THEOCRITUS.

Pastoral poetry is supposed to have originated in Sicily, at one and the same time with comedy. At all events, it was perfected there. Comedy is understood to have been suggested by the licence with which it was the custom for peasants to rail at passengers, and at one another, during the jollity of the vintage; and pastoral poetry was at first nothing but the more rustical part of comedy. Its great master, Theocritus, arose during a period of refinement; and being a man of a universal genius, with a particular regard for the country, perfected this homelier kind of pastoral, and at the same time anticipated all the others. His single scenes are the germ of the pastoral drama. He is as clownish as Gay, as domestic as Allan Ramsay, as elegant as Virgil and Tasso, and (with the allowance for the difference between ancient and modern imagination) as poetical as Fletcher; and in passion he beats them all. In no other pastoral poetry is there anything to equal his Polyphemus.

The world has long been sensible of this superiority. But, in one respect, even the world has not yet done justice to Theocritus. The world, indeed, takes a long time, or must have a twofold blow given it as manifest and sustained as Shakspeare’s to entertain two ideas at once respecting anybody. It has been said of wit, that it indisposes people to admit a serious claim on the part of its possessor; and pastoral poetry subjects a man to the like injustice, by reason of its humble modes of life, and its gentle scenery. People suppose that he can handle nothing stronger than a crook. They should read Theocritus’s account of Hercules slaying the lion, or of the “stand-up fight,” the regular and tremendous “set-to,” between Pollux and Amycus. The best Moulsey-Hurst business was a feather to it. Theocritus was a son of Ætna—all peace and luxuriance in ordinary, all fire and wasting fury when he chose it. He was a genius equally potent and universal; and it is a thousand pities that unknown circumstances in his life hindered him from completing the gigantic fragments, which seem to have been portions of some intended great work on the deeds of Hercules, perhaps on the Argonautic Expedition. He has given us Hercules and the Serpents, Hercules and Hylas, Hercules and the Lion, and the pugilistical contest of the demigod’s kinsman with a barbarian; and the epithalamium of their relation Helen may have been designed as a portion of the same multifarious poem—an anticipation of the romance of modern times, and of the glory of Ariosto. What a loss![2]In the poem on the Prize-fight (for such is really the subject, the prize being the vanquished man), Pollux, the demigod, one of the sons of Leda by Jupiter, goes to shore from the ship Argo, with his brother Castor, to get some water. They arrive at a beautiful fountain in a wood, by the side of which is sitting a huge overbearing-looking fellow (???? ?p???p???, man presuming on his strength), who returns their salutation with insolence. The following, without any great violence to the letter of the ancient dialogue, may be taken as a sample of its spirit. The ruffian is addressed by Pollux:—

With these words, Amycus (for it was he—a son of Neptune—and the greatest pugilist but one, then known in the world) blew a blast on a shell, and a multitude of long-haired Bebrycians (his countrymen) came pouring in about the plane-tree, under which he had been sitting. Castor went and called his brother shipmates out of the Argo, and the combatants, putting on their gauntlets, faced one another, and set to.

ROUND THE FIRST.

The contest began by trying to see which of the two should get the sun in his rear. Pollux obtained this advantage over the big man by dint of his wit (for though a demigod himself, he was less in bulk). The giant, finding the sun full on his face, pushed forward in a rage; and striking out further than he intended, laid himself open to a blow on the chin. This enraged him the more; and pushing still forward, he hung in a manner over his enemy, thinking with his huge body to bear him down. His people encouraged the project with a great shout; and the Argonauts, not to be behindhand, gave their champion another; for, in truth, they were not without apprehensions as to the result, seeing how enormous the body was. But the son of Jove slipped hither and thither, lacerating him all the while with double quick blows, and thus repulsing the endeavour. Amycus was compelled fairly to hold himself up as well as he could, for he was drunk with blows, and so he stood, vomiting blood. The noise of voices arose on all sides from the spectators, for his face was a mass of ulcers; and it was so swollen that you could hardly see his eyes. The son of Jove kept him still in a state of confusion, forcing him to waste his strength and spirits by striking out hither and thither to no purpose. At last, on seeing him about to lose his senses, he planted a final blow on the top of his nose, betwixt the eyebrows, and the giant fell at his length on the grass, with his face upwards.

