Let
any one search the record of my toils--there is no
letter in complaint of you.
any one search the record of my toils--there is no
letter in complaint of you.
Ovid - 1865 - Ovid by Alfred Church
He had been grievously, even
dangerously, ill. The climate did not suit him; nor
the water (Ovid seems to have been a water-drinker),
nor the soil He had not a decent house to cover his
head; there was no food that could suit a sick man's
appetite. No physician could be found to prescribe
for his malady. There was not even a friend who
could while away the time by conversation or reading.
He felt, he complains in another letter, a constant
lassitude, which extended from his body to his mind.
Perpetual sleeplessness troubled him; his food gave
him no nourishment; he was wasted away almost to a
skeleton. "Writing about two years after this time, ho
assumes a more cheerful tone. His health was restored.
He had become hardened to the climate. If it were
not for his mental trouble, all would be welL Another
pressing matter was anxiety about his literary repu-
tation, which the offended authorities at home were
doing their best to extinguish. He imagines his little
book making its way with trembling steps through the
well-known scenes of the capital. It goes to the
temple of Apollo, where the works of authors old and
new were open for the inspection of readers. There it
looks for its brothers,--not the luckless poem which had
excited the wrath of Csesar, and which their father
wished he had never begotten, but the unoffending
others. Alas! they were all absent; and even while
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? THE TRISTIA, OR THE 'SORROWS: 123
it looked, the guardian of the place bade it begone.
Nor was it more successful in the neighbouring library
of the temple of Liberty. Banished from public, its
only resource was to find shelter from private friend-
ship. To such shelter, accordingly, the volume is
commended in the last elegy of the book. This friend
was, it seems, a patron of literature,--" a lover of new
poets," Ovid calls him. And the author begs his fa-
vour and care for his latest work. Only he must not
look for too much. Everything was against him in
that barbarous land. The wonder was that he could
write at all. "There is no supply of books here to
rouse and nurture my mind; instead of books, there
is the clash of swords and the bow. There is no one
in the country to give me, should I read to him my
verses, an intelligent hearing. There is no place to
which I can retire. The closely-guarded walls and
fast-shut gate keep out the hostile Getse. Often I look
for a word, for a name, for a place, and there is no one
to help me to it; often (I am ashamed to confess
it) when I try to say something, words fail me; I
find that I have forgotten how to speak. On every
side of me I hear the sound of Thracian and Scythian
tongues. I almost believe that I could write in
Getic measures. Nay, believe me, I sometimes fear
lest Pontic words should be found mixed with my
Latin. " "We have the same complaints and fears re-
peated in the fifth book. After some uncomplimentary
expressions about the savage manners of the people,
and their equally savage dress and appearance,--the
furs and loose trousers by which they sought, but with
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? 124 OVID.
ill success, to keep out the cold, and their long
and shaggy beards,--he goes on to speak about the
language:--
"Among a few remain traces of the Greek tongue, but
even these corrupted with Getic accent. There is scarcely
a man among the people who by any chance can give you
an answer on any matter in Latin. I, the Eoman bard,
am compelled--pardon me, O Muses ! --to speak for the
most part after Sarmatian fashion. I am ashamed of it,
and I own it; by this time, from long disuse, I myself can
scarcely recall Latin words. And I do not doubt but that
there are not a few barbarisms in this little book. It is not
the fault of the writer, but of the place. "
No one has ever discovered any " Ponticisms" in
Ovid. They are probably as imaginary as is the
"Paduanism " which some superfine critics of antiquity
discovered in Livy. * One of the poet's apprehensions
was, however, we shall find, actually fulfilled. He did
"learn to write in Getic measure," for he composed a
poem in the language.
One of the elegies in the third book has been
already noticed. It is addressed to Perilla, and the
question whether this lady was, as some commentators
suppose, the daughter of the poet, has been briefly
discussed. The name is certainly not real. It is of
Greek origin, and it has been already seen that none
of the letters in the 'Sorrows' are addressed by name
to the persons for whom they are intended. Besides
this, we are elsewhere informed that Ovid's daughter
was married, and was the mother of two children, and
that, at the time of her father's banishment, she was
* Livy was a native of Padua (Patavium).
