Rendered into English Prose, by Andrew Lang
- I. The Death Of Daphnis
- Idyl II. The Sorceress
- Idyl III. The Serenade
- Idyl IV. The Herdsman
- Idyl V. The Battle Of The Bards
- Idyl VI. The Drawn Battle
- Idyl VII. The Song of Simichidas
- Idyl VIII. The Triumph Of Daphnis
- Idyl IX. Pastorals
- Idyl X. The Reapers
- Idyl XI. The Cyclops In Love
- Idyl XII. The Passionate Friend
- Idyl XIII. Hylas And Heracles
- Idyl XIV. The Love Of Aeschines
- Idyl XV. The Festival Of Adonis
- Idyl XVI. The Value Of Song
- Idyl XVII. The Praise Of Ptolemy
- Idyl XVIII. The Bride Of Helen
- Idyl XIX. The Thievish Love
- Idyl XX. Town And Country
- Idyl XXI. The Fishermen
- Idyl XXII. THE Dioscuri
- Idyl XXIII. The Vengence Of Love
- Idyl XXIV. The Infant Heracles
- Idyl XXV. Heracles The Lion Slayer
- Idyl XXVI. The Bacchanals
- Idyl XXVII. The Wooing Of Daphnis
- Idyl XXVIII. The Distaff
- Idyl XXIX. Loves
- Idyl XXX. The Dead Adonis
- Idyl XXXI. Loves
- Fragment Of The Berenice
- EPIGRAMS AND EPITAPHS
- I - For a rustic Altar.
- II - For a Herdsman’s Offering
- III - For a Picture
- IV - Priapus
- V - The rural Concert
- VI - The Dead are beyond hope
- VII - For a statue of Asclepius
- VIII - Orthon’s Grave
- IX - The Death of Cleonicus
- X - A Group of the Muses.
- XI - The Grave of Eusthenes
- XII - The Offering of Demoteles
- XIII - For a statue of Aphrodite
- XIV - The Grave of Euryrnedon
- XV - The Grave of Eurymedon
- XVI - For a statue of Anacreon
- XVII - For a statue of Epicharmus
- XVIII - The Grave of Cleita
- XIX - The statue of Archilochus
- XX - The statue of Pisander
- XXI - The Grave of Hipponax
- XXII - For the Bank of Caicus
- XXIII - On his own Poems
-
Bion
- I - The Lament For Adonis
- II - The Love Of Achilles
- III - The Seasons
- IV - The Boy And Love
- V - The Tutor Of Love
- VI - Love And The Muses
- Fragments
-
Moschus
- Idyl I - Love The Runaway
- Idyl II - Europa And The Bull
- Idyl III - The Lament For Bion
- Idyl IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX
LIFE OF THEOCRITUS
Theocritus, the Chian. But there is another Theocritus, the son of Praxagoras and Philinna (see Epigram XXIII), or as some say of Simichus. (This is plainly derived from the assumed name Simichidas in Idyl VII.) He was a Syracusan, or, as others say, a Coan settled in Syracuse. He wrote the so-called Bucolics in the Dorian dialect. Some attribute to him the following works:- The Proetidae, The Pleasures of Hope, Hymns, The Heroines, Dirges, Ditties, Elegies, Iambics, Epigrams. But it known that there are three Bucolic poets: this Theocritus, Moschus of Sicily, and Bion of Smyrna, from a village called Phlossa. - From Suidas
Theocritus the Bucolic poet was a Syracusan by extraction, and
the son of Simichidas, as he says himself, Simichidas, pray
whither through the noon dost thou dray thy feet? (Idyl VII).
Some say that this was an assumed name, for he seems to have been
snub-nosed, and that his father was Praxagoras, and his mother
Philinna. He became the pupil of Philetas and Asclepiades, of
whom he speaks (Idyl VII), and flourished about the time of
Ptolemy Lagus. He gained much fame for his skill in bucolic
poetry. According to some his original name was Moschus, and
Theocritus was a name he later assumed.
THEOCRITUS AND HIS AGE
At the beginning of the third century before Christ, in the years just preceding those in which Theocritus wrote, the genius of Greece seemed to have lost her productive force. Nor would it have been strange if that force had really been exhausted. Greek poetry had hitherto enjoyed a peculiarly free development, each form of art succeeding each without break or pause, because each - epic, lyric, dithyramb, the drama - had responded to some new need of the state and of religion. Now in the years that followed the fall of Athens and the conquests of Macedonia, Greek religion and the Greek state had ceased to be themselves. Religion and the state had been the patrons of poetry; on their decline poetry seemed dead. There were no heroic kings, like those for whom epic minstrels had chanted. The cities could no longer welcome an Olympian winner with Pindaric hymns.
There was no imperial Athens to fill the theatres with a crowd of citizens and strangers eager to listen to new tragic masterpieces. There was no humorous democracy to laugh at all the world, and at itself, with Aristophanes. The very religion of Sophocles and Aeschylus was debased. A vulgar usurper had stripped the golden ornaments from Athene of the Parthenon. The ancient faith in the protecting gods of Athens, of Sparta, and of Thebes, had become a lax readiness to bow down in the temple of any Oriental Rimmon, of Serapis or Adonis. Greece had turned her face, with Alexander of Macedon, to the East; Alexander had fallen, and Greece had become little better than the western portion of a divided Oriental empire. The centre of intellectual life had been removed from Athens to Alexandria (founded 332 B.C.) The new Greek cities of Egypt and Asia, and above all Alexandria, seemed no cities at all to Greeks who retained the pure Hellenic traditions.
