Chapter 36

Callimachus, the most learned of poets, was the son of Battus and Mesatme of Cyrene, and a disciple of Hermocrates, who like his more celebrated pupil was a grammarian, or a follower of belles-lettres, says Suidas. It is in this calling that we first hear of Callimachus, when he was a teacher at Alexandria. Here he counted among his pupils Apollonius Rhodius, author of the 'Argonautica,' and Eratosthenes, famous for his wisdom in science, who knew geography and geometry so well that he measured the circumference of the earth. Callimachus was in fact one of those erudite poets and wise men of letters whom the gay Alexandrians who thronged the court of Ptolemy Philadelphus called "The Pleiades." Apollonius Rhodius, Aratus, Theocritus, Lycophron, Nicander, and Homer son of Macro, were the other six. From his circle of clever people, the king, with whom he had become a prime favorite, called him to be chief custodian over the stores of precious books at Alexandria. These libraries, we may recall, were the ones Julius Cæsar partially burned by accident a century later, and Bishop Theophilus and his mob of Christian zealots finished destroying as repositories of paganism some three centuries later still. The collections said to have been destroyed by Caliph Omar when Amru took Alexandria in 640 A.D., on the ground that if they agreed with the Koran they were superfluous and if they contradicted it they were blasphemous, were later ones; but the whole story is discredited by modern scholarship. The world has not ceased mourning for this untold and irreparable loss of the choicest fruits of the human spirit.

Of all these precious manuscripts and parchments, then, Callimachus was made curator about the year B.C. 260. Aulus Gellius computes the time in this wise:--"Four-hundred-ninety years after the founding of Rome, the first Punic war was begun, and not long after, Callimachus, the poet of Cyrene in Alexandria, flourished at the court of King Ptolemy." At this time he must have been already married to the wife of whom Suidas speaks in his 'Lexicon,' a daughter of a Syracusan gentleman.

The number of Callimachus's works, which are reported to have reached eight hundred, testifies to his popularity in the Alexandrian period of Greek literature. It contradicts also the maxim ascribed to him, that "a great book is a great evil." Among the prose works which would have enriched our knowledge of literature and history was his history of Greek literature in one hundred and twenty books, classifying the Greek writers and naming them chronologically. These were the results of his long labors in the libraries. Among them was a book on the Museum and the schools connected with it, with records of illustrious educators and of the books they had written.

It is his poetry that has in the main survived, and yet as Ovid says--calling him Battiades, either from his father's name or from the illustrious founder of his native Cyrene--

"Battiades semper toto cantabitur orbe: Quamvis ingenio non valet, arte valet."

(Even throughout all lands Battiades's name will be famous; Though not in genius supreme, yet by his art he excels.)

Quintilian, however, says he was the prince of Greek elegiac poets. Of his elegies we have a few fragments, and also the Latin translation by Catullus of the 'Lock of Berenice.' Berenice, the sister and wife of Ptolemy Euergetes, who succeeded his father Philadelphus in B.C. 245, had sacrificed some of her hair, laying it on the altar of a temple, from which it was subsequently stolen. In his poem, Callimachus as the court poet sang how the gods had taken the tresses and placed them among the stars. The delicate and humorous 'Rape of the Lock' of Alexander Pope is a rather remote repetition of the same fancy.

We have also from Callimachus's hand six hymns to the gods and many epigrams, the latter of which, as will be seen by the quotations given below, are models of their kind. His lyric hymns are, in reality, rather epics in little. They are full of recondite information, overloaded indeed with learning; elegant, nervous, and elaborate, rather than easy-flowing, simple, and warm, like a genuine product of the muse. Many of his epigrams grace the 'Greek Anthology.'

Among the best editions of Callimachus is that of Ernesti (1761). The extant poems and fragments have been in part translated by William Dodd (1755) and H. W. Tytler (1856). His scattered epigrams have incited many to attempt their perfect phrasing.

HYMN TO JUPITER

At Jove's high festival, what song of praise Shall we his suppliant adorers sing? To whom may we our pæans rather raise Than to himself, the great Eternal King, Who by his nod subdues each earth-born thing; Whose mighty laws the gods themselves obey? But whether Crete first saw the Father spring, Or on Lycæus's mount he burst on day, My soul is much in doubt, for both that praise essay.

Some say that thou, O Jove, first saw the morn On Cretan Ida's sacred mountain-side; Others that thou in Arcady wert born: Declare, Almighty Father--which have lied? Cretans were liars ever: in their pride Have they built up a sepulchre for thee; As if the King of Gods and men had died, And borne the lot of frail mortality. No! thou hast ever been, and art, and aye shalt be.

