The Novel Two Thousand Years Ago

NOT quite two thousand, since we hardly care to take account of Xenophon’s graceful Sunday-school book, the Cyropœdia, nor of the Milesian fables, of which we know little except that they were not Sunday-school books. Plutarch tells us that an officer in the defeated army of Crassus had a valise stuffed with these same fables, which greatly shocked his Parthian conqueror, though even the grave biographer points out a certain inconsistency in the Parthian’s morals, in view of his own domestic arrangements.

Neither are we much concerned with the dreaming philosophy of Plato’s Atlantis, nor with the various travel stories that have come to us in fragments, nor with the Alexander legends which were so popular in the Middle Ages. The Satyricon of Petronius is more a series of sketches of manners than a unified work, and even Apuleius’s Metamorphoses, full of grace and full of spirit, is less a complete novel than a tissue of adventures after the fashion of Gil Blas.

There are, however, a half-dozen stories belonging to the later period of Greek literature which curiously anticipate certain types of modern fiction. It is characteristic of these books that everything about them is vague. We hardly know the authors’ names, nothing of their lives. We do not know the dates of composition, nor which were imitations and which originals. And the contents are vaguer still. Lovers from far countries range through the known world, joyously indifferent to history and chronology, intent on their own affairs and regardless of what takes place about them. They might have told us so much that we should like to know, and they do not. This is the complaint of the learned Professor Rohde, exhaled at German length in six hundred closely printed pages. Not to be compared with modern novels, he says, — no psychology, no picture of real life at all. And when I read Professor Meyer’s pronouncement, in the January Contemporary Review, that Die Wahlverwandschaften is the best of German romances, I am obliged to confess that, if that work and Wilhelm Meister are the highest types of fiction, Chloe and Chariclea may hide their heads at once.

But the Greek novels were not written for professors. They were read in their own day by those who read Scott and Dumas at present. And I greatly fear The Three Musketeers would suit Professors Rohde and Meyer no better than Clitophon and Leucippe. The Greek novels were written to amuse and to enchant, not to instruct. Curiously enough, I think we may infer almost certainly from their general character that they were written, as most novels are to-day, for women. And we must imagine to ourselves a Greek lady, with no church fairs and no woman’s club to occupy her time, throwing her whole soul into the strange adventures of Callirrhoe and longing unutterably for a husband as brave, as handsome, as devoted as the much-enduring Chsereas. Why should we quarrel with these stories for what they are not? Let us put ourselves in the place of their readers and inquire what those readers found in them.

And first, and everywhere, and always, there is love. Anatole France charmingly misquotes Greraio in The Taming of the Shrew as requiring of books only “qu’ils soient bien relies et qu’ils parlent d’amour.” The Greek romances may or may not be beautifully bound, but assuredly they speak of love and of nothing else. Psychologically, no; that is not their way. But love in its tenderness, its grace, its early and youthful pathos, they often depict with extraordinary charm. “ For never yet was anyone born loveless, or will be, while beauty is or eyes behold. But may the god spare me, even while I write of others’ woes,” says one author. Anthia and Abrocomas meet at last in the temple, after years of separation and torment and despair. “ They knew each other at once, such was the overwhelming longing of their souls. And they embraced each other again and again. And their knees sank under them, in a tide of passions hardly to be borne, joy, grief, fear, the remembrance of things past, the agony and doubt of things to come.”

What is distinctive in these stories, as in Greek literature generally, is the conception of love as a visitation and scourge of God, not as a weakness to be ashamed of, nor as a pretty sentiment to be nursed and cherished. Sainte-Beuve, in his essay on Theocritus, has admirably analyzed the difference between ancient and modern feeling in this matter. Love to the Greek poet was a malady, a fierce affliction; but the sense of its divine origin ennobled the physical torment and made the passion of Medea and Dido a strange blend of bodily and spiritual ecstasy.

It was just the lack of this essential mingling of soul and sense which Macaulay meant to indicate when he said that Southey’s heroines loved “either like seraphim or like cattle.” And the Greek attitude has never been better summed up than in Euripides’s line, —

Kν́пριѕ γὰρ ον́ ϕορητὸν ἤν пολλὴ ῥνη̑

so finely paraphrased uy Horace, —

In me tota ruit Venus;

and by Racine, —

C’est Vénus toute entière à sa proie attachée.