Alexandria was thirty times larger than the size assigned by Aristotle to a well-balanced state. Austere spectators saw in Alexandria an Eastern capital and mart, a place of harems and bazaars, a home of tyrants, slaves, dreamers, and pleasure-seekers. Thus a Greek of the old school must have despaired of Greek poetry. There was nothing (he would have said) to evoke it; no dawn of liberty could flush this silent Memnon into song. The collectors, critics, librarians of Alexandria could only produce literary imitations of the epic and the hymn, or could at best write epigrams or inscriptions for the statue of some alien and luxurious god. Their critical activity in every field of literature was immense, their original genius sterile. In them the intellect of the Hellenes still faintly glowed, like embers on an altar that shed no light on the way. Yet over these embers the god poured once again the sacred oil, and from the dull mass leaped, like a many-coloured frame, the genius of THEOCRITUS.
To take delight in that genius, so human, so kindly, so musical in expression, requires, it may be said, no long preparation. The art of Theocritus scarcely needs to be illustrated by any description of the conditions among which it came to perfection. It is always impossible to analyse into its component parts the genius of a poet. But it is not impossible to detect some of the influences that worked on Theocritus. We can study his early ‘environment’; the country scenes he knew, and the songs of the neatherds which he elevated into art. We can ascertain the nature of the demand for poetry in the chief cities and in the literary society of the time. As a result, we can understand the broad twofold division of the poems of Theocritus into rural and epic idyls, and with this we must rest contented.
It is useless to attempt a regular biography of Theocritus.
Facts and dates are alike wanting, the ancient accounts (p. ix)
are clearly based on his works, but it is by no means impossible
to construct a ‘legend’ or romance of his life, by
aid of his own verses, and of hints and fragments which reach us
from the past and the present. The genius of Theocritus was so
steeped in the colours of human life, he bore such true and full
witness as to the scenes and men he knew, that life (always
essentially the same) becomes in turn a witness to his veracity.
He was born in the midst of nature that, through all the changes
of things, has never lost its sunny charm. The existence he loved
best to contemplate, that of southern shepherds, fishermen, rural
people, remains what it always has been in Sicily and in the
isles of Greece. The habits and the passions of his countryfolk
have not altered, the echoes of their old love-songs still sound
among the pines, or by the sea-banks, where Theocritus
‘watched the visionary flocks.’
Theocritus was probably born in an early decade of the third
century, or, according to Couat, about 315 B.C., and was a native
of Syracuse, ‘the greatest of Greek cities, the fairest of
all cities.’ So Cicero calls it, describing the four
quarters that were encircled by its walls, - each quarter as
large as a town, - the fountain Arethusa, the stately temples
with their doors of ivory and gold. On the fortunate dwellers in
Syracuse, Cicero says, the sun shone every day, and there was
never a morning so tempestuous but the sunlight conquered at
last, and broke through the clouds. That perennial sunlight still
floods the poems of Theocritus with its joyous glow. His
birthplace was the proper home of an idyllic poet, of one who,
with all his enjoyment of the city life of Greece, had yet been
‘breathed on by the rural Pan,’ and best loved the
sights and sounds and fragrant air of the forests and the coast.
Thanks to the mountainous regions of Sicily, to Etna, with her
volcanic cliffs and snow-fed streams, thanks also to the hills of
the interior, the populous island never lost the charm of nature.
Sicily was not like the overcrowded and over-cultivated Attica;
among the Sicilian heights and by the coast were few enclosed
estates and narrow farms. The character of the people, too, was
attuned to poetry. The Dorian settlers had kept alive the magic
of rivers, of pools where the Nereids dance, and uplands haunted
by Pan. This popular poetry influenced the literary verse of
Sicily. The songs of Stesichorus, a minstrel of the early period,
and the little rural ‘mimes’ or interludes of Sophron
are lost, and we have only fragments of Epicharmus. But it seems
certain that these poets, predecessors of Theocritus, liked to
mingle with their own composition strains of rustic melody,
volks-lieder, ballads, love-songs, ditties, and dirges,
such as are still chanted by the peasants of Greece and Italy.
Thus in Syracuse and the other towns of the coast, Theocritus
would have always before his eyes the spectacle of refined and
luxurious manners, and always in his ears the babble of the
Dorian women, while he had only to pass the gates, and wander
through the fens of Lysimeleia, by the brackish mere, or ride
into the hills, to find himself in the golden world of pastoral.
Thinking of his early years, and of the education that nature
gives the poet, we can imagine him, like Callicles in Mr.
Arnold’s poem, singing at the banquet of a merchant or a
general -
‘With his head full of wine, and his hair
crown’d,
Touching his harp as the whim came on him,
And praised and spoil’d by master and by guests,
Almost as much as the new dancing girl.’
We can recover the world that met his eyes and inspired his poems, though the dates of the composition of these poems are unknown. We can follow him, in fancy, as he breaks from the revellers and wanders out into the night. Wherever he turned his feet, he could find such scenes as he has painted in the idyls. If the moon rode high in heaven, as he passed through the outlying gardens he might catch a glimpse of some deserted girl shredding the magical herbs into the burning brazier, and sending upward to the ‘lady Selene’ the song which was to charm her lover home. The magical image melted in the burning, the herbs smouldered, the tale of love was told, and slowly the singer ‘drew the quiet night into her blood.’ Her lay ended with a passage of softened melancholy -
‘Do thou farewell, and turn thy steeds to Ocean, lady, and my pain I will endure, even as I have declared. Farewell, Selene beautiful; farewell, ye other stars that follow the wheels of Night.’