Thy mother bore thee on Arcadian ground, Old Goddess Rhea, on a mountain's height; With bristling bramble-thickets all around The hallowed spot was curiously dight; And now no creature under heaven's light, From lovely woman down to things that creep, In need of Ilithyia's holy rite, May dare approach that consecrated steep, Whose name of Rhea's birth-bed still Arcadians keep.

Fair was the promise of thy childhood's prime, Almighty Jove! and fairly wert thou reared: Swift was thy march to manhood: ere thy time Thy chin was covered by the manly beard; Though young in age, yet wert thou so revered For deeds of prowess prematurely done, That of thy peers or elders none appeared To claim his birthright;--heaven was all thine own, Nor dared fell Envy point her arrows at thy throne.

Poets of old do sometimes lack of truth; For Saturn's ancient kingdom, as they tell, Into three parts was split, as if forsooth There were a doubtful choice 'twixt Heaven and Hell To one not fairly mad;--we know right well That lots are cast for more equality; But these against proportion so rebel That naught can equal her discrepancy; If one must lie at all--a lie like truth for me!

No chance gave thee the sovranty of heaven; But to the deeds thy good right hand had done, And thine own strength and courage, was it given; These placed thee first, still keep thee on thy throne. Thou took'st the goodly eagle for thine own, Through whom to men thy wonders are declared; To me and mine propitious be they shown! Through thee by youth's best flower is heaven shared-- Seamen and warriors heed'st thou not, nor e'en the bard:

These be the lesser gods' divided care-- But kings, great Jove, are thine especial dow'r; They rule the land and sea; they guide the war-- What is too mighty for a monarch's pow'r? By Vulcan's aid the stalwart armorers show'r Their sturdy blows--warriors to Mars belong-- And gentle Dian ever loves to pour New blessings on her favored hunter throng-- While Phoebus aye directs the true-born poet's song.

But monarchs spring from Jove--nor is there aught So near approaching Jove's celestial height, As deeds by heav'n-elected monarchs wrought. Therefore, O Father, kings are thine of right, And thou hast set them on a noble height Above their subject cities; and thine eye Is ever on them, whether they delight To rule their people in iniquity, Or by sound government to raise their name on high.

Thou hast bestowed on all kings wealth and power, But not in equal measure--this we know, From knowledge of our own great Governor, Who stands supreme of kings on earth below. His morning thoughts his nights in actions show; His less achievements when designed are done While others squander years in counsels slow; Not rarely when the mighty seeds are sown, Are all their air-built hopes by thee, great Jove, o'erthrown.

All hail, Almighty Jove! who givest to men All good, and wardest off each evil thing. Oh, who can hymn thy praise? he hath not been, Nor shall he be, that poet who may sing In fitting strain thy praises--Father, King, All hail! thrice hail! we pray to thee, dispense Virtue and wealth to us, wealth varying-- For virtue's naught, mere virtue's no defense; Then send us virtue hand in hand with competence.

Translation of Fitzjames T. Price.

EPITAPH

His little son of twelve years old Philippus here has laid, Nicoteles, on whom so much his father's hopes were stayed

EPIGRAM

(Admired and Paraphrased by Horace)

The hunter in the mountains every roe And every hare pursues through frost and snow, Tracking their footsteps. But if some one say, "See, here's a beast struck down," he turns away. Such is _my_ love: I chase the flying game, And pass with coldness the self-offering dame.

EPITAPH ON HERACLEITUS

They told me, Heracleitus, they told me you were dead; They brought me bitter news to hear, and bitter tears I shed. I wept, as I remembered how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; For Death he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

Translation of William Johnson.

EPITAPH

Would that swift ships had never been; for so We ne'er had wept for Sopolis: but he Dead on the waves now drifts; whilst we must go Past a void tomb, a mere name's mockery.

Translation of J. A. Symonds.

THE MISANTHROPE

Say, honest Timon, now escaped from light, Which do you most abhor, or that or night? "Man, I most hate the gloomy shades below, And that because in them are more of you."

EPITAPH UPON HIMSELF

Callimachus takes up this part of earth, A man much famed for poesy and mirth.

Translation of William Dodd.

EPITAPH UPON CLEOMBROTUS

Loud cried Cleombrotus, "Farewell, O Sun!" Ere, leaping from a wall, he joined the dead. No act death-meriting had th' Ambraciote done, But Plato's volume on the soul had read.

