Part 25

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

If the view suggested is correct our authorities with their preconceived ideas _presume to correct Theocritus and Sappho_! They not only give a wrong view of the Charites, but also hide the coarseness of the compliment paid by Theocritus to his lady friend—in each case _distorting the truth_.

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

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

* * * * *

Ah! the weariness and weight of tears, The crying out to God, the wish for slumber, They lay so deep, so deep! God heard them all; He set them unto music of his own.

R. BUCHANAN, 1866 (_Bexhill_).

Buchanan is speaking of the sad lives in the poor quarters of London.

* * * * *

Cold as a mountain in its star-pitched tent Stood high Philosophy, less friend than foe: Whom self-caged Passion, from its prison-bars, Is always watching with a wondering hate. Not till the fire is dying in the grate Look we for any kinship with the stars.

G. MEREDITH (_Modern Love IV._)

A fine expression of a familiar fact. Under the influence of love, anger, or other strong passion, a man becomes an unreasoning animal, and actually _hates_ to be told the truth. Wild passion glares through the bars of its self-constituted cage at philosophy standing calm, lofty, and serene. Only “when the fire is dying in the grate” do we again become akin to cold, dispassionate, star-like Philosophy.

* * * * *

The triumph of machinery is when man wonders at his own works; thus, says Derwent Coleridge, all science begins in wonder and ends in wonder, but the first is the wonder of ignorance, the last that of adoration.

CAROLINE FOX’S JOURNALS.

Evidently a comment on S. T. Coleridge’s Aphorism IV. on “Spiritual Religion” (_Aids to Reflection_).

* * * * *

No one of himself can rise out of the depths, but must clasp some outstretched hand.

SENECA (? 3 B.C.-65 A.D.) (_Epistle 52_).

* * * * *

THE RIME OF REDEMPTION

The ways are white in the moon’s light, Under the leafless trees: Strange shadows go across the snow Before the tossing breeze.

The burg stands grim upon the rim Of the low wooded hill: Sir Loibich sits beside the hearth, Fill’d with a thought of ill.

The knight sits bent with eyes intent Upon the dying fire; Sad dreams and strange in sooth do range Before the troubled sire.

He sees the maid the past years laid Upon his breast to sleep, Long dead in sin, laid low within The grave unblest and deep.

He hears her wail, with lips that fail, To him to save her soul: He sees her laid, unhouselèd,[40] Under the crossless knoll.

“Ah! would, dear Christ, my tears sufficed To ransom her!” he cries: “Sweet Heaven, to win her back from sin, I would renounce the skies.

“Could I but bring her suffering To pardon and to peace, I for my own sin would atone, Where never pain doth cease!

“I for my part would gnaw my heart, Chain’d in the flames of hell; I would abide, unterrified, More than a man shall tell.”

The moon is pale, the night winds wail, Weird whispers fill the night: “Dear heart, what word was that I heard Ring out in the moonlight?”

’Twas but the blast that hurried past, Shrieking among the pines: The souls that wail upon the gale, When the dim starlight shines.

Great God! the name! once more it came Ringing across the dark! “Loibich!” it cried. The night is wide, The dim pines stand and hark.

“Loibich! Loibich! my soul is sick With hungering for thee! The night fades fast, the hours fly past; Stay not, come forth to me!”

The cloudwrack grey did break away, Out shone the ghostly moon; Down slid the haze from off the ways Before her silver shoon.

Pale silver-ray’d, out shone the glade, Before the castle wall, And on the lea the knight could see A maid both fair and tall.

Gold was her hair, her face was fair, As fair as fair can be; But through the night the blue corpse-light About her could he see.

She raised her face towards the place Where Loibich stood adread; There was a sheen in her two een, As one that long is dead.

She look’d at him in the light dim, And beckon’d with her hand: “Dear Knight,” she said, “thy prayer hath sped Unto the heavenly land.

“Come forth with me: the night is free For us to work the thing That is to do, before we two Shall hear the dawn-bird sing.

“Saddle thy steed, Sir Knight, with speed, Thy faithfullest,” quoth she, “For many a tide we twain must ride Before the end shall be.”

The steed is girt, black Dagobert, Swift-footed as the wind; The knight leapt up upon his croup, The maid sprang up behind.

The wind screams past; they ride so fast,— Like troops of souls in pain The snowdrifts spin, but none may win To rest upon the twain.

So fast they ride, the blasts divide To let them hurry on; The wandering ghosts troop past in hosts Across the moonlight wan.

A singing light did cleave the night, High up a hill rode they; The veils of Heaven for them were riven, And all the skies pour’d day.

The golden gate did stand await, The golden town did lie Before their sight, the realms of light God builded in the sky.

The steed did wait before the gate, Sheer up the street looked they. They saw the bliss in Heaven that is, They saw the saints’ array.

They saw the hosts upon the coasts Of the clear crystal sea; They saw the blest, that in the rest Of Christ for ever be.

The choirs of God pulsed full and broad Upon the ravish’d twain; The angels’ feet upon the street Rang out like golden rain.

Then said the maid, “Be not afraid, God giveth heaven to thee; Light down and rest with Christ His blest, And think no more of me!”

Sir Loibich gazed, as one sore dazed, Awhile upon the place: Then, with a sigh, he turned his eye Upon the maiden’s face.

“By Christ His troth!” he swore an oath, “No heaven for me shall be, Unless God give that thou shalt live In heaven for aye with me.”

“Ah, curst am I!” the maid did cry; “My place thou knowest well; I must begone before the dawn, To harbour me in hell.”

“By Christ His rest!” he beat his breast, “Then be it even so; With thee in hell I choose to dwell And share with thee thy woe!

“Thy sin was mine,—By Christ His wine, Mine too shall be thy doom; What part have I within the sky, And thou in Hell’s red gloom?”