A grammarian says that Theocritus borrowed this second idyl, the story of Simaetha, from a piece by Sophron. But he had no need to borrow from anything but the nature before his eyes. Ideas change so little among the Greek country people, and the hold of superstition is so strong, that betrayed girls even now sing to the Moon their prayer for pity and help. Theocritus himself could have added little passion to this incantation, still chanted in the moonlit nights of Greece: {0a}
‘Bright golden Moon, that now art near to thy setting, go thou and salute my lover, he that stole my love, and that kissed me, and said, “Never will I leave thee.” And, lo, he has left me, like a field reaped and gleaned, like a church where no man comes to pray, like a city desolate. Therefore I would curse him, and yet again my heart fails me for tenderness, my heart is vexed within me, my spirit is moved with anguish. Nay, even so I will lay my curse on him, and let God do even as He will, with my pain and with my crying, with my flame, and mine imprecations.’
It is thus that the women of the islands, like the girl of Syracuse two thousand years ago, hope to lure back love or avenged love betrayed, and thus they ‘win more ease from song than could be bought with gold.’
In whatever direction the path of the Syracusan wanderer lay, he would find then, as he would find now in Sicily, some scene of the idyllic life, framed between the distant Etna and the sea. If he strayed in the faint blue of the summer dawn, through the fens to the shore, he might reach the wattled cabin of the two old fishermen in the twenty-first idyl. There is nothing in Wordsworth more real, more full of the incommunicable sense of nature, rounding and softening the toilsome days of the aged and the poor, than the Theocritean poem of the Fisherman’s Dream. It is as true to nature as the statue of the naked fisherman in the Vatican. One cannot read these verses but the vision returns to one, of sandhills by the sea, of a low cabin roofed with grass, where fishing-rods of reed are leaning against the door, while the Mediterranean floats up her waves that fill the waste with sound. This nature, grey and still, seems in harmony with the wise content of old men whose days are waning on the limit of life, as they have all been spent by the desolate margin of the sea.
The twenty-first idyl is one of the rare poems of Theocritus that are not filled with the sunlight of Sicily, or of Egypt. The landscapes he prefers are often seen under the noonday heat, when shade is most pleasant to men. His shepherds invite each other to the shelter of oak-trees or of pines, where the dry fir-needles are strown, or where the feathered ferns make a luxurious ‘couch more soft than sleep,’ or where the flowers bloom whose musical names sing in the idyls. Again, Theocritus will sketch the bare beginnings of the hillside, as in the third idyl, just where the olive-gardens cease, and where the short grass of the heights alternates with rocks, and thorns, and aromatic plants. None of his pictures seem complete without the presence of water. It may be but the wells that the maidenhair fringes, or the babbling runnel of the fountain of the Nereids. The shepherds may sing of Crathon, or Sybaris, or Himeras, waters so sweet that they seem to flow with milk and honey. Again, Theocritus may encounter his rustics fluting in rivalry, like Daphnis and Menalcas in the eighth idyl, ‘on the long ranges of the hills.’ Their kine and sheep have fed upwards from the lower valleys to the place where
‘The track winds down to the clear stream,
To cross the sparkling shallows; there
The cattle love to gather, on their way
To the high mountain pastures and to stay,
Till the rough cow-herds drive them past,
Knee-deep in the cool ford; for ‘tis the last
Of all the woody, high, well-water’d dells
On Etna, . . .
. . . glade,
And stream, and sward, and chestnut-trees,
End here; Etna beyond, in the broad glare
Of the hot noon, without a shade,
Slope behind slope, up to the peak, lies bare;
The peak, round which the white clouds play.’ {0b}
Theocritus never drives his flock so high, and rarely muses on such thoughts as come to wanderers beyond the shade of trees and the sound of water among the scorched rocks and the barren lava. The day is always cooled and soothed, in his idyls, with the ‘music of water that falleth from the high face of the rock,’ or with the murmurs of the sea. From the cliffs and their seat among the bright red berries on the arbutus shrubs, his shepherds flute to each other, as they watch the tunny fishers cruising far below, while the echo floats upwards of the sailors’ song. These shepherds have some touch in them of the satyr nature; we might fancy that their ears are pointed like those of Hawthorne’s Donatello, in ‘Transformation.’
It should be noticed, as a proof of the truthfulness of Theocritus, that the songs of his shepherds and goatherds are all such as he might really have heard on the shores of Sicily. This is the real answer to the criticism which calls him affected. When mock pastorals flourished at the court of France, when the long dispute as to the merits of the ancients and moderns was raging, critics vowed that the hinds of Theocritus were too sentimental and polite in their wooings. Refinement and sentiment were to be reserved for princely shepherds dancing, crook in hand, in the court ballets. Louis XIV sang of himself -<
‘A son labeur il passe tout d’un
coup,
Et n’ira pas dormir sur la fougere,
Ny s’oublier aupres d’une Bergere,
Jusques au point d’en oublier le Loup.’ {0c}
Accustomed to royal goatherds in silk and lace, Fontenelle (a severe critic of Theocritus) could not believe in the delicacy of a Sicilian who wore a skin ‘stripped from the roughest of he-goats, with the smell of the rennet clinging to it still.’ Thus Fontenelle cries, ‘Can any one suppose that there ever was a shepherd who could say “Would I were the humming bee, Amaryllis, to flit to thy cave, and dip beneath the branches, and the ivy leaves that hide thee”?’ and then he quotes other graceful passages from the love-verses of Theocritean swains.
Certainly no such fancies were to be expected from the French
peasants of Fontenelle’s age, ‘creatures blackened
with the sun, and bowed with labour and hunger.’ The
imaginative grace of Battus is quite as remote from our own
hinds. But we have the best reason to suppose that the peasants
of Theocritus’s time expressed refined sentiment in
language adorned with colour and music, because the modern
love-songs of Greek shepherds sound like memories of Theocritus.