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? THE TRISTIA, OR THE 'SORROWS. ' 125
absent in Africa, having probably accompanied her
husband to some post in that province. These circum-
stances do not suit the poem addressed to Perilla:
"Go, letter, hastily penned, to salute Perilla, the
faithful messenger of my words; you will find her
either sitting with her dear mother, or among her
books and Muses. " He reminds her of how he had
been her teacher in the art of verse, and tells her that
if her genius remained still as vivid as of ,old, only
Sappho would excel her. Let her not be terrified by
his own sad fate; only she must beware of perilous
subjects. Then follows a noble vindication of his art,
and of the dignity which it gave to him, its humble
follower:--
"Long years will mar those looks so comely now,
And age will write its wrinkles on thy brow.
Mark how it comes with fatal, noiseless pace,
To spoil the blooming honours of thy face!
Soon men will say, and thou wilt hear with pain,
'Surely she once was lovely;' and in vain,
That thy too faithful glass is false, complain.
Small are thy riches, though the loftiest state
Would suit thee well; but be they small or great,
Chance takes and brings them still with fickle wing--
To-day a beggar, yesterday a king.
Why name each good? Each has its little day;
Gifts of the soul alone defy decay.
I live of friends, of country, home, bereft,--
All I could lose, but genius still is left;
This is my solace, this my constant friend;
Ere this be reached e'en Csesar's power must end. "
It is needless to go on in detail through what re-
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? 126 OVID.
'mains of the 'Sorrows. ' The tenth poem of the
fourth book should be mentioned as being a brief
autobiography of the poet. Its substance has already
been given. Elsewhere he pursues, with an iteration
? which would be wearying in the extreme but for his
marvellous power of saying the same thing in many
ways, the old subjects. The hardships of his lot,
the fidelity or faithlessness of his friends, the solace
which his art supplied him, and the effort to discover
some way of propitiating those who held his fate in
their hands,--these topics occupy in turn his pen. The
following elegant translation by the late Mr Philip
Stanhope Worsley, of one of the latest poems of the
book, may serve as a good specimen of his verse :--
"' Study the mournful hours away,
Lest in dull sloth thy spirit pine ;'
Hard words thou writest: verse is gay,
And asks a lighter heart than mine.
No calms my stormy life beguile,
Than mine can be no sadder chance;
You bid bereavfed Priam smile,
And Niobe, the childless, dance.
Is grief or study more my part,
Whose life is doomed to wilds like these?
Though you should make my feeble heart
Strong with the strength of Socrates,
Such ruin would crush wisdom down;
Stronger than man is wrath divine.
That sage, whom Phoebus gave the crown,
Never could write in grief like mine.
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? THE TR1STIA, OR THE 'SORROWS. ' 127
Can I my land and thee forget,
Nor the felt sorrow wound my breast?
Say that I can--but foes beset
This place, and rob me of all rest.
Add that my mind hath rusted now,
And fallen far from what it was.
The land, though rich, that lacks the plough
Is barren, save of thorns and grass.
The horse, that long hath idle stood,
Is soon o'ertaken in the race;
And, torn from its familiar flood,
The chinky pinnace rots apace.
Nor hope that I, before but mean,
Can to my former self return;
Long sense of ills hath bruised my brain,
Half the old fires no longer burn.
Yet oft I take the pen and try,
As now, to build the measured rhyme.
Words come not, or, as meet thine eye,
Words worthy of their place and time.
Last, glory cheers the heart that fails,
And love of praise inspires the mind--
I followed once Fame's star, my sails
Filled with a favourable wind:
But now 'tis not so well with me,
To care if fame be lost or won:
Nay, but I would, if that might be,
Live all unknown beneath the sun. "
It remains only to fix the date of the 'Sorrows. '
Its earliest poems were penned during the voyage from
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? 128 OVID.