ROUND THE SECOND.

Amycus rose on recovering his senses, and the fight was renewed with double fury. The dull-witted giant thought to knock the life out of his antagonist speedily, by striking heavily at his chest; but, by this proceeding, he again laid his face open, and the invincible Pollux disfigured and made it a heap of filth with unseemly blows. The flesh, which had before been so puffed up, now seemed to subside and melt away; the whole huge creature seemed to become little, while the less one assumed a greater aspect, and looked fresher for his toil.

“Say, Muse, for thou knowest,” how it was that the son of Jove finally overcame “the gluttonous”[3] giant.

“Thinking to do something great, the big Bebrycian,” leaning out of the right line, caught in his left hand the left hand of his adversary, and bringing forth from his side his own huge right one, aimed a blow, which, had it struck where it intended, would have done mischief; but the son of Jove stooped from under it, and emerging, gave his enemy such a blow on the left temple as made it spout with blood. He assisted the blow, directly, with another on the mouth, given by the hand which the giant had let drop; and crashing his teeth with the weight of it, followed it with a general clatter on the face, which mashed it a second time, and rendered resistance hopeless. Heavily fell Amycus to the ground, having no more heart, and raising his hands as he fell, in sign of throwing up the contest.

It appears to us, reader, and we think it will appear to thee, that even this prosification of a fine bit of poetry will afford no disgraceful evidence of the strength and muscle of the gentle shepherd Theocritus. The manner of the concluding passage is quite in the taste of the chivalrous poets of Italy; and forces us to repeat our regret, that the Sicilian left no larger work, to be put at the head of their romances. The Odyssey, indeed, is their leader in some respects; but to the grandeur, the wild fictions, and the domestic tenderness of the Odyssey, Theocritus would have added the gaiety and good-natured satire of Pulci and Ariosto.

Here follows a specimen (such as it is, and as far as we can pretend to represent the original) of the comic and domestic painting of Theocritus. It is a poem on the Rites of Adonis; or rather, on a couple of gossips, making holiday to enjoy the festival that formed a part of the rites. Adonis, the favourite of Venus, slain by the boar, and permitted by Jupiter to return to life every half-year and enjoy her company, was annually commemorated by the heathen world for the space of two days, the first of which was passed in mourning for his death, and the second, in feasting and merriment for his coming to life. Arsinoe, the consort of the poet’s patron, Ptolemy Philadelphus, celebrated these rites in the Egyptian capital, Alexandria; and Theocritus, in order to praise his royal friends, and at the same time give a picture of his countrywomen, introduces two women who were born in Syracuse and settled in Alexandria, making holiday on the occasion, and going to see the show. The show was that of the second day, and principally consisted of an image of Adonis laid in a bower of leaves and tapestry, and served with all the luxuries of the season, particularly flowers in pots. He was attended by flying Cupids, and eulogized by singers in hymns, much in the manner of saints and angels in a modern Catholic festival; and on the following morning, the image, with its flowers, was taken in procession to the sea-side, and committed to the waters on its way to the other world. The whole proceeding is intimated in the poem, by means of verses put into the mouth of the public singer, the Grisi or Malibran of the day; but the chief portion of it is assigned to the humours of the two gossips, who are precisely such as would be drawn at this moment on a similar occasion in any crowded city. This truth to nature, which is the constant charm of Theocritus (making it, as he does, artistical also with wit and poetry), the reader will recognise at once in the talk about the husband, the endeavours to mystify the little boy, the chatter and bustle in the crowd, and the gaping expressions of delight and amazement at the spectacle. The opening of the poem lets us into a household scene, described with all the nicety and archness of Chaucer.

THE SYRACUSAN GOSSIPS;

OR, THE FEAST OF ADONIS.