The vision broke, as thus he spoke, The city waned away: O’er hill and brake, o’er wood and lake Once more the darkness lay.

O’er hill and plain they ride again, Under the night’s black spell, Until there rise against the skies The lurid lights of hell.

The dreadful cries they rend the skies, The plain is ceil’d with fire: The flames burst out, around, about, The heats of hell draw nigher.

Unfear’d they ride; against the side Of the red flameful sky Grim forms are thrown, strange shapes upgrown From out Hell’s treasury.

Fast rode the twain across the plain, With hearts all undismay’d, Until they came where all a-flame Hell’s gates were open laid.

The awful stead gaped wide and red, To gulph them in its womb: There could they see the fiery sea And all the souls in doom.

There came a breath, like living death, Out of the gated way: It scorched his face with its embrace, It turn’d his hair to grey.

Then said the maid, “Art not dismay’d? Here is our course fulfill’d: Wilt thou not turn, nor rest to burn With me, as God hath will’d?”

“By Christ His troth!” he swore an oath, “Thy doom with thee dree I! Here will we dwell, hand-link’d in hell, Unseverèd for aye!”

He spurr’d his steed; the gates of dread Gaped open for his course; Sudden outrang a trumpet’s clang, And backwards fell the horse.

The ghostly maid did wane and fade, The lights of hell did flee; Alone in night the mazèd wight Stood on the frozen lea.

Out shone the moon; the mists were blown Away before his sight And through the dark he saw a spark, A welcoming of light.

Thither he fared, with falchion bared, Toward the friendly shine; Eftsoon he came to where a flame Did burn within a shrine.

Down on his knee low louted he Before the cross of wood, And for her spright he saw that night Long pray’d he to the Rood.[41]

And as he pray’d, with heart down-weigh’d, A wondrous thing befell: He saw a light, and through the night There rang a silver bell.

The earth-mists drew from off his view, He saw God’s golden town; He saw the street, he saw the seat From whence God looketh down.

He saw the gate transfigurate,— He saw the street of pearl, And in the throng, the saints among, He saw a gold-hair’d girl.

He saw a girl as white as pearl, With hair as red as gold: He saw her stand among the band Of angels manifold.

He heard her smite the harp’s delight, Singing most joyfully, And knew his love prevail’d above Judgment and destiny.

...

Gone is the night, the morn breaks white Across the eastward hill; The knightly sire by the dead fire Sits in the dawning chill.

By the hearth white, there sits the knight, Dead as the sunken fire; But on his face is writ the grace Of his fulfill’d desire.

JOHN PAYNE (b. 1841).

This poem is cut down one-half and thereby loses much of its effect. Two adventures, in which the Knight refuses temptation and adheres to his oath, are entirely omitted.

* * * * *

Alas! they had been friends in youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain. They parted—ne’er to meet again! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining— They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs which had been reft asunder; A dreary sea now flows between, But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been.

S. T. COLERIDGE (_Christabel_).

* * * * *

Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night, And would have told him half his Troy was burnt.

SHAKESPEARE (_2 Henry IV._)

This and the next five quotations are word-pictures (see p. 85).

* * * * *

That strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.[42]

TENNYSON (_Tithonus_).

* * * * *

Cool was the woodside; cool as her white dairy Keeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school, Cricketing below, rush’d brown and red with sunshine; O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool! Spying from the farm, herself she fetched a pitcher Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak. Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe, Said, “I will kiss you:” she laughed and lean’d her cheek.

G. MEREDITH (_Love in the Valley_).

* * * * *

One there is, the loveliest of them all, Some sweet lass of the valley, looking out For gains, and who that sees her would not buy? Fruits of her father’s orchard are her wares, And with the ruddy produce she walks round Among the crowd, half pleased with, half ashamed Of her new office, blushing restlessly.

WORDSWORTH (_The Prelude, Bk. VIII._)

* * * * *

Out came the children running— All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

R. BROWNING (_The Pied Piper of Hamelin_).

* * * * *

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon: Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint.

KEATS (_The Eve of St. Agnes_).

The above are from a series of word-pictures (see pp. 86, 122).

* * * * *

If the collective energies of the universe are identified with Divine Will, and the system is thus animate with an eternal consciousness as its moulding life, the conception we frame of its history will conform itself to our experience of intellectual volition. It is in origination, in disposing of new conditions, in setting up order by differentiation, that the mind exercises its highest function. When the product has been obtained, and a definite method of procedure established, the strain upon us is relaxed, habit relieves the constant demand for creation, and at length the rules of a practised art almost execute themselves. As the intensely voluntary thus works itself off into the automatic, thought, liberated from this reclaimed and settled province breaks into new regions, and ascends to ever higher problems: its supreme life being beyond the conquered and legislated realm, while a lower consciousness, if any at all, suffices for the maintenance of its ordered mechanism. Yet all the while it is one and the same mind that, under different modes of activity, thinks the fresh thoughts and carries on the old usages. Does anything forbid us to conceive similarly of the cosmical development; that it started from the freedom of indefinite possibilities and the ubiquity of universal consciousness; that, as intellectual exclusions narrowed the field, and traced the definite lines of admitted movement, the tension of purpose, less needed on these, left them as the habits of the universe, and operated rather for higher and ever higher ends not yet provided for; that the more mechanical, therefore, a natural law may be, the further is it from its source; and that the inorganic and unconscious portion of the world, instead of being the potentiality of the organic and conscious, is rather its residual precipitate, formed as the Indwelling Mind of all concentrates an intenser aim on the upper margin of the ordered whole, and especially on the inner life of natures that can resemble him?

JAMES MARTINEAU (1805-1900) (_Modern Materialism_).