the past, also
850 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED).
illustrates the particular tendency of the later times to modify with
unwearying ingenuity all the old traditions. Protesilaus is repre-
sented as returned from the shades to this world, where he lives
in the position of a sort of domesticated ghost, and it is his report
as told by a vintner to a Phenician visitor that makes up the book.
The Homeric poem, it is explained, gives credit only to Achilles
and Odysseus, and he tries to do justice to the other heroes.
Thus, Palamedes comes in for some good words ; the Trojan leaders
are kindly spoken of, yet Achilles himself is treated at great length
and with admiration. Homer remains the leading authority, but
many of the statements are taken from the lost cyclic poets. In the
Imagines, Philostratus describes a number of pictures, apparently
some definite collections, and thus throws light on some of the ref-
erences of the poets, besides explaining some of the customs of the
artists. The Epistles are seventy-three long letters of trifling value.
Possibly some may think this judgment inevitable in any circumstances,
and it cannot be avoided when mere rhetorical exercises are under
consideration
IV.
Of professional rhetoricians should be mentioned Hermogenes, born
about 160 A.D., who wrote a number of text-books on this art, which
were for a long time in general use. Maximus of Tyre, who belongs
probably about thirty years later, left a number of essays on subjects
that interested the later Platonists. Of Publius ^lius Aristides,
born about 129, or perhaps ten years earlier, we have left a number of
speeches, of moderate interest ; some are panegyrics of different cities,
others are addresses defending the moribund Greek deities, still others
are the merest rhetorical exercises. Athenaeus deserves longer men-
tion for his Deipnosophists, or Learned Guests, as its puzzling title is
sometimes translated, although it yet remains uncertain whether it is
their gastronomic or their literary acquirements that are signified : pos-
sibly the word may have had the same double meaning for the author.
There is certainly nothing in the book to enable the modern reader to
come to a decision, for the rival claims of gluttony and letters are pre-
sented with wonderful impartiality. The author was born at Naucratis
in Egypt at an uncertain date. A good part of his life was spent at
Alexandria, whence he betook himself to Rome. We know that part
at least of his book must have been written after 228 A.D. His book
consists of a conversation or series of conversations that are sup-
posed to have taken place at Rome in the house of a rich man named
Laurentius, when twenty-nine guests were assembled, among whom
were Galen of Pergamon, the physician, and Ulpian, the lawyer.
These conversations are reported by the author to one Timocrates,
THE WORKS OF ATHENyEUS, OF A ELI AN. 851
a clumsy device that mars the artistic form of the work. Yet even
without this double machinery and its additional awkwardness, the
pedantry of the conversations would have swamped any machinery that
could have been devised, for the simple reason that no such talk could
ever have come from human lips. The conversation is mei^ely the
author's excuse for discharging a commonplace book that is crammed
with extracts on the greatest possible variety of subjects. The arti-
cles of food are placed on the table, and the proper way of spelling
and accenting their names at once call forth copious quotations ; they
suggest what this and that poet has said about them, such or such an
incident in the life of a man who spoke of them. Meanwhile various
subjects come up, not for discussion, but as outlets for more quota-
tions and anecdotes. The result is that the book is a most complete
summary of rare facts, interesting citations, and curious learning,
thrown together with a helpless struggle after coherence that leaves
the separate facts almost as independent of one another as the defini-
tions in a dictionary. Fortunately there is almost the same abun-
dance, and the variety of the subjects treated has given us a vast
amount of curious information on a great many subjects, on the cus-
toms of the Greeks, their language, natural history, and especially on
their poetry. The number of authors whom Athenaeus quotes is about
800, and of about 700 of these we have no other line. He certainly
has claims for our forgiveness if he has, at times, mingled his food
with his learning. We do not know so much about the life of the
ancient Greeks that we can afford to dispense with any information
about them, even if it be in good part mere gossip ; on the contrary,
we are quite as eager for mere gossip about them as we are for gossip
about our neighbors in the next street.
To the other collectors of anecdotes less praise can be given. Of
Aelian, for example, it may be said that he owes his long-lived fame
to the chance that has preserved some of his writings, rather than their
safety to his celebrity. He was an Italian by birth, and he lived the
greater part of his life in Rome in the third century, but he acquired
the mastery of the Greek language, and wrote in it a work called Mis-
cellaneous Inquiries, which is a collection of scrappy anecdotes, bio-
graphical, historical, and antiquarian, which are all huddled together
without the slightest attempt at orderly arrangement. He also com-
piled a similar work on natural history which is as discursive and inco-
herent as a column of items in a newspaper.
Diogenes Laertius, whose date is uncertain, wrote a series of lives
of the philosophers, which, in the absence of other authorities, pos-
sesses a value quite independent of its intrinsic merits. The book is
evidently compiled from the various works of a number of writers, but
852 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED).
with great Cc^relessness, so that it is often obscure and contradictory.
Anecdotes are strung together without purpose, and there is little care
shown in distinguishing the various philosophical systems, so that the
best thing that can be said of the book is that it is better than no
book at all.
Arrian has been mentioned above as an imitator of Xenophon, and
as the writer to whom we are indebted for a record of the sayings of
Epictetus ; having thus copied his master's Memorabilia, he wrote an
Anabasis of Alexander the Great, describing the campaigns of that
general in the East. This is a valuable book ; singularly enough what
knowledge we have of Alexander's campaigns comes to us mainly from
two authors, Q. Curtius and Arrian, who lived five hundred years later,
but Arrian's work is complete and drawn from the best authorities.
For the facts he consulted the contemporary histories of Alexander,
written by his two generals, Ptolemy, the son of Lagos, and Aristobulus,
while at the same time he referred also to others. He thus imitated
something more than the mere style of the best Greek writers. The
battles are described with great care and vividness ; indeed the whole
book is valuable as a trustworthy account of one of the most important
events in the world's history. Arrian also wrote an account of a voy-
age around the Euxine, and in the Ionic dialect a brief description
of India.
Appian, who lived in the middle of the second century in Alexandria,
where he was born, and in Rome, wrote a Roman history, by which he
meant that of the whole empire. Only part of this has come down to
us, that on the civil wars, of which we have no other full record.
Dion Cassius Cocceianus, the son of a Roman senator, and grandson,
it is thought, of the rhetorician Dion Chrysostom, was born at Nicaea
in Bithynia, in 155 A.D. The best part of his life was spent in Rome,
where he held various public positions, and at Capua and in his birth-
place he composed a history of that city from its foundation until 229
A.D. The author's public life made him familiar with administrative
details ; he was naturally acquainted with the Latin language, and
thus able to prepare a work that should be a standard authority. It
consisted originally of eighty books, of which xxxvii-lx. have come
down to us either complete or nearly complete, and much of the rest
in fragments. The part that has survived treats of the period between
the overthrow of Mithridates and the outbreak of the civil war between
Caesar and Pompey, and is obviously of the greatest importance. Dion
Cassius took Thucydides and Polybius for his models, and tried to elu-
cidate as well as to chronicle the events of which he wrote. Naturally
enough, the defects of a rhetorical age are to be distinguished in the
book, but these are very far from seriously injuring its value.