The lover of Amaryllis might have sung this among his ditties
-
Χελιδονακι
θα γενω, σ' τα
χειλη σου
να καττω
Να σε
φιλησω μια
και δυο,
και παλε να
πεταξω
‘To flit towards these lips of thine, I fain would be a
swallow,
To kiss thee once, to kiss thee twice, and then go flying
homeward.’ {0d}
In his despair, when Love ‘clung to him like a leech of
the fen,’ he might have murmured -
‘Ηθελα να
ειμαι σ’ τα
βουνα, μ'
αλαφια να
κοιμουμαι
Και το
δικον σου
το κορμι να
μη το
συλλογιουμαι
‘Would that I were on the high hills, and lay where lie the
stags, and no more was troubled with the thought of
thee.’
Here, again, is a love-complaint from modern Epirus, exactly in the tone of Battus’s song in the tenth idyl -
‘White thou art not, thou art not golden haired,
Thou art brown, and gracious, and meet for love.’
Here is a longer love-ditty -
‘I will begin by telling thee first of thy perfections: thy
body is as fair as an angel’s; no painter could design it.
And if any man be sad, he has but to look on thee, and despite
himself he takes courage, the hapless one, and his heart is
joyous. Upon thy brows are shining the constellated Pleiades, thy
breast is full of the flowers of May, thy breasts are lilies.
Thou hast the eyes of a princess, the glance of a queen, and but
one fault hast thou, that thou deignest not to speak to
me.’
Battus might have cried thus, with a modern Greek singer, to the shade of the dead Amaryllis (Idyl IV), the ‘gracious Amaryllis, unforgotten even in death’ -
‘Ah, light of mine eyes, what gift shall I send thee;
what gift to the other world? The apple rots, and the quince
decayeth, and one by one they perish, the petals of the rose! I
send thee my tears bound in a napkin, and what though the napkin
burns, if my tears reach thee at last!’
The difficulty is to stop choosing, where all the verses of the
modern Greek peasants are so rich in Theocritean memories, so
ardent, so delicate, so full of flowers and birds and the music
of fountains. Enough has been said, perhaps, to show what the
popular poetry of Sicily could lend to the genius of
Theocritus.
From her shepherds he borrowed much, - their bucolic melody;
their love-complaints; their rural superstitions; their system of
answering couplets, in which each singer refines on the utterance
of his rival. But he did not borrow their ‘pastoral
melancholy.’ There is little of melancholy in Theocritus.
When Battus is chilled by the thought of the death of Amaryllis,
it is but as one is chilled when a thin cloud passes over the
sun, on a bright day of early spring. And in an epigram the dead
girl is spoken of as the kid that the wolf has seized, while the
hounds bay all too late. Grief will not bring her back. The world
must go its way, and we need not darken its sunlight by long
regret. Yet when, for once, Theocritus adopted the accent of
pastoral lament, when he raised the rural dirge for Daphnis into
the realm of art, he composed a masterpiece, and a model for all
later poets, as for the authors of Lycidas, Thyrsis, and
Adonais.
Theocritus did more than borrow a note from the country
people. He brought the gifts of his own spirit to the
contemplation of the world. He had the clearest vision, and he
had the most ardent love of poetry, ‘of song may all my
dwelling be full, for neither is sleep more sweet, nor sudden
spring, nor are flowers more delicious to the bees, so dear to me
are the Muses.’ . . . ‘Never may we be sundered, the
Muses of Pieria and I.’ Again, he had perhaps in greater
measure than any other poet the gift of the undisturbed enjoyment
of life. The undertone of all his idyls is joy in the sunshine
and in existence. His favourite word, the word that opens the
first idyl, and, as it were, strikes the keynote, is
αδυ, sweet. He finds all things
delectable in the rural life:
‘Sweet are the voices of the calves, and sweet the
heifers’ lowing; sweet plays the shepherd on the
shepherd’s pipe, and sweet is the echo.’
Even in courtly poems, and in the artificial hymns of which we
are to speak in their place, the memory of the joyful country
life comes over him. He praises Hiero, because Hiero is to
restore peace to Syracuse, and when peace returns, then
‘thousands of sheep fattened in the meadows will bleat
along the plain, and the kine, as they flock in crowds to the
stalls, will make the belated traveller hasten on his way.’
The words evoke a memory of a narrow country lane in the summer
evening, when light is dying out of the sky, and the fragrance of
wild roses by the roadside is mingled with the perfumed breath of
cattle that hurry past on their homeward road.
There was scarcely a form of the life he saw that did not seem to him worthy of song, though it might be but the gossip of two rude hinds, or the drinking bout of the Thessalian horse-jobber, and the false girl Cynisca and her wild lover Æschines. But it is the sweet country that he loves best to behold and to remember. In his youth Sicily and Syracuse were disturbed by civil and foreign wars, wars of citizens against citizens, of Greeks against Carthaginians, and against the fierce ‘men of Mars,’ the banded mercenaries who possessed themselves of Messana. But this was not matter for his joyous Muse -
κεινος δ'
ου
πολεμους,
ου δακρυα,
Πανα δ'
εμελπε,
και βουτασ
ελιγαινε
και αειδων
ενομευε
‘Not of wars, not of tears, but of Pan would he chant, and
of the neatherds he sweetly sang, and singing he shepherded his
flocks.’