Phædra and Dido are doubtless a good way above the heroines of our Greek novels; but the point of view is the same.

Love comes like a thunderclap. The heart is free, and the god envelops it and blasts it all in a moment. As Juliet speaks ten words to Romeo and droops and withers, —

“ If he be marriéd,
My grave is like to be my wedding bed,” —

so Callirrhoe sees Chæreas on her way to the temple and is lost. “ The maiden fell at the feet of the goddess and kissed them and said, ‘Sweet lady, give me to my husband the man whom you have showed me now.’ ” And she went home and pined away and was not to be comforted, till they gave her Chæreas. Then “ like a lamp that has burned low, when you pour fresh oil on it, she glowed and gleamed again, in fresher, and brighter, and more perfect loveliness.”

As with love, so with the beauty that enkindles it. The heroines of modern novels are as beautiful as language can make them, undoubtedly. But here again, the Greek attitude is different. It is not a matter of hair and eyes and color. There is very little description in detail. It is the Greek feeling of something divine in beauty, an adoration of pure lines and graceful bearing as in themselves almost inseparable from grace and nobility of soul. The impression given is quite as much of a different sense in the beholder as of a satisfying perfection in the thing beheld.

Note also that the mere physical beauty of the hero counts almost equally with that of the heroine. “ When Abrocomas took his place among the young men, although the aspect of the maidens was very tempting, everyone forgot them in gazing at him, and the multitude, carried away by the sight of him, cried out, ‘ How fair is Abrocomas, fairer than ever mortal was before, and the very image of a glorious deity.’” Almost, not quite, so long as the writer is a man, even though a Greek. “ Then Chariclea, chaste and lovely, issued from the temple, and we realised at once that Theagenes was surpassed, but surpassed by only so much as it is natural for the beauty of woman to overshadow the beauty of man.”

Perhaps it is in regard to Callirrhoe, the heroine of Chariton, that this public and general adoration of beauty reaches its highest pitch. And if there is something fantastic about it, there is also something sincere and genuine, which testifies to a real basis of human experience. Callirrhoe is summoned to the court of the great king. As she approaches the capital, a rival beauty comes out to meet her, but is completely eclipsed. “ All the people strained not only their eyes, but their souls, one crowding before another, to get as near a view of her as possible. For the countenance and the glory of Callirrhoe possessed the eyes of all, as in the depth of night the sudden flashing of a splendid star. The barbarians, overcome, bowed down and worshiped her, and no one even seemed aware that her rival was present.” A more humorous phase of the same thing is the naïve remark of Callirrhoe herself, when starting on one of her numerous wanderings: “ I don’t care so much about the length of the journey, but I am afraid that somebody over there may find me lovely, too.”

If the heroes of these stories excel the modern article in physical beauty, it is by no means the same in other respects. Our friends, the German professors, are very indignant with the Greek hero for his selfishness and his pusillanimity. They forget that he was a Greek, not a German or an Englishman. The heroes of the Iliad fight like tigers, but they also run away and feel no shame for it. They brag and scold and jibe and weep and groan. So do Theagenes and Chæreas. The latter is advised to forego the sight of his love. “ He did not like it, though he did his best; and the tears ran down his cheeks.” Whenever this same gentleman meets trouble, he has immediate recourse to suicide, and has to be either cut down or pulled out by some accommodating friend, Hysmine is thrown overboard by pirates, and her lover stands by and sees it done. Clitophon loses Leucippe: “ Six months had now passed and the greater part of my grief had disappeared.” A little later he is caught by a rival and beaten: “ I was much puzzled, having no idea who the man was, nor why he was beating me; but I suspected something was wrong and therefore made no effort to resist, though of course I might have done so. When he was tired of beating and I of philosophizing, I got up and said, ‘Who are you anyhow? And what are you beating me for ? ’ ” Imagine a hero of Mr. Winston Churchill behaving after this fashion, or even a hero of Scott.