LONGINUS ON THE SUBLIME. 853
V.
Of the life of Pausanias scarcely any more is known or even plau-
sibly conjectured than that he was a Lydian by birth who flourished in
the second half of the second century. He left a description of Greece
as it was before it was robbed of its artistic treasures, and when, as its
quality as a guide-book indicates, a tour in that country was a common
thing. The book describes the different regions and mentions the
various objects of interest to be seen in each, referring to them mainly,
however, from the point of view of a pious pagan who is visiting this
home of the old mythology.
Longinus does not belong, except in time, with these historians and
geographers, but place may perhaps be found here for the mention of
the famous treatise On the Sublime, which is ascribed to him. The
author, whose full name was Dionysius Cassius Longinus, was probably
a Syrian ; and although his exact date is uncertain, it is conjectured
that he was born about 210 A.D. He was famous among his contem-
poraries for his profound learning ; he was called " a living library
and a walking museum." He wrote commentaries on Homer, Plato,
Demosthenes, and on some of the poets, as well as on philosophy, but
all that we have of him is this treatise on the Sublime. Even this
is of doubtful genuineness, and it has been supposed that the essay
may belong to some other person or very different period, but it is
at least inextricably bound up with his name by common assent. The
treatise itself is an attempt to explain what it is that goes to the forma-
tion of an impressive style. This is certainly a tempting subject, and
the exposition has won great fame, especially among those who hoped
that perhaps the merit of the Greek writers was due to some secret
which Longinus would unfold. When modern literature recognized
no other merit than the imitation of the ancient, the one man who
taught writers how to attain sublimity was thought more useful if not
more admirable than those who were merely sublime without saying
how they became so. Yet the secret is as dark as ever; if Longinus
knew it, he never told it, for his precepts about the omission of
the copulative conjunctions in order to attain grandeur, and the live-
liness that results from the use of question and answer, as in the ora-
tions of Demosthenes, are simply rhetorical explanations after the
event. The essay, however, is an interesting discussion of the prin-
ciples of literary art which well meets the objection that there is no
use to be derived from the study of rhetoric. The author runs over
ancient literature ; indeed he also quotes the beginning of the book
of Genesis as a sample of eloquence, and illustrates his intelligent
854 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED).
remarks with apt examples. The book is certainly full of merit, even
if it has been overrated in modern times by those who have expected
too much from it. The later days, when the intelligence of the Greeks
was devoted to the study of the great works of the past, produced
innumerable commentators, and we are fortunate in having one of
the best of their studies.
What was done in literature was also done in philosophy in its
wanderings away from Athens. As the moralists had at length pro-
duced an ethical code which bore distinct resemblance, in its serious-
ness at least, to some of the principles of Christianity, the schools
which rested on the Platonic doctrines became so far modified in
Alexandria by Oriental thought as to produce a sort of theology,
which exercised great influence on early Christianity. All that inge-
nuity could do in the manipulation of philosophical problems had
been done by generations of accomplished thinkers, and the result
was nothing ; the questions that had been asked with every refine-
ment of thought and expression found no answer awaiting them. The
mystery of the Universe was unsolved and insoluble in spite of the
most cunning intellectual machinery that the world had ever krfown,
and the world was tired of a failure that only became evident when
every attempted solution had failed. Convinced of its impotence,
philosophy sought the aid of faith, and, thereby advocating its supre-
macy, it became theology. In short, all that was Greek in Neo-platon-
ism was its name and the language in which it was written.
Philo, commonly called Judaeus or the Jew, was born in Alexandria
about twenty years before Christ, and in his writings we see an attempt
to reconcile the sacred writings of his people with the methods of
Greek thought. This he did by explaining the Old Testament allegori-
cally, showing that they contained the highest truths in a veiled form.
By his statement of the impossibility of conceiving God, except as he
manifests himself in the Logos, or word, he built up an enormous part
of the theology of the early Christian writers. Numenius, a Syrian,
who lived in the middle of the second century, and Ammonius, a
porter of Alexandria, born 170 A.D., carried on the study of philoso-
phy, but one of its most important adherents was Plotinus, born at
Lycopolis in Egypt, in 205 A.D. He, like the others, started from
Plato. Porphyry, his commentator, born 233 A.D., sought to find alle-
goric truth in the old Greek mythology. lamblichus, who died about
330, also did his best to present the good side of the dying system.
But the fight, though long, was hopeless, and while Christianity ab-
sorbed much from the higher teaching of the Neo-platonists, its growth
went on at the expense of the tiresome repetitions of the Rhetoricians
and Sophists. Among the last of these were Libanius, of the fourth
THE LAST DA YS OF PAGANISM. 855
century, of whose speeches many are left, which thresh over once
more the old straw, with a certain literary excellence but no serious
importance. Himerias, born 315, left a great many orations on imag-
inary subjects, no more literature than school declamation is oratory.
More important than these word-jugglers was the Emperor Julian the
Apostate, 331-363, who relapsed from Christianity to paganism, and en-
deavored to enforce a similar change by eloquence as well as by author-
ity. Of his relations to Christianity this is not the place to speak,
but it may be observed that what inspired these is what is to be seen
in his literary memorials, namely, a great interest in the grand past of
Greece, which outweighed the merit of what he perceived in the new
dispensation. In Proclus, the last great name of the Greek philoso-
phers, we see another foe of the new religion. He too upheld the
dying paganism, from which he drew an eclectic teaching. He died
in 485.
VI.
In 529 the Emperor Justinian closed the school of philosophy at
Athens, the one founded by Plato, that had existed nine hundred
years, and with its extinction disappeared also the Hellenism that had
to the last struggled vainly against Christianity. It died a violent death,
.succumbing to the same harshness that paganism had before employed
against its at last successful rival. In the same year, as part of the per-
secution of the heathen which had long existed, St. Benedict destroyed
the last temple of Apollo at Monte Casino, and established there the
first monastery of his order, which formed one of the most important
links between the old world and the new. In Alexandria, the Hellenic
spirit had expired in blood and riot, with Hypatia for its martyr.
The closing of the university at Athens put an end to the last glim-
mering of the classical influence of that city in ancient times. Its
history meanwhile, since the establishment of Alexandria, had not
been without interest ; far from it. The Peloponnesian war had shat-
tered its brief supremacy, but its intellectual and artistic importance
had long survived its political ruin, and the memory of its wonderful
past had at times moderated the severity of its conquerors. When
the Macedonians conquered, the city resigned itself easily to its new
masters, for, as Parmenion said to Antipater, " what could be done by
men who passed their lives in celebrating Dionysos, in public feasts and
dancing?" Its ancient eloquence turned to ingenious flattery when
at the Eleusinian festival a chorus of noble Athenians sang thus to
Demetrius Poliorcetes : " The other gods are remote, or do not give
us the least attention. But you we adore as a god who is present, not
one of wood or stone, but true and living ; and it is to you that we
856 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED).
offer our prayers. And first, O beloved one, grant us peace ; for you
can. Punish the Sphinx who ravages all Greece. . . . As for me, I
can fight no more." Naturally when the Romans advanced, in their
conquest of the world, towards Greece, Athens was ready to receive
them. Before that time it had known little of this new Roman power.