Eome. The latest belongs to the earlier part of the
third year of his exile. "Thrice, since I came to
Pontus, has the Danube been stopped by frost, thrice
the wave of the sea been hardened within. " It is
probable that Ovid reached Tomi somewhere about
the month of September, a. d. 9. The "third winter"
of his banishment, therefore, would be drawing to a
close in March, a. d. 12, when he was about to com-
plete his fifty-fourth year.
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? CHAPTEE VIII.
THE POEMS OP EXILE: THE LETTEBS FROM THE PONTUS DEATH OP OVID.
The ' Letters' number forty-four in all, and are con-\
tained in four books. They are arranged in chrono-
logical order--an order, however, which is not abso-
lutely exact. The earliest of them dates from the same
year to which the fifth book of the 'Sorrows' is to
be attributed. In the prefatory epistle, addressed to
Brutus--a relative, it is probable, of the famous tyran-
nicide--the poet tells his friend that he will find the
new book as full of sorrows as its predecessor. It
contains, however, not a few indications that his posi-
tion had been somewhat changed--and changed for
the better. He had not ventured to prefix to the
various poems of which the ' Sorrows' were made up
the names of those to whom they were addressed.
This he does not now scruple to do; and we find ac-
cordingly that, instead of the two or three who, he
complains in the earlier book, had alone been left to
him out, of a crowd of companions, there was no in-
considerable number of friends who were willing to i
remember, and even, if it might be, to help him. "We I
may count as many as twenty names; not reckoning i
A. C. S. S. , vol. ii. i \
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? 130 0 VID.
I Germanicus Csesar, to whom Ovid addresses a com-
l plimentary letter, and Cotys, a tributary king, the
boundaries of whose dominions were not far from
Tomi. "While the revival of these old friendships
consoled the poet, and even buoyed him up with
hopes that his banishment might be terminated, or
at least mitigated, by a change of scene, the place itself
was becoming (though, indeed, he is scarcely willing
to allow it) less odious to him: its semi-barbarous
inhabitants were not insensible to the honour of having
so distinguished a resident among them; and his own
behaviour, as he tells one of his correspondents, had
made a favourable impression on them. "They would
rather that I left them," he says, "because they see
that I wish to do so; but as far as regards themselves,
they like me to be here. Do not take all this on my
word; you may see the decrees of the town, which.
speak in my praise, and make me free of all taxes.
Such honours are scarcely suitable to a miserable fugi-
tive like myself; but the neighbouring towns have
bestowed on me the same privilege. " The sympathis-
ing people might well complain that their kindness was
repaid with ingratitude, when their fellow-townsman
continued to speak with unmitigated abhorrence of the
place to which he had been condemned. "I care for
nothing," he says, still harping on the constant theme
of his verse, to one of his distant friends, "but to get
out of this place. Even the Styx--if there is a Styx
--would be a good exchange for the Danube; yes,
and anything, if such the world contain, that is below
the Styx itself. The plough-land less hates the weed,
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? THE LETTERS FROM THE PONTUS. 131
the swallow less hates the frost, than Naso hates the
regions which border on the war-loving Getse. Such
words as these make the people of Tomi wroth with
me. The public anger is stirred up by my verse.
Shall I never cease to be injured by my song? Shall
I always suffer from my imprudent genius 1 "Why do
I hesitate to lop off my fingers, and so make writing
impossible? why do I take again, in my folly, to the
warfare which has damaged me before? Yet I have
done no wrong. It is no fault of mine, men of Tomi;
you I love, though I cordially hate your country.
Let
any one search the record of my toils--there is no
letter in complaint of you. It is the cold--it is the
attack that we have to dread on all sides--it is the
assaults that the enemy make on our walls, that I com-
plain of. It was against the place, not against the
people, that I made the charge. You yourselves often
blame your own country. . . . It is a malicious in-
terpreter that stirs up the anger of the people against
me, and brings a new charge against my verse. I
wish that I was as fortunate as I am honest in heart.