Yet the Greek heroes come out strong at times, with an inconsistency which, if unheroic, is not wholly unhuman. After all his weeping and mourning, Theagenes baits a bull single-handed and has a jollify impossible wrestling-bout with a “bony prizer,” whom Orlando would have hesitated to face. Chæreas, shaking off his suicidal melancholia, regains his bride by leading a rebel army, besieging cities, and smashing the navy of Persia. Above all, the most striking merit of these romantic lovers is their constancy, which a modern novelist would naturally assume, but would hardly portray in such vivid fashion. Every one of them sticks to his love, in spite of the most enticing and fascinating blandishments, and even of stripes and torture. This trait is easy to ridicule; but it is really most significant. In the first place, it confirms our suspicion that these stories were largely written for women. And even more than that, it seems oddly out of keeping with our usual ideas of pagan morality.

The heroines are worth constancy, however; and in making them distinctly superior to their lovers, the Greek novelists have Shakespeare, at any rate, if not human nature, on their side. Chariclea, Anthia, and Callirrhoe are far more than beautiful, they are truly charming: simple, tender, affectionate, brave, self-forgetful. They will lie occasionally, for the good of the cause. What Greek would not? But otherwise they are quite faultless, and not offensively so. For spirit can you beat Chariclea, shooting arrow after arrow, like Artemis, or a Harding Davis girl with a revolver, at the pirates who are fighting for the possession of herself and her lover ? And for tenderness, how about Anthia, who implores Abrocomas to save them both from cruel persecution by accepting the hand of the pirate’s daughter? “I know you love me more than the whole world; but I beseech you, O sovereign of my soul, not to destroy yourself by braving the wrath of the barbarian. Yield to the tyrant’s desire, and I will not come between you, but will kill myself. Only, I beg of you, bury me, and love me a little, and do not forget Anthia.”

The most curious difference between these ancient heroines and their modern successors is that Callirrhoe and Anthia, at least, are married when the story begins. Therefore, instead of the old business of the lover seeking his beloved, we have husband and wife, separated, and faithful, and longing for each other unspeakably, and reunited at last. And that seems to give a different and peculiar charm and tender piquancy, which makes one wonder that modern novelists have not been tempted oftener by the theme. Callirrhoe, sold into slavery and about to become a mother, hesitates between death and second marriage, but finally decides on the latter alternative, as the only means of saving her child. Her prayer to Aphrodite seems to me singularly touching in its absolute simplicity: “ ‘ I beseech thee, sweet lady, be kinder to me in the future. I have suffered enough. I have died and come to life again. I have been afflicted by pirates and more afflicted in escaping from them. And now I have been sold into slavery, and am to enter upon a second marriage which is to me the worst evil of all. Yet, in return for this, I ask only one favor of thee, and through thee, of all the other gods: spare my child.’ She wrnuld have said more, but her tears would not permit.”

Other characters besides the heroes and heroines there are in the Greek novels practically none; shadows, puppets, figures of circumstance, playing their part in the action, — nothing more.

Likewise there is little local color: no description of frocks or furniture or backalleys or afternoon-teas, such as French realists would revel in and German doctors gloat over. Heliodorus hangs up his narrative for the space of a book to tell us about some tedious Egyptian ceremonial; but he does it awkwardly, and hurries back as soon as possible to the rushing stream of adventure which is his proper business.

Ah, the adventure! For quantity nobody has piled it up before or since like these Greeks. The editor of a popular magazine for young people is reported to have said to the late Elijah Kellogg, “Why don’t you write more for us?” And Kellogg answered, “It’s too wasteful : you want incident enough in one short story to last me through six volumes.” But the most popular editor would be satisfied here. With a little good-will you may find everything that has been invented and reinvented by all the novelists of yesterday and to-day. Read the opening of Theagenes and Chariclea. It might have served as well for G. P. R. James. “The morn was just breaking and the sunlight had tipped the mountain-tops, when a band of armed robbers paused ripon the summit of a hill which overlooks one of the branches of the Nile delta. First their glances swept the sea, but in the piratical line there was nothing doing. Then they gazed along the coast, and this is what they saw.”

Long ago it was pointed out that Juliet’s drinking the potion and awaking in the tomb had been anticipated by Anthia, the heroine of Xenophon of Ephesus, who in his turn probably borrowed from some one else. So the marriage of Chæreas and Callirrhoe reconciles two houses who have been in bitter feud. And again Chæreas is driven mad with jealousy by Callirrhoe’s maid who personates her mistress, as in Much Ado about Nothing.