Plutarch tells us that a mere vague rumor of the capture of Rome
had reached Greece ; Heraclides of Pontus, one of Plato's disciples,
states that an army coming from the Hyperborean regions had con-
quered a Greek city called Rome, which lies in the West, not far from
the great sea. Rome was revenged in the Middle Ages when it was
held that Latin was the native speech of the Athenians.
When, after the first Punic war, ambassadors came to Corinth and
Athens with messages of amity, Athens was the first to adapt itself to
the new conditions ; it granted to the Romans Athenian citizenship
and the privilege of initiation in the Eleusinian mysteries — all it had
to give. Its intelligence survived these dynastic changes ; the old
tragedies were produced on the stage, and the new comedies of
Menander and his rivals; philosophy flourished and rhetoric, and the
influence of its cultivation spread over the West as well as towards
the East, and Athens was honored as the home of arts and letters.
After the city was taken by storm by Sylla in his war with Mithri-
dates, it was long in recovering from its harsh fate. Grain was grown
within its walls, even in the Agora. The statues were half hidden in
the corn, but the old fame of the city still attracted to it hosts of
Romans who sought for culture. These visited it for study or for the
aesthetic delight which tempts us moderns to the same place or to
Rome. And what we call the Athenian university, which was in part
supported by imperial generosity, became a most important means of
support for the whole city.
This tact, which led them to flatter their conquerors, their devotion
to the refining influences of life and their aversion to war, made the
Athenians generally popular. Lucian in his Nigrinus says that they
were brought up in devotion to philosophy and poverty, and that they
detested extravagance and display, which they regarded as proper
rather for Rome. Praise was given to the liberty, the absence of
petty jealousy, the quiet, and leisure of Athens. Libanius called the
Athenians " godlike " ; thus the old glory of the citizens of Athens
was inherited by their descendants.
Yet there was not an unbroken devotion to study even here — after
all there was discord in Olympus — for the young men knew other
interests than philosophy and letters ; the pupils of the various teachers
formed societies, which fought with stones or even swords over the
new arrivals whom they strove to enroll among their number. Un-
THE ARTIFICIAL COMPOSITIONS OF THE SOPHISTS. 857
popular instructors were occasionally tossed in a rug by their discon-
tented scholars, and even less creditable stories are told of the dis-
orderly conduct of the students. But these trivialities only indicate,
what other things more clearly prove, the decay of real interest in
Athens, which had sunk to the condition of a provincial city, full, to
be sure, of inspiring memories, but insignificant by the side of Alex-
andria, Rhodes, Pergamon, or even Rome and Marseilles. Its past
remained its greatest glory. The library of Alexandria made residence
there imperative for men who were doing active work in exegesis, and
the wealth of Rome drew teachers as well as pupils from all quarters.
Philosophy, as we have seen, continued to be taught for many cen-
turies in its old home by many generations of teachers, but the growth
of Christianity was about to displace even this.
VII.
Not all these later Greeks, however, were philosophers, and amid
the general literary work of this time with its continual return to old
subjects we find numerous imaginary letters, such as those, already
mentioned, of Philostratus, and many other collections of fictitious
correspondence, some of which have at different times deceived unprac-
tised students by their mock air of genuineness. Letters of Phalaris,
Themistocles, Alexander, and other great men, were composed many
centuries after their death, as an exercise in literary composition that
ran in parallel lines with the fictitious declamations devised by ingeni-
ous rhetoricians to represent the imaginary speeches of great orators.
The so-called letters of Phalaris acquired an importance enormously
disproportionate to their original worth by Bentley's proof that they
were forgeries, whereby he placed the modern criticism of the classics
on a sure footing and gave most valuable aid to the development of
modern English literature, helping to bring it out from beneath the
shadow of the ancient. The mistake which had been made was some-
thing like that which would take place if at some future time Tenny-
son's Idyls of the King should be thought real mediaeval poems, or Lan-
dor's " Pericles and Aspasia " a genuine translation from the classics.
The Greeks and Romans were in fact living on their capital, on the
traditions and memories that had gathered about ancient Hellas. The
present seemed dead. Just as an old man loses all memory of current
events and recalls only the incidents of his boyhood, so these dying
races recurred for ever to their own youth. The later Sophists, when
they came down to the earth at all, discussed remote events at the
time of the Peloponnesian and Persian wars, or even earlier: they
invented a speech for Xenophon, who proposes to die in place of
858 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED).
Socrates ; they composed an oration that Demosthenes might have
uttered, or Solon ; they composed imaginary debates between Alex-
ander and his generals, whether or not he should push on to the ocean :
Agamemnon considers the advisability of slaying Iphigeneia, etc. ;
the list was as long as ancient history. In Ovid we shall see similar
fantastic treatment of the past, and without going so far from the sub-
ject before us we may find abundant instances in the imaginary letters
of famous persons, in the fictitious poems that were composed on every
hand for the confusion of modern commentators. Dio Chrysostomos,
who lived in the time of Trajan, apologizes for an invention concerning
modern and inglorious times, on the ground that he will be thought
an idle prattler for not appearing in the usual guise of Cyrus or Alci-
biades. Nor was it in literature alone that this tendency appeared ;
Dio Cassius tells that at the games celebrating the opening of the
Colosseum and the Baths of Titus in Rome, the naval combats repre-
sented those fought between the Corcyraeans, Syracusans, and Athe-
nians in the Peloponnesian war, and not any Roman victory.
The eloquence or rhetorical skill with which these fanciful compo-
sitions were uttered was their warrant for existing, and amply justified
their production. No other purpose was served in the death of political
power; and just as the accumulation and display of rich material had
become the sole aim of architects, and in sculpture the same profusion
of luxury took the place of the long-lived beauty of the art, and costly
mosaic expelled painting, so the playing with words was the last sign
of the intellectual activity of the Greeks. It was a mere mechanical
existence that they led ; they went through the motions of living, but
with only a pitiable imitation of their former grandeur. Yet even all
these inventions were not wholly without benefit. It was a period of
dwindling importance, but one that indicated a possible advance in
the future. Nature cannot be forever producing; and even the bleak
storms of winter enrich the frozen soil.
While the true explanation of this beating over the old straw is to
be found in the absence of real interest in life, it must yet be remem-
bered that the very virtue of this race, their interest in the form of
any utterance, led to this constant repetition of artificial methods ;
and the incessant toying with the familiar material, the perpetual
restatement of old problems, became in time, both in prose and verse,
a very meagre outlet for the intelligence, while an ingenious device
for the cleverness, of the Greeks. This artificiality was something like
an unending building of block houses, to be destroyed as soon as com-
pleted, and while we see some of its results in the dwindling excellence
of Greek letters, we may detect a part of its influence in the literature
of the Romans, and notably in the heroic poems of Ovid, which have
THE EXTREME ARTIFICIALITY OF THIS LITERATURE. 859
served as models for a good many writers who kept closely to the
methods of the ancients. These later Greeks were not filled with any-
thing to say : they rather possessed, partly by inheritance, a keen desire
to speak, and hence said the same thing over and over with unwearying
repetition, and the issue was emptiness and barrenness of thought.