Gorgo and Praxinoe, The Gossips.
Eunoe, servant of Praxinoe.
Phrygia, her housemaid.
Little Boy, her Son.
Old Woman.
Two Men.
Scene—Alexandria in Egypt.
Gorgo. (at her friend’s door.) Praxinoe within?
Eunoe.Why, Gorgo, dear,
How late you are! Yes, she’s within.
Prax. (appearing.)What, no!
And so you’re come at last! A seat here, Eunoe;
And set a cushion.
Eunoe.There is one.
Prax.Sit down.
Gorgo. Oh, what a thing’s a spirit! Do you know,
I’ve scarcely got alive to you, Praxinoe?
There’s such a crowd—such heaps of carriages,
And horses, and fine soldiers, all full dress’d;
And then you live such an immense way off!
Prax. Why, ’twas his shabby doing. He would take
This hole that he calls house, at the world’s end.
’Twas all to spite me, and to part us two.
Gorgo. (speaking lower.) Don’t talk so of your husband, there’s a dear,
Before the little one. See how he looks at you.
Prax. (to the little boy.) There, don’t look grave, child; cheer up, Zopy, sweet;
It isn’t your papa we’re talking of.
Gorgo. (aside.) He thinks it is, though.
Prax.Oh no—nice papa!
(To Gorgo.) Well, this strange body once (let us say once,
And then he won’t know who we’re telling of),
Going to buy some washes and saltpetre,
Comes bringing salt! the great big simpleton!
Gorgo. And there’s my precious ninny, Dioclede:
He gave for five old ragged fleeces, yesterday,
Ten drachmas!—for mere dirt! trash upon trash!
But come; put on your things; button away,
Or we shall miss the show. It’s the king’s own;
And I am told the queen has made of it
A wonderful fine thing.
Prax.Ay, luck has luck.
Well, tell us all about it; for we hear
Nothing in this vile place.
Gorgo.We haven’t time.
Workers can’t throw away their holidays.
Prax. Some water, Eunoe; and then, my fine one,
To take your rest again. Puss loves good lying.
Come; move, girl, move; some water—water first.
Look how she brings it! Now, then;—hold, hold, careless;
Not quite so fast; you’re wetting all my gown.
There; that’ll do. Now, please the gods, I’m washed.
The key of the great chest—where’s that? Go fetch it.
[Exit Eunoe.
Gorgo. Praxinoe, that gown with the full skirts
Becomes you mightily. What did it cost you?
Prax. Oh, don’t remind me of it. More than one
Or two good minas, besides time and trouble.
Gorgo. All which you had forgotten.
Prax.Ah, ha! True;
That’s good. You’re quite right.
Re-enter Eunoe.
Come; my cloak, my cloak;
And parasol. There—help it on now, properly.
(To the little boy.) Child, child, you cannot go. The horse will bite it;
The Horrid Woman’s coming. Well, well, simpleton,
Cry, if you will; but you must not get lamed.
Come, Gorgo.—Phrygia, take the child, and play with him;
And call the dog indoors, and lock the gate.[They go out.
Powers, what a crowd! how shall we get along?
Why, they’re like ants! countless! innumerable!
Well, Ptolemy, you’ve done fine things, that’s certain,
Since the gods took your father. No one now-a-days
Does harm to trav’llers as they used to do,
After the Egyptian fashion, lying in wait,—
Masters of nothing but detestable tricks;
And all alike,—a set of cheats and brawlers.
Gorgo, sweet friend, what will become of us?
Here are the king’s horse-guards! Pray, my good man,
Don’t tread upon us so. See the bay horse!
Look how it rears! It’s like a great mad dog.
How you stand, Eunoe! It will throw him certainly!
How lucky that I left the child at home!
Gorgo. Courage, Praxinoe; they have pass’d us now;
They’ve gone into the court-yard.
Prax.Good! I breathe again.
I never could abide in all my life
A horse and a cold snake.
Gorgo (addressing an old woman). From court, mother?
Old Woman. Yes, child.
Gorgo.Pray, is it easy to get in?
Old Woman. The Greeks got into Troy. Everything’s done
By trying.[Exit Old Woman.
Gorgo. Bless us! How she bustles off!
Why, the old woman’s quite oracular.
But women must know everything; ev’n what Juno
Wore on her wedding-day. See now, Praxinoe,
How the gate’s crowded.
Prax.Frightfully indeed.
Give me your hand, dear Gorgo; and do you
Hold fast of Eutychis’s, Eunoe.
Don’t let her go; don’t stir an inch; and so