These are mere trifles, however, in the furious tide of incident, which sweeps the reader along from one breathless page to another. Earthquakes and cataclysms, perils by sea, perils by land, murder, threat of murder, and thrilling rescue from murder, separations and recognitions, ordeals by fire and water, strawberry marks on the left arm — nothing is wanting. Anthia is twice buried alive, the second time with two starved dogs for company; but she escapes, — don’t you wonder how ? Chariclea is to be burned alive, but the flames will not touch her. Abrocomas is crucified; but a fierce wind blows him, cross and all, into the river. He is fished out again, and a fire is kindled around him; but the river rises and extinguishes the blaze. Leucippe has her entrails torn open before her lover’s eyes; but she reappears, cheerful as ever. Later her head is cut off, also in her lover’s sight; but, like the heroine of Sidney’s Arcadia, after a similar experience, she reappears again. “O Leucippe, Leucippe,” cries the lover, not unnaturally somewhat discouraged, “you have died on me so very, very often!” It reminds one of the Irish maid who exclaimed, on occasion of her mistress’s third widowhood, “That poor lady’s husband has died again.”

Then there are the pirates: other diversions may fail, but the pirates are with us always. You may know them by their terrible aspect, and especially by their long hair. If Mr. Howard Pyle would only draw a few, with haggard eyes, and spots of gore, and always with that long hair! I commend this remark of Heliodorus to Mr. Pyle’s particular attention: “ These fellows do everything they can to appear blood-curdling. Above all, they grow their hair down over their eyes and on to their shoulders, knowing well that long hair makes lovers more lovely, but pirates more awful.” Such a gorgeous fight as begins Theagenes and Chariclea, when the pirates divide into two parties and kill each other, every last man, while the hero and heroine take a hand at convenient intervals, and otherwise placidly await the result. Chassang complains that these are not real pirates, but the comic-opera variety. Bless his professorial heart! Does he suppose the readers of these stories wanted real pirates ? “ That were enough to hang us all, every mother’s son.” They must roar, but they must roar gently as any sucking dove, so as not to affright the duchess and the ladies.

All this is, of course, very primitive, very crude, inartistic, and overloaded. Yet sometimes it moves you. “So long as the human nerves are what they are, so long will things like the sounding of the horn, in the famous fifth act of Hernani, produce a thrill in us,” says Matthew Arnold. I was glad myself that Leucippe came to life again. So with the repetition of the same incidents. The German critics complain bitterly of this, though how could it have been helped, when the first writer had used everything that exists in nature ? But the point is that readers like what they know; witness the extraordinary limitation of our modern historical novels to the Stuarts and Valois. Sarcey’s two rules apply to novels as to lecturing: be sure you make your material your own, and never tell your audience anything they did not know before. Again, Rohde grumbles because all these adventures are external, no psychology, no inward analysis at all. But inward analysis was not what readers wanted — or want to-day. To simple minds, violent incidents are the natural stuff of fiction. To simple minds, earthquake, shipwreck, pirates, lust, and bloody murder, are beautifully simple; what is complex and laborious and subtly difficult is the adventures of the soul. And he who cannot render his mind simple, for a few hours at least, is not to be envied, but pitied.

But it is their possible reality which most of all distinguishes the adventures of the Greek novels from the modern. Our pirates exist only in the hirsute and rubicund imagination of Mr. Howard Pyle. But to the Greek lady a pirate was a splendid actual shudder, who might at any moment tear her away and put her through all the torments endured by Chariclea or Callirrhoe. To understand how literal these violent incidents were, we have only to turn from popular fiction to the real experience of Saint Paul, in a period very little earlier than that of our romances: “Thrice was I beaten with rods, once was I stoned, thrice I suffered shipwreck, a day and a night have I been in the deep; in journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils by mine own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren.” It would be difficult to make a more concise catalogue of the adventures by which the luckless Greek novelists excite the wrath of the learned Rohde.