Literary expression became then a mere thing of schools, not an utter-
ance of the feelings that inspire a mighty people, and the way in which
things were formulated became of the chief moment. These stories
show the consequences in their remoteness from the actual life of the
time. That is wholly lost sight of, and we get pictures of the impos-
sible, placed in a fantastic region in which puppets move on the end
of conspicuous wires. Thus is explained, too, the origin of the Greek
romances in the disposition which showed itself both in poetry and
prose to play with imaginary subjects, as in the elegies of Callimachus,
many of the epigrams of the Anthology, and in the imaginary letters,
debates, orations dexterously inserted in mouths of long dead cha-
racters, all being indications of the death of genuine enthusiasm while
the art survived. The art, too, has in its turn triumphed in modern
literature. Yet its greatest success was at home..
WOODEN TABLET.
CHAPTER VII.— THE GREEK ROMANCES.
I. — This Confusion, Great as it was, Led to an Attempted Reorganization of Literary
Work in the Romances. The Method of Composition : Prominence of Love,
Wildness of Incident, etc. IL — lamblichus Xenophon of Ephesus. ApoUonius
of Tyre. Hehodorus. The Modern Descendants of these Romances. IIL — Achil-
les Tatius. Charitons. IV. — Longus and his Pastoral. The End.
I.
IN its own time, as we have said, this fantastic forged literature was
of great service in furthering the development of a new form of
composition which was destined to have much influence on modern
writing, and the qualities of the Greek romance, the impossible adven-
tures, the succession of catastrophes, the complicated intrigues, the
intense love-making, had long formed the ingenious exercises of orators
and speakers who lived by entertaining hearers and readers. The
tendency of literature towards the discussion of love themes we have
noticed even in Euripides, and we have seen how much more distinct
it became when Greek letters found their new home at Alexandria.
Obviously, the disconnected manner in which this favorite subject was
treated in the later days by men who sought to concentrate all their
acuteness upon a brief declamation or essay stood in the way of a
patient development of the study of the individual character. It
furthered the production of rather a number of vivid scenes than of a
carefully composed whole, and the Greek romances that have come
down to us abound in incident ; they lack psychological unity. Inven-
tion is exhausted in devising a succession of events ; there is no growth,
no careful study, of character. The fragmentary nature of the previous
studies for the romance were not the only cause of the absence of
careful treatment of character ; another explanation may be found in
that law of intellectual economy which forbids the combination of
exciting incidents with psychological analysis. If a succession of
catastrophes will sustain the reader's interest, there is no necessity of
strengthening this by describing the mental growth of the hero and
heroine. It is only when readers have learned every possible combina-
tion of flood, flames, earthquakes, wild beasts, robbers, murderers, and
poisons, and they no longer shudder at grewsome casualties because
they know that there is salvation only a few pages ahead, that the
THE CRUDITY OF THE ROMANCES.
86 1
more delicate and more difficult work of portraying a human being
begins. The Greek romance did not attain this point, which was left
for modern times, yet it is sufficiently creditable that before their final
intellectual extinction this wonderful race should have completed their
task of founding every form of literature on which posterity was to
work. The romance nearly escaped them, and if they appropriated it
too late to develop it thoroughly, they yet in intellectual matters ruled
an empire vaster than the
material empire of Rome.
While the absence of
smoothness in the course of
true love is the leading sub-
ject of these early romances,
there is to be found in all of
them an evasion of the diffi-
culties of the psychological
problem which hides itself
under the accumulation of
geographical wonders. In-
cidents and stories of this
sort had long found a place
in Greek literature. The
Odyssey contains them, and
even the philosophers, as
Plato, with his fantastic is-
lands of Atlantis, had em-
ployed the same inventions
which appear in all litera-
tures. While the literary
history of the Greek ro-
mances is obscure in many
points, owing to their share
in the uncertainty that cov-
ers the whole later period
of Greek letters, the titles
of some of the earliest indi-
cate the free employment of this device, and their frequency is
attested by the fact that Lucian caricatured them in his True
History. Apparently, the love-stories began by adopting the still
earlier geographical romances, which were crammed with impossible
details, the human element that bound the incidents together being
a couple of lovers in whose experience these adventures occur. One
of the very first was written by Antonius Diogenes ; it consisted of
EROS, GOD OF LOVE.
862 THE GREEK ROMANCES
twenty-four books, and bore for its title The Wonders Beyond Thule.
The exact date of its composition is ahnost hopelessly lost, yet the
name of the author makes it clear that he must have lived during this
period of the Roman dominion, and it is conjectured to belong to the
first century of our era. The epitome of this book which was made
by the patriarch Photius in the ninth century shows how close an
analogy it bore to the geographical romances ; the novel contains the
recital of most adventuresome travels, not only up and down the face
of the earth, but also through the regions beneath the earth, into
Hades and out again, and even to the moon. These details quite over-
balance the romantic love incidents, which in comparison are few and
insignificant. Indeed the prominence of the fantastic adventures,
made up of folk-lore, travelers' tales, and the collections of geographers,
places the composition of the story at an early date, before the per-
petual treatment of love-themes by sophists and rhetoricians had
acquired the full growth that it reached towards the middle of the
second century of our era. As has been said, it was these exercises
that gave this form of fiction its most important quality, the human
element, which has been the basis of modern as of ancient romance ;
the framework in which this vital part was set came, as we have seen,
from the geographical accounts and romances.
II.
The earliest of those which contained a real romantic quality is that
of lamblichus, a Syrian, and contemporary of Lucian. Before learning
Greek and becoming a rhetorician, he acquired a knowledge of the
language of Babylon from one of the officials of the king of that city
who was taken prisoner in Trajan's Parthian expedition. In the reign
of Marcus Aurelius he wrote his romance which he called the Baby-
loniaca. Curiously enough, he pretended that it was merely a version
of an old Babylonian story which had been told him by his teacher,
who, after all, may have been invented for the occasion. This method
of smuggling the romance into Greek literature betrays a certain
timidity with regard to its novelty, and it is one that is not unfamiliar
to later times. Thus Horace Walpole pretended that his Castle of
Otranto "was printed at Naples, in the black letter, in the year 1529
A.D.," and that it was " found in the library of an ancient Catholic family
in the north of England." The Babylonian friend and teacher of
lamblichus may be fellow-citizens of Onuphrio Muralto, the alleged
author, and of William Marshall, the alleged translator, of the later
romance. Chatterton's device was the product of similar conditions.
Unfortunately, the phrase which continually meets the student of
THE COMPLICATED PLOTS. 863
Greek literature must be used again here, for the book itself has not
come down to us ; but the same Photius who described the work of
Antonius Diogenes has also left us an analysis of a good part of this
important romance. Even a brief account of its confused plot would
take up too much space. It need only be said that it concerns the
manifold persecutions and sufferings of a loving couple, Simonis, who
is the object of the odious attentions of Garmus, king of Babylon, and
Rhodanes, her husband. Yet it is not their mental agony, the growth
of their love under peril, or the force of despair, that is portrayed, but
rather the simple succession of cruel incidents. Some of these were
facts that even now have a place in the reports of Egyptian travelers,
such as the bees that sting the soldiers to death ; others were the com-
monplaces of folk-lore ; while others again were to have a long life in
later romance, as when the hero and heroine take a sleeping potion
in place of poison. These various casualties and trials are not artis-
tically arranged so that one is in any way an outgrowth of the other ;
they are rather, as it were, pinned together in artificial sequence, yet
we notice that they are more truly devices to inflict anguish on the
suffering man and woman than a mere recital of geographical details.