There does not live a man whom my words have
wronged. Nay, were I blacker than Illyrian pitch, I
could not wrong so loyal a people as you. The kind-
ness with which you have received me in my troubles
shows, men of Tomi, that a people so gentle must be
genuine Greeks. * My own people, the Peligni, and
Sulmo, the land of my home, could not have behaved
more kindly in my troubles. Honours which you
* This was a compliment which would be certain to please a
half-bred population like that of the old colony.
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? 132 ovID.
would scarcely give to the prosperous and unharmed,
you have lately bestowed upon me. I am the only
inhabitant--one only excepted, who held the privilege
of legal right--that has been exempted from public
burdens. My temples have been crowned with the
sacred chaplet, lately voted to me, against my will, by
the favour of the people. Dear, then, as to Latona
was that Delian land, the only spot which gave a safe
refuge to the wanderer, so dear is Tomi to me--Tomi
which down to this day remains a faithful host to one
who has been banished from his native land! If only
the gods had granted that it might have some hope
of peace and quiet, and that it were a little further
removed from the frosts of the pole! "
The poet, though he could not restrain or moderate
his complaints about the miseries of his exile, did his
best to make a return for these honours and hospitali-
ties. "I am ashamed to say it," he writes to Carus,
a scholar of distinction, who had been appointed tutor
to the children of Germanicus, "but I have written a
book in the language of the Getee; I have arranged
their barbarous words in Eoman measures. I was
happy enough to please (congratulate me on the suc-
cess); nay, I begin to have the reputation of a poet
among these uncivilised Getse. Do you ask me my
subject 1 I sang the praises of Csesar. I was assisted
in my novel attempt by the power of the god. I told
them how that the body of Father Augustus was mor-
tal, while his divinity had departed to the dwellings
of heaven. I told them how there was one equal
in virtue to his father, who, under compulsion, had
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? THE LETTERS FROM THE PONTUS. 133
assumed the reigns of an empire which he had often
refused. * I told them that thou, Livia, art the Vesta
of modest matrons, of whom it cannot be determined
whether thou art more worthy of thy husband or
thy son. I told them that there were two youths,
firm supporters of their father, who have given some
pledges of their spirit. "When I had read this to the
end, written as it was in the verse of another tongue,
and the last page had been turned by my fingers, all
nodded their heads, all shook their full quivers, and a
prolonged murmur of applause came from the Getic
crowd; and some cried, 'Since you write such things
about Csesar, you should have been restored to Ceesar'a
empire. ' So he spake; but, alas, my Carus! the sixth
winter sees me still an exile beneath the snowy sky. "
It is to this subject of his exile that in the 'Letters,'
as in the 'Sorrows,' he returns with a mournful and
wearisome iteration. The greater number of them
* Tacitus describes with scorn the assumed reluctance of
Tiberius openly to accept the power which he really possessed,
and which he had no intention of abandoning, or even in the
least degree diminishing. Any attempt to take him at his word
was at once fiercely resented. He had said, for instance, that
though not equal to the whole burden of the state, he would
undertake the charge of whatever part might be intrusted to
him; and one of the senators committed the indiscretion of
saying, "I ask you, Csesar, what part of the state you wish in-
trusted to you? " This embarrassing question was never forgotten
or forgiven, and was ultimately, if we may believe the histo-
rian, punished with death. Tiberius's final acquiescence is thus
described: "Wearied at last by the assembly's clamorous im-
portunity and the urgent demands of individual senators, he
gave way by degrees, not admitting that he undertook empire,
but yet ceasing to refuse it and to be entreated. "
/"
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? 134 OVID.
belong to the fifty-fifth and fifty-sixth years of the
poet's life. The fifth of the last book, for instance, is
addressed to " Sextus Pompeius, now Consul. " Pom-
peius, who was collaterally related to the great rival of
Csesar, entered on his consulship on January 1st, a. d.
14. "Go, trivial elegy, to our consul's learned ears!
take words for that honoured man to read. The way-
is long, and you go with halting feet. * And the
earth lies hidden, covered with snows of winter.