This was the training that Sicily, her hills, her seas, her
lovers, her poet-shepherds, gave to Theocritus. Sicily showed him
subjects which he imitated in truthful art. Unluckily the later
pastoral poets of northern lands have imitated him, and so
have gone far astray from northern nature.
The pupil of nature had still to be taught the ‘rules’ of the critics, to watch the temper and fashion of his time, and to try his fortune among the courtly poets and grammarians of the capital of civilisation. Between the years of early youth in Sicily and the years of waiting for court patronage at Alexandria, it seems probable that we must place a period of education in the island of Cos. The testimonies of the Grammarians who handed on to us the scanty traditions about Theocritus, agree in making him the pupil of Philetas of Cos. This Philetas was a critic, a commentator on Homer, and an elegiac poet whose love-songs were greatly admired by the Romans of the Augustan age. He is said to have been the tutor of Ptolemy Philadelphus, who was himself born, as Theocritus records, in the isle of Cos.
It has been conjectured that Ptolemy and Theocritus were fellow pupils, and that the poet may have hoped to obtain court favour at Alexandria from this early connection. About this point nothing is certainly known, nor can we exactly understand the sort of education that was given in the school of the poet Philetas. The ideas of that artificial age make it not improbable that Philetas professed to teach the art of poetry. A French critic and poet of our own time, M. Baudelaire, was willing to do as much ‘in thirty lessons.’ Possibly Philetas may have imparted technical rules then in vogue, and the fashionable knack of introducing obscure mythological allusions.
He was a logician as well as a poet, and is fabled to have died of vexation because he could not unriddle one of the metaphysical catches or puzzles of the sophists. His varied activity seems to have worn him to a shadow; the contemporary satirists bantered him about his leanness, and it was alleged that he wore leaden soles to his sandals lest the wind should blow him, as it blew the calves of Daphnis (Idyl IX) over a cliff against the rocks, or into the sea. {0e} Philetas seems a strange master for Theocritus, but, whatever the qualities of the teacher, Cos, the home of the luxurious old age of Meleager, was a beautiful school. The island was one of the most ancient colonies of the Dorians, and the Syracusan scholar found himself among a people who spoke his own broad and liquid dialect.
The sides of the limestone hills were clothed with vines, and with shadowy plane-trees which still attain extraordinary size and age, while the wine-presses where Demeter smiled, ‘with sheaves and poppies in her hands,’ yielded a famous vintage. The people had a soft industry of their own, they fashioned the ‘Coan stuff,’ transparent robes for woman’s wear, like the υδατινα βρακη, the thin undulating tissues which Theugenis was to weave with the ivory distaff, the gift of Theocritus. As a colony of Epidaurus, Cos naturally cultivated the worship of Asclepius, the divine physician, the child of Apollo. In connection with his worship and with the clan of the Asclepiadae (that widespread stock to which Aristotle belonged, and in which the practice of leechcraft was hereditary), Cos possessed a school of medicine.
In the temple of Asclepius patients hung up as votive offerings representations of their diseased limbs, and thus the temple became a museum of anatomical specimens. Cos was therefore resorted to by young students from all parts of the East, and Theocritus cannot but have made many friends of his own age. Among these he alludes in various passages to Nicias, afterwards a physician at Miletus, to Philinus, noted in later life as the head of a medical sect, and to Aratus. Theocritus has sung of Aratus’s love-affairs, and St. Paul has quoted him as a witness to man’s instinctive consent in the doctrine of the universal fatherhood of God. These strangely various notices have done more for the memory of Aratus than his own didactic poem on the meteorological theories of his age. He lives, with Philinus and the rest of the Coan students, because Theocritus introduced them into the picture of a happy summer’s day. In the seventh idyl, that one day of Demeter’s harvest-feast is immortal, and the sun never goes down on its delight. We see Theocritus
κουπω ταν
μεσαταν
οδον
ανυμες,
ουδε το
σαμα
αμιν το
Βρασιλα
κατεφαινετο
when he ‘had not yet reached the mid-point of the way, nor
had the tomb yet risen on his sight.’ He reveals himself as
he was at the height of morning, at the best moment of the
journey, in midsummer of a genius still unchecked by doubt, or
disappointment, or neglect. Life seems to accost him with the
glance of the goatherd Lycidas, ‘and still he smiled as he
spoke, with laughing eyes, and laughter dwelling on his
lips.’ In Cos, Theocritus found friendship, and met Myrto,
‘the girl he loved as dearly as goats love the
spring.’ Here he could express, without any afterthought,
an enthusiastic adoration for the disinterested joys, the
enchanted moments of human existence. Before he entered the
thronged streets of Alexandria, and tuned his shepherd’s
pipe to catch the ear of princes, and to sing the epithalamium of
a royal and incestuous love, he rested with his friends in the
happy island. Deep in a cave, among the ruins of ancient
aqueducts, there still bubbles up, from the Coan limestone, the
well-spring of the Nymphs. ‘There they reclined on beds of
fragrant rushes, lowly strown, and rejoicing they lay in new
stript leaves of the vine. And high above their heads waved many
a poplar, many an elm-tree, while close at hand the sacred water
from the nymph’s own cave welled forth with murmurs
musical’ (Idyl VII).
The old Dorian settlers in Syracuse pleased themselves with the
fable that their fountain, Arethusa, had been a Grecian nymph,
who, like themselves, had crossed the sea to Sicily. The poetry
of Theocritus, read or sung in sultry Alexandria, must have
seemed like a new welling up of the waters of Arethusa in the
sandy soil of Egypt. We cannot certainly say when the poet first
came from Syracuse, or from Cos, to Alexandria. It is evident
however from the allusions in the fifteenth and seventeenth idyls
that he was living there after Ptolemy Philadelphus married his
own sister, Arsinoë.
