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which will not take the trouble to prevent your seeing that it is laughing in
your face。
Berenice the queen； on Ptolemy's departure to the wars； vows her
beautiful tresses to her favourite goddess； as the price of her husband's
safe return； and duly pays her vow。 The hair is hung up in the temple：
in a day or two after it has vanished。 Dire is the wrath of Ptolemy； the
consternation of the priests； the scandal to religion； when Conon； the
court…astronomer； luckily searching the heavens； finds the missing tresses
in an utterly unexpected placeas a new constellation of stars； which to
this day bears the title of Coma Berenices。 It is so convenient to believe
the fact； that everybody believes it accordingly； and Callimachus writes an
elegy thereon； in which the constellified； or indeed deified tresses； address
in most melodious and highly…finished Greek； bedizened with concetto on
concetto； that fair and sacred head whereon they grew； to be shorn from
which is so dire a sorrow； that apotheosis itself can hardly reconcile them
to the parting。
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Worthy； was not all this； of the descendants of the men who fought at
Marathon and Thermopylae？ The old Greek civilisation was rotting
swiftly down； while a fire of God was preparing； slowly and dimly； in that
unnoticed Italian town of Rome； which was destined to burn up that dead
world； and all its works。
Callimachus's hymns； those may read who list。 They are highly
finished enough； the work of a man who knew thoroughly what sort of
article he intended to make； and what were the most approved methods of
making it。 Curious and cumbrous mythological lore comes out in every
other line。 The smartness； the fine epithets； the recondite conceits； the bits
of effect； are beyond all praise； but as for one spark of life； of poetry； of
real belief； you will find none； not even in that famous Lavacrum Palladis
which Angelo Poliziano thought worth translating into Latin elegiacs；
about the same time that the learned Florentine； Antonio Maria Salviano；
found Berenice's Hair worthy to be paraphrased back from Catullus' Latin
into Greek； to give the world some faint notion of the inestimable and
incomparable original。 They must have had much time on their hands。
But at the Revival of Letters； as was to be expected； all works of the
ancients； good and bad； were devoured alike with youthful eagerness by
the Medicis and the Popes； and it was not； we shall see； for more than one
century after； that men's taste got sufficiently matured to distinguish
between Callimachus and the Homeric hymns； or between Plato and
Proclus。 Yet Callimachus and his fellows had an effect on the world。
His writings； as well as those of Philetas； were the model on which Ovid；
Propertius； Tibullus； formed themselves。
And so I leave him； with two hints。 If any one wishes to see the
justice of my censure； let him read one of the Alexandrian hymns； and
immediately after it； one of those glorious old Homeric hymns to the very
same deities； let him contrast the insincere and fulsome idolatry of
Callimachus with the reverent； simple and manful anthropomorphism of
the Homeristand let him form his own judgment。
The other hint is this。 If Callimachus； the founder of Alexandrian
literature； be such as he is； what are his pupils likely to become； at least
without some infusion of healthier blood； such as in the case of his Roman
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imitators produced a new and not altogether ignoble school？
Of Lycophron； the fellow…grammarian and poet of Callimachus； we
have nothing left but the Cassandra； a long iambic poem； stuffed with
traditionary learning； and so obscure； that it obtained for him the surname
of ＇Greek text： skoteinos＇ the dark one。 I have tried in vain to read it：
you； if you will； may do the same。
Philetas； the remaining member of the Alexandrian Triad； seems to
have been a more simple； genial； and graceful spirit than the other two； to
whom he was accordingly esteemed inferior。 Only a few fragments are
left； but he was not altogether without his influence； for he was； as I have
just said； one of the models on which Propertius and Ovid formed
themselves； and some； indeed； call him the Father of the Latin elegy； with
its terseness； grace； and clear epigrammatic form of thought； and； therefore；
in a great degree； of our modern eighteenth century poets； not a useless
excellence； seeing that it is； on the whole； good for him who writes to see
clearly what he wants to say； and to be able to make his readers see it
clearly also。 And yet one natural strain is heard amid all this artificial
jinglethat of Theocritus。 It is not altogether Alexandrian。 Its sweetest
notes were learnt amid the chestnut groves and orchards； the volcanic
glens and sunny pastures of Sicily； but the intercourse； between the courts
of Hiero and the Ptolemies seems to have been continual。 Poets and
philosophers moved freely from one to the other； and found a like
atmosphere in both； and in one of Theocritus' idyls； two Sicilian
gentlemen； crossed in love； agree to sail for Alexandria； and volunteer into
the army of the great and good king Ptolemy； of whom a sketch is given
worth reading； as a man noble； generous； and stately； 〃knowing well who
loves him； and still better who loves him not。〃 He has another encomium
on Ptolemy； more laboured； though not less interesting： but the real
value of Theocritus lies in his power of landscape…painting。
One can well conceive the delight which his idyls must have given to
those dusty Alexandrians； pent up forever between sea and sand…hills；
drinking the tank…water； and never hearing the sound of a running stream
whirling； too； forever； in all the bustle and intrigue of a great commercial
and literary city。 Refreshing indeed it must have been to them to hear of
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those simple joys and simple sorrows of the Sicilian shepherd； in a land
where toil was but exercise； and mere existence was enjoyment。 To them；
and to us also。 I believe Theocritus is one of the poets who will never die。
He sees men and things； in his own light way； truly； and he describes them
simply； honestly； with little careless touches of pathos and humour； while
he floods his whole scene with that gorgeous Sicilian air； like one of
Titian's pictures； with still sunshine； whispering pines； the lizard sleeping
on the wall； and the sunburnt cicala shrieking on the spray； the pears and
apples dropping from the orchard bough； the goats clambering from crag
to crag after the cistus and the thyme； the brown youths and wanton lasses
singing under the dark chestnut boughs； or by the leafy arch of some
Grot nymph…haunted； Garlanded over with vine； and acanthus； and
clambering roses； Cool in the fierce still noon； where the streams glance
clear in the moss…beds；
and here and there； beyond the braes and meads； blue glimpses of the
far…off summer sea； and all this told in a language and a metre which
shapes itself almost unconsciously； wave after wave； into the most
luscious song。 Doubt not that many a soul then； was the simpler； and
purer； and better； for reading the sweet singer of Syracuse。 He has his
immoralities； but they are the immoralities of his age： his naturalness；
his sunny calm and cheerfulness； are all his own。
And now； to leave the poets； and speak of those grammarians to whose
corrections we owe； I suppose； the texts of the Greek poets as they now
stand。 They seem to have