"When you shall have crossed frosty Thrace, and
Hsemus covered with clouds, and the waters of the
Ionian Sea, you will come to the imperial city in less
than ten days, even though you do not hasten your
journey. " t The letter marks the time at which Ovid's
hopes of pardon had risen to their highest. Powerful
friends had interceded for him; with one of them ad-
vanced to the consulship--a token of high favour,
though nothing but a shadow of power--he might
hope for the best. And it is probable, as has been
before explained, that Augustus was at this very
* This is a favourite witticism with Ovid. The elegiac
couplet was made up of two feet of unequal length--the hexa-
meter or six-foot, and the pentameter or five-foot verse. Hence
it was said to halt.
+ This means that the letter would be somewhat less than
ten days in travelling from Brundusium (the port of departure
and arrival for travellers to or from the East) to Rome. The
distance may be roughly stated at about 300 miles. Cicero
gives us to understand on one occasion that a letter addressed
to him had travelled the same distance in seven days. Horace
occupied about double the time in the leisurely journey which
he describes himself as making (Sat. i. 5) in company with
Msecenas, Virgil, and other friends.
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? THE LETTERS FROM THE PONTOS. 135
time meditating nothing less than another dispo-
sition of the imperial power,--a disposition which
would have reinstated in their position his own direct
descendants, and with them have restored the fortunes
of Ovid. These hopes were to be disappointed. On
the 29th of August in the same year, Augustus died
at Xola, in Campania. There were some who declared
that his end was at least hastened by Livia, deter-
termined to secure at any price the prospects of her
son Tiberius. As the emperor had completed his
seventy-sixth year, it is unnecessary thus to account
for a death which, though it may have been oppor-
tune, was certainly to be expected. On Ovid's for-
tunes the effect was disastrous. The very next letter
is that which has been already quoted as deplor-
ing the death of Augustus at the very time when
he was beginning to entertain milder thoughts, and
the ruin which had overtaken his old friend and
patron, Fabius Maximus. Ovid, however, did not
yet abandon all hope. To address directly Tiberius
or Livia seemed useless. His thoughts turned to the
young Oermanicus, Tiberius's nephew, whose wife was
Agrippina, daughter of the elder and sister of the
younger Julia. Among the friends of this prince,
who was then in command of the armies of the Ehine
---and, though an object of suspicion to his uncle and
adopting father, high in popular favour--was P. Suil-
lius Eufus. Suillius was closely connected with Ovid,
'whose step-daughter (the daughter of his third wife)
he had married. He must then have been a young
man, as it is more than forty years afterwards that
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? 136 OVID.
we hear of his being banished by Nero; and he
filled the part of qusestor (an office of a financial
kind) on the staff of Germanicus. "If you shall feel
a hope," he writes, "that anything can be done by
prayer, entreat with suppliant voice the gods whom
you worship. Thy gods are the youthful Csesar;
make propitious these thy deities. Surely no altar is
more familiar to you than this. That does not allow
the prayers of any of its ministers to be in vain; from
hence seek thou help for my fortunes. If it should
help, with however small a breeze, my sinking boat
will rise again from the midst of the waters. Thou
wilt bring due incense to the devouring flames, and
testify how strong the gods can be. " The writer then
addresses, and continues to address throughout the rest
of the letter, Germanicus himself, for whose eye it
was of course intended, and before whom Suillius is
entreated in the concluding couplet by his "almost
father-in-law," as Ovid quaintly calls himself, to bring
it. Another friend, whose intercession in the same
quarter the poet entreats, is Carus--tutor, as has been
said before, to the sons of Germanicus. This letter
was written in " the sixth winter of exile"--i. e. , about
the end of a. d. 14 or the beginning of 15--the time
to which we are to ascribe the poem in the Getic
language, on the death and deification of Augustus.