It is not impossible to form some idea of the condition of Alexandrian society, art, religion, literature and learning at the court of Ptolemy Philadelphus. The vast city, founded some sixty years before, was now completed. The walls, many miles in circuit, protected a population of about eight hundred thousand souls. Into that changing crowd were gathered adventurers from all the known world. Merchantmen brought to Ptolemy the wares of India and the porcelains of China. Marauders from upper Egypt skulked about the native quarters, and sallied forth at night to rob the wayfarer. The king’s guards were recruited with soldiers from turbulent Greece, from Asia, from Italy. Settlers were attracted from Syracuse by the prospect of high wages and profitable labour. The Jewish quarters were full of Israelites who did not disdain Greek learning. The city in which this multitude found a home was beautifully constructed. The Mediterranean filled the northern haven, the southern walls were washed by the Mareotic lake. If the isle of Pharos shone dazzling white, and wearied the eyes, there was shade beneath the long marble colonnades, and in the groves and cool halls of the Museum and the Libraries.
The Etesian winds blew fresh in summer from the north, across the sea, and refreshed the people in their gardens. No town seemed greater nor wealthier to the voyager, who (like the hero of the Greek novel Clitophon and Leucippe) entered by the gate of the Sun, and found that, after nightfall, the torches borne by men and women hastening to some religious feast, filled the dusk with a light like that of ‘the sun cut up into fragments.’ At the same time no town was more in need of the memories of the country, which came to her in well-watered gardens, in landscape-paintings, and in the verse of Theocritus.
It is impossible to give a clearer idea of the opulence and luxury of Alexandria and her kings, than will be conveyed by the description of the coronation-feast of Ptolemy Philadelphus. This great masquerade and banquet was prepared by the elder Ptolemy on the occasion of his admitting his son to share his throne. The entertainment was described (in a work now lost) by Callixenus of Rhodes, and the record has been preserved by Atheneaus (v. 25). The inner pavilion in which the guests of Ptolemy reclined, contained one hundred and thirty-five couches. Over the roof was placed a scarlet awning, with a fringe of white, and there were many other awnings, richly embroidered with mythological designs. The pillars which sustained the roof were shaped in the likeness of palm-trees, and of thyrsi, the weapons of the wine-god Dionysus. Round three outer sides ran arcades, draped with purple tissues, and with the skins of strange beasts. The fourth side, open to the air, was shady with the foliage of myrtles and laurels. Everywhere the ground was carpeted with flowers, though the season was mid-winter, with roses and white lilies and blossoms of the gardens.
By the columns round the whole pavilion were arrayed a hundred effigies in marble, executed by the most famous sculptors, and on the middle spaces were hung works by the painters of Sicyon and tapestry woven with stories of the adventures of the gods. Above these, again, ran a frieze of gold and silver shields, while in the higher niches were placed comic, tragic, and satiric sculptured groups ‘dressed in real clothes,’ says the historian, much admiring this realism. It is impossible to number the tripods, and flagons, and couches of gold, resting on golden figures of sphinxes, the salvers, the bowls, the jewelled vases. The masquerade of this winter festival began with the procession of the Morning-star, Heosphoros, and then followed a masque of kings and a revel of various gods, while the company of Hesperus, the Evening-star followed, and ended all.
The revel of Dionysus was introduced by men disguised as Sileni, wild woodland beings in raiment of purple and scarlet. Then came scores of satyrs with gilded lamps in their hands. Next appeared beautiful maidens, attired as Victories, waving golden wings and swinging vessels of burning incense. The altar of the God of the Vine was borne behind them, crowned and covered with leaves of gold, and next boys in purple robes scattered fragrant scents from golden salvers. Then came a throng of gold-crowned satyrs, their naked bodies stained with purple and vermilion, and among them was a tall man who represented the year and carried a horn of plenty. He was followed by a beautiful woman in rich attire, carrying in one hand branches of the palm-tree, in the other a rod of the peach-tree, starred with its constellated flowers. Then the masque of the Seasons swept by, and Philiscus followed, Philiscus the Corcyraean, the priest of Dionysus, and the favourite tragic poet of the court. After the prizes for the athletes had been borne past, Dionysus himself was charioted along, a gigantic figure clad in purple, and pouring libations out of a golden goblet. Around him lay huge drinking-cups, and smoking censers of gold, and a bower of vine leaves grew up, and shaded the head of the god.
Then hurried by a crowd of priests and priestesses, Maenads, Bacchantes, Bassarids, women crowned with the vine, or with garlands of snakes, and girls bearing the mystic vannus Iacchi. And still the procession was not ended. A mechanical figure of Nysa passed, in a chariot drawn by eighty men, among clusters of grapes formed of precious stones, and the figure arose, and poured milk out of a golden horn. The Satyrs and Sileni followed close, and behind them six hundred men dragged on a wain, a silver vessel that held six hundred measures of wine. This was only the first of countless symbolic vessels that were carried past, till last came a multitude of sixteen hundred boys clad in white tunics, and garlanded with ivy, who bore and handed to the guests golden and silver vessels full of sweet wine. All this was only part of one procession, and the festival ended when Ptolemy and Berenice and Ptolemy Philadelphus had been crowned with golden crowns from many subject cities and lands.