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY

(1831-1884)

No one ever attained greater fame with few, slight, and unserious books than this English author. His name rests upon four volumes only:--'Verses and Translations' (1862); 'Translations into English and Latin' (1866); 'Theocritus Translated into English Verse' (1869); and 'Fly-Leaves' (1872). 'Fly-Leaves' holds a unique place in English literature. It is made up chiefly of parodies, which combine the mocking spirit with clever imitations of the style and affectations of familiar poets. They are witty; they are humorous; they are good-natured; and they are artistic and extraordinarily clever. His satirical banter shown in these verses--most of which are real poems as well as parodies--has been classed as "refined common-sense," and "the exuberant playfulness of a powerful mind and tender and manly nature." It contains also independent literary skits and _comiques_ which are quite equal in merit to the parodies.

Calverley was born at Martley, Worcestershire, December 22d, 1831, the son of the Rev. Henry Blayds, a descendant of an old Yorkshire family named Calverley. In 1852 Mr. Blayds resumed the name of Calverley, which had been dropped at the beginning of the century. Calverley was more famous at Harrow for his marvelous jumping and other athletic feats than for his studies, but even at this period he showed great talent for translating from the classics, and astonished every one by his gifts of memory. A few Latin verses won for him the Balliol scholarship in 1850, and in the next year he received at Oxford the Chancellor's prize for a Latin poem.

In 1852 he went to Cambridge, and shortly after won the Craven scholarship, as well as numerous medals and prizes for his attainments in Greek and Latin. This was the more remarkable inasmuch as he was extremely indolent and very fond of society, preferring to entertain his friends by his witty songs, his charming voice, his clever caricatures--for he had talent with his pencil--and his brilliant conversation, rather than to apply himself to routine work. His comrades used to lock him into a room to make him work, and even then he would outwit them by dashing off a witty parody or a bit of impromptu verse. Among his literary _jeux d'esprit_ was an examination paper on 'Pickwick,' prepared as a Christmas joke in exact imitation of a genuine "exam." The prizes, two first editions of Pickwick, were won by W. W. Skeat, now famous as a philologist, and Walter Besant, known to the public as a novelist.

Calverley remained in Cambridge as tutor and lecturer, and was presently called to the bar. It seemed the irony of fate that the famous athlete should receive an injury while skating which compelled him to abandon his profession, and for seventeen years practically abandon work. He died at Folkestone, on February 17th, 1884.

That he was adored by his friends, and possessed unusual qualities of character as well as mind, may be seen in the memoir published by Walter T. Sendall with the 'Literary Remains' (1885). Apart from his wit, Calverley has a distinct claim to remembrance on account of his remarkable scholarship. His translations from Greek and Latin have won the enthusiastic admiration of specialists and students of the classics. Dr. Gunson, tutor of his college, an accomplished Latinist, declared that he thought Calverley's Horatian verse better than Horace's, being equally poetical, and more distinguished in style. These works not only attest his mastery of ancient languages, but also his acquaintance with the beauty and capacity of English verse, into which he has put a grace of his own. His numerous renderings of Latin into English and English into Latin show his ease and dexterity of both thought and touch, and his translation of Theocritus is considered by authorities to be a masterpiece of literary workmanship.

FROM 'AN EXAMINATION PAPER'

'The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club'

From James Payn's 'Some Literary Recollections' and 'Temple Bar,' 1887

1. Mention any occasion on which it is specified that the Fat Boy was _not_ asleep; and that (1) Mr. Pickwick and (2) Mr. Weller, senr., ran. Deduce from expressions used on one occasion Mr. Pickwick's maximum of speed.

3. Who were Mr. Staple, Goodwin, Mr. Brooks, Villam, Mrs. Bunkin, "old Nobs," "cast-iron head," young Bantam?

4. What operation was performed on Tom Smart's chair? Who little thinks that in which pocket, of what garment, in where, he has left what, entreating him to return to whom, with how many what, and all how big?

6. "Mr. Weller's knowledge of London was extensive and peculiar." Illustrate this by a reference to facts.

8. Give in full Samuel Weller's first compliment to Mary, and his father's critique upon the same young lady. What church was on the valentine that first attracted Mr. Samuel's eye in the shop?

9. Describe the common Profeel-machine.

10. State the component parts of dog's-nose; and simplify the expression "taking a grinder."

11. On finding his principal in the Pound, Mr. Weller and the town-beadle varied directly. Show that the latter was ultimately eliminated, and state the number of rounds in the square which is not described.

12. "Anythink for air and exercise, as the werry old donkey observed ven they voke him up from his death-bed to carry ten gen'lmen to Greenwich in a tax-cart!" Illustrate this by stating any remark recorded in the 'Pickwick Papers' to have been made by a (previously) dumb animal, with the circumstances under which he made it.