We’ll all squeeze in together. Stick close now.
Oh me! oh me! my veil’s torn right in two!
Do take care, my good man, and mind my cloak.
Man. ’Twas not my fault; but I’ll take care.
Prax.What heaps!
They drive like pigs!
Man.Courage, old girl! all’s safe.
Prax. Blessings upon you, sir, now and for ever,
For taking care of us—A good, kind soul.
How Eunoe squeezes us! Do, child, make way
For your own self. There; now, we’ve all got in,
As the man said, when he was put in prison.
Gorgo. Praxinoe, do look there! What lovely tapestry!
How fine and showy! One would think the gods did it.
Prax. Holy Minerva! how those artists work!
How they do paint their pictures to the life!
The figures stand so like, and move so like!
They’re quite alive, not work’d. Well, certainly,
Man’s a wise creature. See now—only look—
See—lying on the silver couch, all budding,
With the young down about his face! Adonis!
Charming Adonis—charming ev’n in Acheron!
Second Man. Do hold your tongues there; chatter, chatter, chatter.
The turtles stun one with their yawning gabble.
Gorgo. Hey-day! Whence comes the man? What is’t to you,
If we do chatter? Speak where you’ve a right.
You’re not the master here. And as for that,
Our people are from Corinth, like Bellerophon.
Our tongue’s Peloponnesiac; and we hope
It’s lawful for the Dorians to speak Doric!
Prax. We’ve but one master, by the Honey-sweet![4]
And don’t fear you, nor all your empty blows.
Gorgo. Hush, hush, Praxinoe!—there’s the Grecian girl,
A most amazing creature, going to sing
About Adonis; she that sings so well
The song of Sperchis: she’ll sing something fine,
I warrant.—See how sweetly she prepares!
THE SONG.
O Lady, who dost take delight
In Golgos and the Erycian height,
And in the Idalian dell,
Venus, ever amiable;
Lo, the long-expected Hours,
Slowest of the blessed powers,
Yet who bring us something ever,
Ceasing their soft dancing never,
Bring thee back thy beauteous one
From perennial Acheron.
Thou, they say, from earth hast given
Berenice place in heaven,
Dropping to her woman’s heart
Ambrosia; and for this kind part,
Berenice’s daughter—she
That’s Helen-like—Arsinoe,
O thou many-named and shrin’d,
Is to thy Adonis kind.
He has all the fruits that now
Hang upon the timely bough:
He has green young garden-plots,
Basketed in silver pots;
Syrian scents in alabaster,
And whate’er a curious taster
Could desire, that women make
With oil or honey, of meal cake;
And all shapes of beast or bird,
In the woods by huntsman stirr’d;
And a bower to shade his state
Heap’d with dill, an amber weight;
And about him Cupids flying,
Like young nightingales, that—trying
Their new wings—go half afraid,
Here and there, within the shade.
See the gold! The ebony see!
And the eagles in ivory,
Bearing the young Trojan up
To be filler of Jove’s cup;
And the tapestry’s purple heap,
Softer than the feel of sleep;
Artists, contradict who can,
Samian or Milesian.
But another couch there is
For Adonis, close to his;
Venus has it, and with joy
Clasps again her blooming boy
With a kiss that feels no fret,
For his lips are downy yet.
Happy with her love be she;
But to-morrow morn will we,
With our locks and garments flowing
And our bosoms gently showing,
Come and take him, in a throng,
To the sea-shore, with this song:—
Go, belov’d Adonis, go
Year by year thus to and fro;
Only privileged demigod;
There was no such open road
For Atrides; nor the great
Ajax, chief infuriate;
Nor for Hector, noblest once
Of his mother’s twenty sons;
Nor Patroclus, nor the boy
That returned from taken Troy;
Nor those older buried bones,
Lapiths and Deucalions;
Nor Pelopians, and their boldest;
Nor Pelasgians, Greece’s oldest.
Bless us then, Adonis dear,
And bring us joy another year;
Dearly hast thou come again,
And dearly shalt be welcomed then.
Gorgo. Well; if that’s not a clever creature, trust me!
Lord! what a quantity of things she knows!
And what a charming voice!—’Tis time to go, though,
For there’s my husband hasn’t had his dinner,
And you’d best come across him when he wants it!
Good-by, Adonis, darling. Come again.