Impossible and incoherent as are the accumulated agonies of this
hero and heroine, they have been employed in modern literature, and
especially in the Sofonisbe of de Gerzan, 1627, which contains many
imitations of the plot, and some translations of the few fragments that
have been elsewhere preserved. Later we shall see other proofs of the
authority of these Greek romances over those written in France and
read everywhere in the seventeenth century.
Xenophon of Ephesus, the author of the Ephesian Story of An-
theia and Habrocomes, may be mentioned next, although the exact
dates of these late writers are almost as uncertain as those of the most
remote, and the age to which this author belongs is variously set every-
where between the second and the fifth centuries of our era, with at
least a possibility — for one can scarcely call it a probability — of its be-
longing to the end of the second or the beginning of the third. The
romance begins where the others end, with the marriage of the hero
and heroine Habrocomes and Antheia, and then goes on to describe a
long series of woes that befell them after this event. It is not, how-
ever, any accustomed conjugal infelicity that pursues them, or any
domestic tragedy, but rather a hideous nightmare of romantic inci-
dents, separation, long wanderings, and the usual machinery where-
with these writers were wont to amuse their readers. In general the
reader who is brought up on the maturer novels of later times finds
these early inventions awkward and cumbersome, but in this story the
creaking of the machinery is more astounding than anywhere, for all
864
THE GREEK ROMANCES.
the misadventures follow upon the declaration of an oracle that the
unhappy pair are fated to endure many calamities by land and sea, but
that finally they shall enjoy happier fortune. Hence they are sent
abroad shortly after their marriage in order, apparently, to make the
oracle true, and they face with composure the dangers which they
know in advance so well. Their parents have enough faith to send
the children off, but not enough to await their return, for they kill
themselves in despair ; but the reader does not share their doubts, and
when matters look worst he is consoled by the
crudity of the device, which has its only rival in
literature in Bottom's suggestion for a prologue
in the Midsummer Night's Dream. More than
half the face is seen through this lion's neck.
Obviously, this method of starting the unhappy
pair upon their adventures has not found ad-
mirers, but, granting its clumsiness, their misfor-
tunes are like those of all the rest, and it ought
not to have failed to please those who are only
satisfied when a work of fiction ends well. Here
the pious reader was insured against disappoint-
ment. The two sufferers are in perpetual misery :
robbers, cannibals, and worse forever threaten
them ; their personal beauty is a continual source
of peril, but finally the oracle is verified and all
is well. Some of the incidents are the same that
are mentioned among the devices of the other
writers : the sleeping-potion, for instance, while
of course the geographical turmoil rages as ever,
although with more than the usual confusion.
The story of Apollonius of Tyre bears a curi-
ous resemblance to the romance just described,
and it is further interesting from the fact that
it reached Europe and was enormously popular
throughout the Middle Ages. We possess it
only in this Latin version, which in its brevity
bears the marks of an abridgment like those chapbooks, published
even so late as the middle of the last century, of the long French
romances of earlier date. The Greek original is lost, and indeed that
it ever existed is only a matter of inference from the nature of the
story, its list of adventures, and the general tone of the rhetorical
parts. The earliest mention of this version is in a grammatical treatise
that belongs to the seventh century, and of course it may have been
in existence earlier. Of its later life we know more ; it doubtless
GODDESS FORTUNA.
THEIR INFLUENCE IN MODERN TIMES. 865
reached Europe as part of the booty of the crusades, and Apollonius
soon took his place alongside of Alexander the Great, King Arthur,
and Charlemagne. Gower recites many of the incidents of his career
in his Confessio Amantis ; he is referred to by Chaucer, and so became
the original of Shakspere's Pericles, Prince of Tyre. In the Latin
version that we have it is easy to detect probable modifications of the
original at the hands of the translator, who not merely abridged but
adapted the Greek work. Indeed it has been plausibly conjectured
that the work composed by a pagan Greek was put into Latin by some
early Christian. As it stands it offers us one of the very few examples
that can be found of the influence of Greek work upon mediaeval litera-
ture. Investigation will doubtless determine more, for it is impossible
to suppose that the unlimited abundance of Greek rhetoric and soph-
istry that pervaded the whole Roman empire in the early centuries of
our era should have vanished without leaving many traces on the suc-
ceeding developments of literature.
The longest and in some ways the most important of all these
romances is the Ethiopics ; or. Adventures of Theagenes and Chariclea,
of Heliodorus. The usual obscurity hides the author. We only know
that he is mentioned in a church history that belongs to the first half
of the fifth century, and it is there said that the writer of the romance
afterwards became a bishop. If this were true, he would have been
more fortunate than Dean Swift, whose Tale of a Tub barred his way
to such promotion, but the statement is now regarded as merely an
idle rumor, and the only fact that we can get is that the book was
written before that date. The whole story reeks with paganism, and
if its author was a priest, he was a priest of Apollo.
An outline of the plot shows all the family traits of this species of
composition : Theagenes, a Thessalian of noble birth, meets Chariclea,
a Delphian priestess, and the two fall instantly in love with each other
and elope together. Once started off, they simply bound from the
hands of one band of robbers or pirates to those of another, and Chari-
clea's beauty never fails to inspire each chief in turn with the most
desperate love. At length they reach Egypt, and there they are seized
by a band of Ethiopians and carried away into captivity. It is decided
they shall be sacrificed, Theagenes to the sun, Chariclea to the moon ;
but Chariclea explains that she is the white daughter of an Ethiopian
king, exposes the strawberry mark on her left arm, and is at once recog-
nized as princess of the country, and all ends happily in her marriage
with Theagenes. But this sketch does no manner of justice to the
ingenuity with which every simple solution of the many complications
that arise is continually retarded. Perpetually the feelings of the
readers are assaulted ; no sooner does he give a sigh of relief over the
866 THE GREEK ROMANCES.
escape of the lovers from one peril than he holds his breath over some
new impending evil. The story begins, too, in the very middle, and
the uneven movement is further complicated by long descriptions of
one thing and another, that give the author an excellent opportunity
to show his skill. Yet these discursions have with time become sub-
servient to the romantic side of the tale ; they no longer hold the
first place.
It was in 1534 that the first edition of the Greek text was pub-
lished ; a French translation by Jacques Amyot, the translator of
Plutarch, appeared in 1549, and this was followed by an English ver-
sion in 1577. Editions rapidly followed one another in both France
and England, and other translations were made in Spain, Italy, Hol-
land, and Germany. In Tasso's Gerusalemme Liberata (xii. 21 fl.)
we find one of the incidents made use of ; Racine once thought of
writing a play founded on this romance, and Alexander Hardy wrote
eight out of its copious accumulation of incidents. In Spain it inspired
a good part of the Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda of Cervantes,
and Calderon's Tedgenes of Cariclea, as well as Perez de Montalvan's
Hijos de la Fortuna.