18. How did the old lady make a memorandum, and of what, at whist? Show that there were at least three times as many fiddles as harps in Muggleton at the time of the ball at Manor Farm.

20. Write down the chorus to each line of Mr. S. Weller's song, and a sketch of the mottled-faced man's excursus on it. Is there any ground for conjecturing that he (Sam) had more brothers than one?

21. How many lumps of sugar went into the Shepherd's liquor as a rule? and is any exception recorded?

23. "She's a-swelling wisibly." When did this same phenomenon occur again, and what fluid caused the pressure on the body in the latter case?

24. How did Mr. Weller, senr., define the Funds; and what view did he take of Reduced Consols? In what terms is his elastic force described when he assaulted Mr. Stiggins at the meeting? Write down the name of the meeting.

25. ~probatognômôn~: a good judge of cattle; hence, a good judge of character! Note on Æsch. Ag.--Illustrate the theory involved by a remark of the parent Weller.

28. Deduce from a remark of Mr. Weller, junr., the price per mile of cabs at the period.

29. What do you know of the hotel next the Ball at Rochester?

30. Who beside Mr. Pickwick is recorded to have worn gaiters?

BALLAD

Imitation of Jean Ingelow

The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees.

The piper he piped on the hill-top high, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) Till the cow said "I die," and the goose asked "Why?" And the dog said nothing, but searched for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) His last brew of ale was a trifle hard-- The connection of which with the plot one sees.

The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.

The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease.

The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And I've met with a ballad, I can't say where, Which wholly consisted of lines like these.

She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And spake not a word. While a lady speaks There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.

She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks; (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) She gave up mending her father's breeks, And let the cat roll on her best chemise.

She sat with her hands 'neath her burning cheeks, (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas.

Her sheep followed her, as their tails did them. (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) And this song is considered a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it's what you please.

LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION

Imitation of Jean Ingelow

In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter, (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean; Meaning, however, is no great matter) When woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;

Thro' God's own heather we wonned together, I and my Willie (O love my love): I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, And flitterbats wavered alow, above;

Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing, (Boats in that climate are so polite,) And sands were a ribbon of green endowing, And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!

Thro' the rare red heather we danced together, (O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers: I must mention again it was gorgeous weather, Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:--

By rises that flushed with their purple favors, Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen, We walked or waded, we two young shavers, Thanking our stars we were both so green.

We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, In fortunate parallels! Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:

Song-birds darted about, some inky As coal, some snowy, I ween, as curds; (Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky--) They reek of no eerie To-come, those birds!

But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes, Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem; They need no parasols, no goloshes; And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.

Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather) That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms; And snapt (it was perfectly charming weather)-- Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:

And Willie 'gan sing (O his notes were fluty; Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)-- Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty, Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry":

Bowers of flowers encountered showers In William's carol--(O love my Willie!) When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-morrow I quite forget what--say a daffodilly.

A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow," I think occurred next in his nimble strain; And clay that was "kneaden," of course in Eden,-- A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:

Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories, And all at least furlable things got "furled"; Not with any design to conceal their glories, But simply and solely to rhyme with "world."

* * * * *

Oh, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers, And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, Could be furled together, this genial weather, And carted or carried in wafts away, Nor ever again trotted out--ay me! How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be!

VISIONS

From 'Fly-Leaves'

"_She was a phantom_--" _etc._

In lone Glenartney's thickets lies couched the lordly stag, The dreaming terrier's tail forgets its customary wag; And plodding plowmen's weary steps insensibly grow quicker, As broadening casements light them on toward home, or home-brewed liquor.

It is--in brief--the evening: that pure and pleasant time, When stars break into splendor, and poets into rhyme; When in the glass of Memory the forms of loved ones shine-- And when, of course, Miss Goodchild is prominent in mine.

Miss Goodchild--Julia Goodchild!--how graciously you smiled Upon my childish passion once, yourself a fair-haired child: When I was (no doubt) profiting by Dr. Crabb's instruction, And sent those streaky lollipops home for your fairy suction.

"She wore" her natural "roses, the night when first we met,"-- Her golden hair was gleaming neath the coercive net: "Her brow was like the snawdrift," her step was like Queen Mab's, And gone was instantly the heart of every boy at Crabb's.

The parlor-boarder chasséed tow'rds her on graceful limb; The onyx decked his bosom--but her smiles were not for him: With _me_ she danced--till drowsily her eyes "began to blink," And _I_ brought raisin wine, and said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"