This festival was obviously arranged to please the taste of a
prince with late Greek ideas of pictorial display, and with
barbaric wealth at his command. Theocritus himself enables us in
the seventeenth idyl to estimate the opulence and the dominion of
Ptolemy. He was not master of fertile Aegypt alone, where the
Nile breaks the rich dank soil, and where myriad cities pour
their taxes into his treasuries. Ptolemy held lands also in
Phoenicia, and Arabia; he claimed Syria and Libya and Aethiopia;
he was lord of the distant Pamphylians, of the Cilicians, the
Lycians and the Carians, and the Cyclades owned his mastery. Thus
the wealth of the richest part of the world flowed into
Alexandria, attracting thither the priests of strange religions,
the possessors of Greek learning, the painters and sculptors
whose work has left its traces on the genius of Theocritus.
Looking at this early Alexandrian age, three points become clear
to us. First, the fashion of the times was Oriental, Oriental in
religion and in society. Nothing could be less Hellenic, than the
popular cult of Adonis. The fifteenth idyl of Theocritus shows us
Greek women worshipping in their manner at an Assyrian shrine,
the shrine of that effeminate lover of Aphrodite, whom Heracles,
according to the Greek proverb, thought ‘no great
divinity.’ The hymn of Bion, with its luxurious lament, was
probably meant to be chanted at just such a festival as
Theocritus describes, while a crowd of foreigners gossiped among
the flowers and embroideries, the strangely-shaped sacred cakes,
the ebony, the gold, and the ivory. Not so much Oriental as
barbarous was the impulse which made Ptolemy Philadelphus choose
his own sister, Arsinoë, for wife, as if absolute dominion
had already filled the mind of the Macedonian royal race with the
incestuous pride of the Incas, or of Queen Hatasu, in an elder
Egyptian dynasty. This nascent barbarism has touched a few of the
Alexandrian poems even of Theocritus, and his panegyric of
Ptolemy, of his divine ancestors, and his sister-bride is not
much more Greek in sentiment than are those old native hymns of
Pentaur to ‘the strong Bull,’ or the ‘Risen
Sun,’ to Rameses or Thothmes.
Again, the early Alexandrian was what we call a
‘literary’ age. Literature was not an affair of
religion and of the state, but ministered to the pleasure of
individuals, and at their pleasure was composed. {0f}
The temper of the time was crudely critical. The Museum and the
Libraries, with their hundreds of thousands of volumes, were
hot-houses of grammarians and of learned poets. Callimachus, the
head librarian, was also the most eminent man of letters. Unable,
himself, to compose a poem of epic length and copiousness, he
discouraged all long poems. He shone in epigrams, pedantic hymns,
and didactic verses. He toyed with anagrams, and won court favour
by discovering that the letters of ‘Arsinoë,’
the name of Ptolemy’s wife, made the words
ιον Ηρας, the violet of
Hera. In another masterpiece the genius of Callimachus followed
the stolen tress of Queen Berenice to the skies, where the locks
became a constellation. A contemporary of Callimachus was
Zenodotus, the critic, who was for improving the Iliad and
Odyssey by cutting out all the epic commonplaces which seemed to
him to be needless repetitions. It is pretty plain that, in
literary society, Homer was thought out of date and
rococo. The favourite topics of poets were now, not the
tales of Troy and Thebes, but the amorous adventures of the gods.
When Apollonius Rhodius attempted to revive the epic, it is said
that the influence of Callimachus quite discomfited the young
poet. A war of epigrams began, and while Apollonius called
Callimachus a ‘blockhead’ (so finished was his
invective), the veteran compared his rival to the Ibis, the
scavenger-bird. Other singers satirised each others’ legs,
and one, the Aretino of the time, mocked at king Ptolemy and
scourged his failings in verse.
The literary quarrels (to which Theocritus seems to allude in
Idyl VII, where Lycidas says he ‘hates the birds of the
Muses that cackle in vain rivalry with Homer’) were as
stupid as such affairs usually are. The taste for artificial epic
was to return; although many people already declared that Homer
was the world’s poet, and that the world needed no other.
This epic reaction brought into favour Apollonius Rhodius, author
of the Argonautica. Theocritus has been supposed to aim at
him as a vain rival of Homer, but M. Couat points out that
Theocritus was seventy when Apollonius began to write. The
literary fashions of Alexandria are only of moment to us so far
as they directly affected Theocritus. They could not make him
obscure, affected, tedious, but his nature probably inclined him
to obey fashion so far as only to write short poems. His rural
poems are
ειδυλλια,
‘little pictures.’ His fragments of epic, or
imitations of the epic hymns are not
οσα ποντος
αειδει
- not full and sonorous as the songs of Homer and the sea.
‘Ce poète est le moins naïf qui se puisse
rencontrer, et il se dégage de son oeuvre un parfum de
naïveté rustique.’ {0g} They are, what a
German critic has called them, mythologischen
genre-bilder, cabinet pictures in the manner called
genre, full of pretty detail and domestic feeling. And
this brings us to the third characteristic of the age, - its art
was elaborately pictorial. Poetry seems to have sought
inspiration from painting, while painting, as we have said,
inclined to genre, to luxurious representations of the
amours of the gods or the adventures of heroes, with backgrounds
of pastoral landscape. Shepherds fluted while Perseus slew
Medusa.
The old order of things in Greece had been precisely the opposite
of this Alexandrian manner. Homer and the later Homeric legends,
with the tragedians, inspired the sculptors, and even the
artisans who decorated vases. When a new order of subjects became
fashionable, and when every rich Alexandrian had pictures or
frescoes on his walls, it appears that the painters took the
lead, that the initiative in art was theirs. The Alexandrian
pictures perished long ago, but the relics of Alexandrian style
which remain in the buried cities of Campania, in Pompeii
especially, bear testimony to the taste of the period. {0h}
Out of nearly two thousand Pompeian pictures, it is calculated
that some fourteen hundred (roughly speaking) are mythological in
subject. The loves of the gods are repeated in scores of designs,
and these designs closely correspond to the mythological poems of
Theocritus and his younger contemporaries Bion and Moschus. Take
as an example the adventure of Europa: Lord Tennyson’s
lines, in The Palace of Art are intended to describe
picture -
‘Or sweet Europa’s mantle blew
unclasp’d,
From off her shoulder backward borne:
From one hand droop’d a crocus: one hand
grasp’d
The mild bull’s golden horn.’