Yet these instances of manifest indebtedness are less important
proofs of the nature of the influence which this and the other Greek
romances exercised, than are the countless resemblances appearing in
the French heroic romances of the seventeenth century. The fantastic
notion of love was alike in both ; what was the last invention of Greek
ingenuity, which grew up in a period of general decay and was molded
into shape by generations of clever word-jugglers, bore a close resem-
blance to the notion of that passion which had formed itself in accord-
ance with the ideas of chivalry. As Gervinus has said, the childishness
of the old age of the Greek mind was like the childishness of the new
modern civilization, and the discovery of a similar tendency to exag-
geration and formless literary work among the ancients must have
given enormous encouragement to those unpractised writers who
would have been powerless had they undertaken to measure them-
selves against the real masterpieces of Greek literature. The inherit-
ance of the long-winded unartistic mediaeval work was strong, and lent
itself to following these awkward models, while nothing is more lifeless
than the early Italian efforts to write classic dramas and epics. The
Renaissance did its best to make a complete rupture with the Middle
Ages, but the most successful work that it inspired was that which
accepted them and let the two currents, the mediaeval and the classic,
flow naturally into one great stream, as was done in the English drama.
We may well believe that the cumbersomeness and crudity of these
Greek romances were not perceived by those admirers as they are by
INDEBTEDNESS OF THE MODERNS TO ROMANCE-WRITERS. 867
US. It was enough for them that the romances were written in Greek,
they had not begun to trouble themselves about dates, those awkward
destroyers of idle hypotheses, and with the friendly aid of gross exag-
gerations and artificial mechanism they were enabled to let modern
romance enjoy an equable development from its mediaeval origin to
its present condition, uninterrupted, as were most forms of literature,
by nervous reference to what the ancients had done. The result is
certainly one to be proud of, and its worth is undoubtedly in great
measure due to the immunity of fiction from premature comparison
with ancient work. It has grown up by itself, correcting its faults by
its own experience and not by continual appeal to text-books, and is
now, as every one knows, the one branch of letters in which society
records itself most distinctly, and that, rather than the observance of
rules, is the true aim of literature.
Nothing could exceed the generous supply of artificiality which the
Greek romances supplied to a sympathetic world. The hero and
the heroine of Theagenes and Chariclea are models of beauty, yet the
heroine is most distinctly the protagonist, the leading character of
the book, which in this respect is adapted to gratify those who were
brought up on mediaeval fictions. Unending pains are taken to keep
the reader in a perpetual twitter of excitement over the countless vicis-
situdes of the young couple who forever escape, as it were, from the
frying-pan to the more threatening perils of the fire. This device of
retarding the final solution was very effective and became the common
property of the modern writers of romance.
And just as the first sight of a new shore after crossing the ocean
reminds the traveler of the last view of the one he left, so the begin-
ning romance of modern times presents a notable likeness to the
expiring fiction of antiquity. In both we find the same artifice and
tumultuous accumulation of incident, a similar absence of psychological
development — this quality existing only in Longus's Daphnis and
Chloe, and even there but imperfectly — and an almost identical aristo-
cratic tone that betokens a literary creation rather than a product of
popular growth. The resemblance goes further, in accordance with
this last-named quality, extending to the admiration that is given in
both ancient and early modern romance, to natural beauty only when
it has known the decorative hand of man. The park and the garden
are the favorite scenes ; the landscape is only praised after it has been
adorned by the landscape gardener. Especially are these remarks true
of the French pastorals, which were written after the Greek ones had
been translated and received with the enthusiasm that was given to
everything that bore the stamp of classic antiquity. When the Greek
left ofT, the modern man began — in romance at least ; and a similar con-
868 THE GREEK ROMANCES.
dition of things may also be noticed in some of the forms of poetical
composition. The literary style of the two periods presents the same
interesting likeness, both being marked by the same artifices of com-
position.
There were yet other causes of the noticeable likeness between the
gropings of an expiring civilization and those of the one beginning,
among which may be mentioned the surviving influence of the Greek
romances through a good part of the Middle Ages, when we find many
of their most characteristic qualities appearing in an easily recognizable
form. The construction of some of the mediaeval poems, the sequence
of incidents, the subjects themselves, bear unmistakable traces of late
Greek originals, probably reaching the poets of the Middle Ages
through Latin translations in the many cases when the Greek itself
was an absolutely unknown tongue. The proof is not positive, but it
forms an impressive accumulation of possibilities and probabilities that
corroborates the intrinsic difficulty of affirming the absolute annihila-
tion of an abundant stream of material — a difficulty as great as that of
asserting positive invention at any period. The Greek names of some
mediaeval heroes and heroines ; the way in which the passion of love
is portrayed ; certain grammatical constructions in the language, and
the use of certain words almost transliterated strengthen the hypo-
thesis, which is especially strengthened by the resemblance of the inco-
herent incidents of the poems to those of the Greek romances. Yet,
even if it be acknowledged that the influence of the Greek romances
did not wholly expire in the Middle Ages, the fact would not greatly
modify the interest of the similar treatment that marked the decay
and the revival of letters, because this last period was full of new aims
and courted new methods, as we may see by comparing Boccaccio's
" Filocopo " with the mediaeval form of " Floire et Blanceflor." Liter-
ary art begins for modern times with the great Italian's prose, and it
is here that the strongest analogy with the late Greek appears most
vividly. It is easier, perhaps, to explain the interest in the tales of
adventure by supposing them to be an unbroken chain, than it is to
imagine that they were invented over again. The subsequent deve-
lopment of the modern novel lies outside of our subject ; it will be
seen that the new direct translations only furthered a taste already
existing.
III.
Another romance which has come down to us complete is the Loves
of Clitopho and Leucippe, by Achilles Tatius, an evident imitator of
Heliodorus, The story is one of the usual sort. Robbers and pirates ;
battles, murders, and sudden deaths, which their position in the novel
THEIR PICTORIAL QUALITY. 869
prove to be nothing but trances — the whole machinery is there, dimly
concealed beneath alleged facts which are quite as romantic as the
harmless blood-letting, and over all a veil of sophistical declamation.
Of the author's history nothing is known ; there is an idle rumor that
he too was a Christian bishop, but this is only part of the general imi-
tation of Heliodorus. He lived apparently at about the time when
Musaeus and Nonnus uttered the last notes of Greek poetry, say in the
fifth century. If realism is not a striking quality of the literary work
of this time, certainly no book is less marked by it than is this romance
of Achilles Tatius. The artificial life of the puppets about whom he
writes is thickly overlaid with all the devices of an artificial rhetoric.