There is so little mystery left in the world nowadays, that we do not understand what the word meant two thousand years ago. Now the unknown is only a spot about the poles,1 and perhaps a bit of Asia or Africa, even that tramped over by presidents with caravans and cameras. Then it was all unknown. What strange surprises, what sudden thrills, what wonders, what miracles, awaited the imagination as soon as it strayed from the accustomed nook! And as with the material world, so with the spiritual. Nothing of the dry certainty of modern thought, indifferent to the casual interplay of winds and tides, measuring, weighing, balancing even the brute forces that overwhelm it. With those old people there was always the sense of the unseen, of dim powers, of hidden personalities, some loving, some hating, some mocking, all to be courted and appeased. The presence of these things is constantly felt in the Greek novels; and while it is, doubtless, in part, as scornful critics suggest, rhetorical and literary, it also unquestionably reaches down into genuine depths of spiritual disturbance and dismay. The long picturesque narrative of Apuleius is a mine of supernatural matter: witchcraft, spells, transformations, oracles, and dreams. Dreams especially are the stock in trade of the Greek romancers; young and old hearken after them as eagerly as Hebrew prophets. And omens, and oracles, — now and then there is a skeptical jibe, but the usual tone is to interpret and believe.

And the land which above all others abounds in such things is the paradise of all the novelists, Egypt. They may start their characters in Greece, or Sicily, or Syria; but somehow or other Egypt always gets hold of them at last. “Tell a story about Egypt and all Greece is agog at once,” says Heliodorus. Obviously because of the contrast. Greece was clear, bright-eyed, simple, living in the present. Egypt was always dreaming of the past, and forgotten glory, and the dead. It is properly in Egypt that this same Heliodorus lays the grimmest of all his inventions, that of the old woman calling her dead son to life by incantations, that he may tell her of his brother’s fate. Heine, as quick as any one who ever lived to seize these contradictions, has set Greece and Egypt over against each other in his discussion of Shakespeare’s Cleopatra. “You know Egypt, that mysterious Mizraim, that narrow Nile valley, which looks like a coffin. In the tall bulrushes lurks the crocodile, or the outcast child of revelation. Rock temples, with colossal pillars, and sacred monsters leaning against them, high-colored hideously. In the portal nods a priest of Isis, his cap all hieroglyphs. In lofty villas, mummies dream away the world, screened by their gold shrouds from the swarming armies of corruption. Like dumb thoughts rise the thin obelisks and the fat pyramids. In the background soar the moon mountains of Æthiopia, hiding forever the sources of the Nile. Everywhere death, stone, and mystery. And over this land the lovely Greek, Cleopatra, is queen.”

Yet superstition and religion are never far apart. And the spiritual attitude of the Greek heroes and heroines is not wholly abject, but sometimes has a very pure and tender charm. It has been urged, indeed, and with some reason, that their prayers are too often addressed to Chance, Tyche: in Malvolio’s phrase, “Fortune, all is Fortune.” But even the austere Æschylus acknowledges the same wayward deity, “Fortune, our saviour.” Souls naturally devout may revere the spiritual reality under very different names, and the prayers of Chariclea and Callirrhoe have genuine fervor, though offered to gods who do not seem to us very godlike.

It is with morals as with religion. I have been surprised to find in these stories, or some of them, a tone quite different from what one might expect. To be sure, they did not satisfy the Christians, who endeavored to meet the inborn craving for romance with fiction of their own, creating endless legends of the saints, such as the tale of Cyprian and Justina, which gave a foundation to Calderon’s Wonder-Working Magician, or that of Saint Thais the penitent, which has made its way into modern novel and opera. The morals of Greek romance are not in every way our morals, especially in the light regard for truth which I have already spoken of as troubling us in otherwise most charming heroines. Nevertheless, there is a singular sweetness of tone, a kindliness, an element of human sympathy; there is a high estimate of virtue and goodness, even where they are not habitually practiced; most remarkable of all, there is an entire seriousness in the treatment of moral questions, an almost naïve sincerity; nothing whatsoever, absolutely nothing, of the leer of Ariosto and Boccaccio, or even of the riotous coarseness of Chaucer and Rabelais. This delicacy of tone is perhaps the most peculiar thing about the Greek novels, and is especially what convinces me that they must have been written for women.

There is a difference, however, and the novels may be divided quite sharply into two groups. Heliodorus, Xenophon, and Chariton deserve the compliments I have just been paying them. They evidently write with a moral instinct, though there are trifling inconsistencies of detail. Artistically, also, they stand together. Their object is to tell a story that shall thrill and stir and startle. Heliodorus does it with a better grace, the others with more naturalness. But none of the three cares for much besides adventure, incident, sentiment, and virtue properly rewarded.

The other group, consisting of Longus and Tatius, is more exceptionable from a moral point of view, but as literature much more interesting. Tatius’s morals are hardly suited for discussion, though even with him there is no cynicism, merely an attitude totally different from ours. But as a writer he is of distinct importance, a true lover of words, and a consummate master of them.