The words of Moschus also seem as if they might have derived
their inspiration from a painting, the touches are so minute, and
so picturesque -
‘Meanwhile Europa, riding on the back of the divine bull,
with one hand clasped the beast’s great horn, and with the
other caught up her garment’s purple fold, lest it might
trail and be drenched in the hoar sea’s infinite spray. And
her deep robe was blown out in the wind, like the sail of a ship,
and lightly ever it wafted the maiden onward.’
Now every single ‘motive’ of this description, -
Europa with one hand holding the bull’s horn, with the
other lifting her dress, the wind puffing out her shawl like a
sail, is repeated in the Pompeian wall-pictures, which themselves
are believed to be derived from Alexandrian originals. There are
more curious coincidences than this. In the sixth idyl of
Theocritus, Damoetas makes the Cyclops say that Galatea
‘will send him many a messenger.’ The mere idea of
describing the monstrous cannibal Polyphemus in love, is
artificial and Alexandrian.
But who were the ‘messengers’ of the sea-nymph
Galatea? A Pompeian picture illustrates the point, by
representing a little Love riding up to the shore on the back of
a dolphin, with a letter in his hand for Polyphemus. Greek art in
Egypt suffered from an Egyptian plague of Loves. Loves flutter
through the Pompeian pictures as they do through the poems of
Moschus and Bion. They are carried about in cages, for sale, like
birds. They are caught in bird-traps. They don the lion-skin of
Heracles. They flutter about baskets laden with roses; round rosy
Loves, like the cupids of Boucher. They are not akin to
‘the grievous Love,’ the mighty wrestler who threw
Daphnis a fall, in the first idyl of Theocritus. They are
‘the children that flit overhead, the little Loves, like
the young nightingales upon the budding trees,’ which flit
round the dead Adonis in the fifteenth idyl. They are the birds
that shun the boy fowler, in Bion’s poem, and perch
uncalled (as in a bronze in the Uffizi) on the grown man. In one
or other of the sixteen Pompeian pictures of Venus and Adonis,
the Loves are breaking their bows and arrows for grief, as in the
hymn of Bion.
Enough has perhaps been said about the social and artistic taste
of Alexandria to account for the remarkable differences in manner
between the rustic idyls of Theocritus and the epic idyls of
himself and his followers Moschus and Bion. In the rural idyls,
Theocritus was himself and wrote to please himself. In the epic
idyls, as in the Hymn to the Dioscuri, and in the two poems on
Heracles, he was writing to please the taste of Alexandria. He
had to choose epic topics, but he was warned by the famous saying
of Callimachus (‘a great book is a great evil’) not
to imitate the length of the epic. {0i} He was also to
shun close imitation of what are so easily imitated, the regular
recurring formulae, the commonplace of Homer. He was to
add minute pictorial touches, as in the description of
Alcmena’s waking when the serpents attacked her child, - a
passage rich in domestic pathos and incident which contrast
strongly with Pindar’s bare narrative of the same events.
We have noted the same pictorial quality in the Europa of
Moschus.
Our own age has often been compared to the Alexandrian epoch,
to that era of large cities, wealth, refinement, criticism, and
science; and the pictorial Idylls of the King very closely
resemble the epico-idyllic manner of Alexandria. We have tried to
examine the society in which Theocritus lived. But our
impressions about the poet are more distinct. In him we find the
most genial character; pious as Greece counted piety; tender as
became the poet of love; glad as the singer of a happy southern
world should be; gifted, above all, with humour, and with
dramatic power. ‘His lyre has all the chords’; his is
the last of all the perfect voices of Hellas; after him no man
saw life with eyes so steady and so mirthful.
About the lives of the three idyllic poets literary history says
little. About their deaths she only tells us through the dirge by
Moschus, that Bion was poisoned. The lovers of Theocritus would
willingly hope that he returned from Alexandria to Sicily, about
the time when he wrote the sixteenth idyl, and that he lived in
the enjoyment of the friendship and the domestic happiness and
honour which he sang so well, through the golden age of Hiero
(264 B.C.) No happier fortune could befall him who wrote the
epigram of the lady of heavenly love, who worshipped with the
noble wife of Nicias under the green roof of Milesian Aphrodite,
and who prophesied of the return of peace and of song to Sicily
and Syracuse.
Footnotes
{0a} This fragment is from the collection of M.
Fauriel; Chants Populaires de le Grèce.
{0b} Empedocles on Etna.
{0c} Ballet des Arts, dansé par sa
Majesté; le 8 janvier, 1663. A Paris, par Robert Ballard,
MDCLXIII.
{0d} These and the following ditties are from
the modern Greek ballads collected by MM. Fauriel and
Legrand.
{0e} See Couat, La Poesie Alexandrine,
p. 68 et seq., Paris 1882.
{0f} See Couat, op. cit. p.
395.
{0g} Couat, p. 434.
{0h} See Helbig, Campenische
Wandmalerie, and Brunn, Die griechischen Bukoliker und die
Bildende Kunst.
{0i} The Hecale of Callimachus, or
Theseus and the Marathonian Bull, seems to have been rather a
heroic idyl than an epic.