The very beginning furnishes an excellent example of the method, in
its description of a picture of the Rape of Europa, at which the nar-
rator of the romance was looking when the hero met him and began
to recount his adventures. This description of the picture was evi-
dently written to perform what was a frequent exercise of the Sophists,
as the similar descriptions of pictures which Philostratus wrote will
show, and here it supplies what is by far the most lifelike part of the
story. Here is a bit of it :
" The artist had shown great skill in managing the shade ; for the sun-
ra5's were seen dispersedly breaking through the overarching roof of leaves,
and lighting up the meadow, which, situated as I have said, beneath a leafy
screen, was surrounded on all sides by a hedge. Under the trees, beds of
flowers were laid out, in which bloomed the narcissus, the rose, and the
myrtle. Bubbling up from the ground, a stream flowed through the midst
of this enamelled meadow, watering the flowers and shrubs ; and a gardener
was represented with his pickaxe opening a channel for its course. The
maidens above mentioned were placed by the painter in a part of the meadow
bordering upon the sea. Their countenances wore a mingled expression of
joy and fear ; they had chaplets upon their heads, their hair fell dishevelled
about their shoulders ; their legs were entirely bare — for a cincture raised
their garments above the knee — and their feet were unsandalled ; their
cheeks were pale and contracted through alarm ; their eyes were directed
towards the sea ; their lips were slightly opened as if about to give vent to
their terror in cries ; their hands were stretched out towards the bull ; they
were represented upon the verge of the sea, the water just coming over their
feet ; they appeared eager to hasten after the bull, but at the same time
fearful of encountering the waves. The color of the sea was twofold :
towards the land it had a ruddy hue ; farther out it was dark -blue ; foam
also, and rocks and waves were represented ; the rocks projecting from the
shore, and whitened with foam, caused by the crests of the waves breaking
upon their rugged surface."
This description reads as if it could only have been written before
the very picture, and it is curious to notice what a near likeness it bears
to some of the Italian work, as if at least tradition had handed down
Syo THE GREEK ROMANCES.
the artistic methods of a thousand years earlier, however unlikely,
though not impossible, such survival may be.
The quality of the romances is shown most vividly in this one with
its exaggerated rhetoric. The power of love naturally calls forth all
the writer's raptures. Thus :
" I rose from the table intoxicated with love. Upon entering my accustomed
chamber, sleep was out of the question. It is the law of nature that diseases
and bodily wounds always become exasperated at night By the same
rule, the wounds of the soul are much more painful while the body is lying
motionless ; in the day, both the eyes and ears are occupied by a multiplicity
of objects ; thus, the soul has not leisure to feel pain, and so the violence of
the disease is for a time mitigated ; but let the body be fettered by inactivity,
and then the soul retains its susceptibility, and becomes tempest-tossed by
trouble ; the feelings which were asleep then awaken. The mourner then
feels his grief, the anxious his solicitude, he who is in peril his terrors, the
lover his inward flame."
The power of love extends to beasts, plants, minerals (witness the
magnet), rivers, and streams.
Eloquence is its only rival. Whatever happens, the characters
readily declaim. Thus: " Has Fortune delivered us from the hands
of buccaneers only that she [Leucippe] may fall a prey to madness?
Unhappy that we are, when will our condition change? We escape
dangers at home only to be overtaken by the shipwreck; saved from
the fury of the sea and freed from pirates, we were reserved for the
present visitation — madness ! " etc. The style is familiar, and it
is not made more impressive by the so-called facts of natural history
and geography that are placed in this strange setting.
Fortune, it will be noticed, is referred to as the cause of this strange
conjunction of events; and the prominence given to the power of this
reckless deity, and the absence of even shadowy references to the older
pagan gods, make it possible that the author was a Christian exercising
himself with the familiar literary machinery. At any rate, he was not
an ardent pagan. This new deity, Tyche, Fortune, had grown powerful
when the old pantheon was emptied, and nowhere had it enjoyed more
absolute rule than in these stories, and in this one it was less burdened
by any subordination to probability than anywhere else. This god-
dess, who stood for the blind chance that seemed to have so much
power for evil when the old gods had proved powerless against the
disasters that had made over the whole condition of the ancient world,
had become powerful from the very decay of her rivals. Thus Poly-
bius had called Rome the noblest and most beneficent work of Fortune.
Yet he had a broad vision and refused to regard this Fortune as a blind
force ; he called it rather an honest umpire, an intelligent overruling
THEIR MONOTONOUS VARIETY. 871
deity who gave power to a people that had earned it. Plutarch, too,
had said that virtue brought with it as reward the gifts of Fortune,
but in general the observation of the current confusion inclined men
to ascribe every form of misery to the caprice of this uncertain deity.
In these romances she is omnipotent, for just as the belief in her con-
trol removes from men all responsibility for the results of their actions,
so in literature the possibility of ascribing any incoherent series of
incidents to the well-known variety of her mandates tended to make
unnecessary all effort to attain probability or orderly sequence of
events.
In the Adventures of Chaereas and Callirhoe, by Chariton of Aphro-
disias, we have another instance of the uniformity that prevailed in
these romances in spite of the most desperate struggles after new
inventions. All the old terrors reappear : robbers, maritime perils,
apparent death which is only a delusion, enamored villains, all are
there, but virtue finally triumphs and all is well. There is an attempt
to make a historical background for the accumulated adventures, but
it is one that will not endure examination, although it leaves with the
romance the credit of being one of the first of the long-lived historical
romances. What it lacks in history it more than makes up with geo-
graphy : the scene opens in Syracuse, and is laid further in Asia Minor,
Babylon, and of course in Egypt, for in this remote antiquity we find
the earliest international novels. Fortunately, however, this tale of
suffering love is not impeded by the customary introduction of super-
fluous bits of information about natural history ; the story runs on
with commendable smoothness and comparative simplicity ; it only
needs a more genuine tale of passion to be really successful. The
author's indebtedness to the earlier romancers is everywhere apparent,
although it is uncertain which can be said to have borrowed from the
other, Chariton or Achilles Tatius.
These were the most important of the Greek romances ; those that
followed them during the later period were but feeble copies of these
admired originals and scarcely fall within the scope of this book. The
most important, or, rather, the least unimportant of these later pro-
ductions is the story of Hysmine and Hysminias by the philosopher
Eumathius, or Eustathius as he is more accurately named. The book
is full of faults, such as might be expected in a feeble copy of Achilles
Tatius ; it is crammed with amorous absurdities, and is only remarkable
for the extravagant somnolence of the love-lorn hero, who in the brief
moments of wakefulness recounts his dreams. This book was probably
composed in the twelfth century, as was the story of Rodanthe and
Dosicles, by Theodorus Prodromus, an imitator of Heliodorus.
872 THE GREEK ROMANCES.
IV.
Along with these romances belongs the single Greek pastoral story
that has come down to us, the Daphnis and Chloe of Longus, which, to
be sure, takes up another subject than the romances, but is yet strongly
marked with their characteristics. Naturally this is a love story; the
hero and heroine are a rustic young couple who do not cross the seas
to endure fantastic adventures. The setting of the story is near
Mitylene in the island of Lesbos, and the pastoral background forms
the most essential part of the framework of this most artificial tale.