Even more important is Longus, with his Daphnis and Chloe, and here we have the only one of these Greek stories that really deserves very serious consideration as matter of art. The moral difficulty, does, indeed, again confront us. But on rereading the book, I feel more than ever that there is neither impurity nor corruption, simply Greek nudity, a nudity not possible in modern English, but in no way ugly or offensive with the ugliness and offensiveness of many French plays and novels.

The little romance is really a poem, the last flowering of old Greek beauty, the last relic of that pastoral grace which holds us enthralled in the pages of Theocritus. Even as a story it is on a different plane from Heliodorus and the rest. There is the same use of incident, pirates, etc.; but the strange happenings have more of divine fitness and poetic beauty: as when Chloe, by merely playing on the pipe of Pan, makes all the stolen herd crowd to the side of the pirate ship, overturn it, and swim safe to shore with the triumphant Daphnis.

And the magic of the style is much greater than that of the story. Rhetoric, say the critics, and contrast the sweet naïveté of the old French translation by Amyot. No one need deny the merits of Amyot, nor maintain that the original is naïve in exactly Amyot’s fashion. He wrote at the beginning of a literature, Longus at the end. But a great writer is a great writer always. The simplicity of Hermann unci Dorothea is a conscious simplicity. The simplicity of Wordsworth is a conscious simplicity. What can be more exquisite than the simplicity of M. Anatole France ? Yet we know that it is the studied result of the most subtle literary art. So Longus was cunning in every resource of rhythm and diction, but he used these resources with taste and skill and delicacy to produce something very near a masterpiece.

At any rate, this was the opinion of Goethe. “The whole work,” he said to Eckermann, “shows art and refined cultivation of the highest order, ... a taste, a sense of perfection, a delicacy of sentiment comparable to the very best.

. . . One would do well to reread it every year to renew the impression in all its freshness.” What charmed Goethe most was, of course, the pastoral grace of the story, its exquisitely pure and simple lines. “The landscape,” he cried, “the landscape. It is sketched with a few strokes ... so that behind the figures we see clearly the meadows, the river, the low woods, and far away the infinite sea. No trace of gloom, or clouds, or raw, dank mist; always a sky of purest blue, an air deliciously soft, and the earth so dry and sweet that you could lie on it all day without a garment.”

Precisely this purity of outline makes Longus difficult to translate, and without the gift of Amyot, perhaps it is rash to attempt such a thing; yet we must have one passage, at least. Chloe, hardly more than a child, is touched by love for Daphnis and does not understand it. “‘I am ill at ease,’ she said; ‘yet I know not what ails me. I suffer, but no cause of suffering appears. I am troubled, yet no one of my lambs has gone astray. . . . How many thorns have pricked me and I have not wept. How many bees have stung me, yet I have eaten gaily afterwards. But this bites my heart more cruelly than thorns or bees. Daphnis is fair. So are the flowers. His pipe sounds sweetly. So do the nightingales. But neither nightingales nor flowers are anything to me. Would I were a pipe, that he might breathe upon me. Would I were a lamb that he might shepherd me. . . . I am perishing, sweet nymphs, and not even you will save the maiden you have reared. Who will honor you, when I have gone away? Who will feed my wretched lambs ? Who will tend my babbling cicada? Him I captured with much toil, that he might sing me to sleep sitting in the shadow of your cave. Now I lie awake for Daphnis, and the poor captive babbles in vain.’”

But it should be read in the original, not in my translation, nor even in Amyot’s. So only can one get the charm of it, that Greek something which is lost now, and which neither the mystery of the Middle Age, nor the splendor of the Renaissance, nor the human sympathy of the nineteenth century can quite replace; that something which Goethe meant when he said, “The art of all other times and nations requires some allowance; to the Greeks alone are we always debtor,” No one has more delicately analyzed this charm of Greek life and work than Sainte-Beuve, in his delightful essay on Theocritus, from which I have already quoted. In a few words of translation and comment he sums up the whole matter: “‘Thus let me sit and sing, having thee in my arms, beholding our two herds mingled together and far below us the Sicilian sea.’ That is what I call the Raphael in Theocritus; three simple lines, and the blue horizon crowming all.”

  1. Too many cooks have spoiled even this broth now — October 28.