The description of summer and winter, the occupations of shepherds,
the joy in the harvest, form the current that floats the recital of the
anything but innocent love of Daphnis and Chloe. In the study of
literature one thing is to be noticed, and that is the uniformity of tone
that prevails at any given period. In an artificial time, whatever
efforts may be made to secure simplicity, the result will be an artificial
simplicity, in which convention rules, just as truly as the garden about
a handsome house will be marked with the current artificiality ; and-
always this quality will prevail in exact proportion to the general con-
dition of men's tastes. Hence it will surprise no one to find in the
pastoral of Longus a most knowing and suggestive representation of
the youthful ignorance of the hero and heroine, and a picture of nature
that infallibly balances the general directness of vision prevailing at
his time. How exact an eye these later writers had is easily deter-
minable from a brief study of the romances, and here we find a sophist
attempting to be natural, yet hampered — or, as he doubtless imagined,
supported — by all the tricks of his trade. The idylls of Theocritus
brought a breath of fresh air into the dying classicism of Alexandria,
but later the love of them had shared the fate of the art and literature,
and had succumbed to the common artificiality. Fantastic descrip-
tions of rustic scenes had long been common ; praise of the song of
birds, of the loveliness of flowers, rural simplicity, the seasons, pastoral
adventures, beautiful scenery, had long inspired men who were never
tired of seeking in contrast, cleverness, and brilliancy for new delight.
Libanius, for example, has left us an exercise in praise of that vener-
able subject, the beauty of spring, in which there is a description of a
lovely garden, that contains these words :
" All this was delightful to look upon, yet to describe it to an audience is
yet more delightful."
And this is but one of many instances of the way in which this subject
DAPHNIS AND CHLOE.
873
was treated. Everywhere in literature proportion is preserved, and
when the drawing-room is the scene of one form, it is the garden that
appears in the attempted delineations of nature. To be sure, the
romances do not concern
themselves, after the man-
ner of contemporary English
novels, with the instances of
social life in the drawing-
room, but their whole tone
is that of conventional so-
ciety. The hero and heroine
are always of gentle blood ;
the populace has its modern
equivalent in the chorus of
an Italian opera; they fill the
humble position of rabble,
citizens, soldiers, and the
like. The action of the
stories is distinctly busied
only with the aristocratic vic-
tims of circumstances. This
pastoral presents rustic life,
devoid of its griminess, and
only as it appears to people
of position. Yet when this
is granted it must also be
acknowledged that although the picture drawn is a conventional
one, it is yet well drawn. It is a fairyland, but a charming fairy
land that the author puts before us. The love of Daphnis and Chloe
knows all the delays and hindrances that an ingenious invention can
SHEPHERD.
SHEPHERD.
2 74 THE GREEK ROMANCES.
devise, but its setting is more attractive than the story itself. The
pictures are the work of a time which lacked any real enthusiasm,
which, indeed, was affected by some of the most worthless interests,
but the idyllic touches here and there show that the old Greek spirit
had not wholly died. It was, however, lamentably checked with rhet-
orical artifices ; the language is a mass of willful prettinesses, enough
to place the story among the sophistical productions, although its
exact date cannot be determined. It was translated by Amyot in
1559 A.D., but its ground was already taken, and although it enjoyed
great popularity, the pastorals of Italy and Spain had firm hold of the
popular taste, and the work of Longus remained a sort of literary
curiosity, a wonderful example of grace mingled with the abundant
literary artifice of a dying civilization.
Practically the life of Greek letters was ended ; a great task was done,
and what remained was only the gradual evaporation of literature that
coincided with the general enfeeblement of active interests that con-
stituted the dark ages. The world was in process of incubating another
social system when the authority of Rome and of Greece was to reassert
its power. Here we may leave the description of Greek literature,
after attempting to trace it from its magnificent beginning, through
its greatness and its combined brilliancy and conventionality, until it
became a mechanical art and so perished. In all history there is no
such subject, nothing that can compare with the naturalness and exu-
berant life of Greek letters, no sadder instance of complete decay.
THE END.
INDEX.
Acharniaiis, The, 452-460,
Achilles Tatius, 868-870.
Action, lack of, in early tragedies, 248,
254, 261.
Aelian, 851.
^schylus, 239-300; life, 239, 240; com-
pared with Beethoven, 250; praised
by Aristophanes, 484-492.
Agamemtion, The, T.'j^-iZd.
Ajax, The, 336-341.
Alcasus, 174, 175.
Alcestis, The, 398-402.
Alexander of Etolia, 766.
Ale.xandria, 741-748 ; qualities of its
literature, 748, 749, 751, 754, 763,
768, 799.
Anacreon, 182-184.
Anaxagoras, 665.
Anaximander, 659.
Anaximenes, 659.
Andocides, 609.
Andromache, The, 402, 403.
Anthology, The, 786-798.
Antigone, The, 322-327.
Antimachus, 764, 765.
Antiphon, 608, 609.
Apollonius of Tyre, 864, 865.
Apollonius Rhodius, 770-773.
Aratus, 773, 774.
Archilochus, 1 58-161.
Aristophanes, 452-499, 505 ; his con-
servatism, 453, 497 ; his vividness,
466, 475, 479, 497 ; attacks Euripides,
457, 484, 485, 492 ; admires ^schy-
lus, 484, 492 ; compared with Me-
nander, 502.
Aristotle, 715-737; life, 715-717; his
scientific work, 718-720; his Meta-
physics, 723, 724; Physics, 725; Efh-
ics, 726, 729 ; Politics, 727 ; Poetics,
730,731; extracts, 732-737.
Arrian, 852.
Aryan family, the, 3-5.
Athenaeus, 850, 851.
BacchcE, The, 426-433.
Benn, A. W,, on Plato, 687.
Birds, The, 476-479.
Callimachus, 767, 771.
Callinus, 158.
Changes in literary fashions, 236-238.
Chariton, 871.
Chorus, the tragic, 231-234; becoming
decorative, 389; the comic, 451, 452.
Clouds, The, 466-469.
Coluthus, 780.
Comedians, early, of Athens, 449.
Comedy, the, 444-507 ; the middle, 494,
499-507 ; later, 769, 770 ; among the
Sicilians, 446-448 ; of Megara, 448.
Conservatism of humorists, 299, 453.
Crates, 449.
Cyclic poems, the, 131-135.
Cyclops, The, 433-438.
Cynics, the, 683-684.
Cyropcedia, The, 578, 579.
Democritus, 664, 670.
Demosthenes, 623-655; life, 623-636;
his qualities, 637-640 ; his succes-
sors, 640-644.
Deux ex machina, the, 425.
Diogenes, 684.
Diogenes Laertius, 851.
Dion Cassius, 852.
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 815.
EcclesiazuscB, The, 493,
Electra, The, of Sophocles, 307-321 ; of
Euripides, 414-417.
Eloquence, in tragedy, 312, 313.
Empedocles, 663, 664.
Epics, the later, 131, 135; the Sanskrit,
47-49. 96 ; the Persian, 49.
Epictetus, 846, 847.
Epicurus, 738-740.
Epigram, the Greek idea of, 191, 790.
Euclid, of Megara, 683 ; the mathema-
tician, 802, 803.
Eumenides, The, 290-295.
Euphuism, compared with early Greek
prose, 605, 606.
Euripides, 352-443; life, 354-356; intro-
ducing novelties into tragedies, 403,
405, 407, 408, 413,414, 421, 425, 426 :
attacked by Aristophanes, 457, 484,
876
INDEX.
Euripides — Continued.
485, 492; answers the attacl