Shortly afterwards must have been written a letter
addressed to Grsecinus, who filled the office of consul
during the second half of the latter year. Here we
see the most humiliating phase of Ovid's servility. It
is difficult to understand how little more than fifty
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? THE LETTERS FROM THE PONTUS. 137
years after the republic had ceased to exist, an Italian i
of the Italians, one of that hardy Samnite race which
had so long contended on equal terms with Home
itself, could be found descending to such depths of I
degradation. The servile multitudes of Egypt and ,
Assyria had never prostrated themselves more ignobly I
before Sesostris or Mmrod than did this free-born
citizen before the men who were so relentlessly perse-
cuting him. He tells his powerful friend that his
piety was known to the whole country. "This stranger
land sees that there is in my dwelling a chapel to
Csesar. There stand along with him, his pious son
and his priestess spouse, powers not inferior to the
already perfected deity. And that no part of the
family should be wanting, there stand both his grand-
sons, the one close to his grandmother's, and the
other to his father's side. To these I address words
of prayer with an offering of incense as often as the
day arises from the eastern sky. "* Two years before,
we find him thanking his friend Maximus Cotta for
a present of the statues which this chapel enshrined.
He mentions three as the number which had been
sent. (The images of the two young princes had since
been added. ) In this letter he seems to lose himself
in transports of gratitude. "He is no longer an exile
at the ends of the earth. He is a prosperous dweller
* It may be as well to explain that by Csesar is meant
Augustus (who was now dead), and by the "pious son " Tibe-
rius. Livia, as the widow of the deified prince, was the priest-
ess of his worship ; the two grandsons are Drusus, son of Tibe-
rius, who stands by his grandmother Livia--and Germanicus,
who stands by his adopting father Tiberius.
,
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? 138 ovID.
in the midst of the capital. He sees the faces of the
Csesars. Such happiness he had never ventured to
hope for. " And so he treads the well-worn round of
customary adulation. A short specimen will be enough
to show to what depths he could descend. "Happy
they who look not on the likenesses but on the reality;
who see before their eyes the very bodies of the god!
Since a hard fate has denied me this privilege, I wor-
ship those whom art has granted to my prayer--the
likeness of the true. Tis thus men know the gods,
whom the heights of heaven conceal; 'tis thus that
the shape of Jupiter is worshipped for Jupiter him-
self. " And then, anxious not to forget the practi-
cal object to which all these elaborate flatteries were
directed, he goes on: "Take care that this semblance
of yours which is with me, and shall ever be with me,
be not found in a hostile spot. My head shall sooner
part from the neck, the eye shall sooner leave the
mangled cheeks, than I should bear your loss, O
Deities of the Commonwealth! you shall be the har-
bour and the sanctuary of my banishment. You I
will embrace, if I be surrounded by Getic arms. You,
as my eagles and my standards, I will follow. If
I am not deceived and cheated by too powerful a
desire, the hope of a happier place of exile is at hand.
The look upon your likeness is less and less gloomy;
the face seems to give assent to my prayer. I pray
that the presages of my anxious heart may be true,
and that the anger of my god, however just it is,
may yet be mitigated. " It is difficult to conceive a
more pitiable sight than that of the wretched exile
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? THE LETTERS FROM THE PONTUS. 139
day after day going through, with sinking hopes and ,
failing spirits, this miserable pretence of worship;
prostrating' himself before men whose baseness and
profligacy no one knew better than himself, and, while
he crushed down the curses that rose naturally to his ,
lips, reiterating the lying prayer, for which he must |
have now despaired of an answer. That he should
have performed this elaborate hypocrisy, not in public
but in the privacy of his own home, merely for the
sake of being able to say that he had done it, and with
but the very dimmest, hope of getting any good from
it, is inexpressibly pitiable; and that it should be pos-
sible for a man of genius to stoop to such degradation,
and for great princes, as Augustus and Tiberius cer-
tainly were, to be swayed in their purposes by such an
exhibition--and that they might be swayed by it Ovid
certainly believed--is a warning against the evils of
despotic power such as it would not be easy to match.
One or two other letters may be briefly noticed.
One addressed to Tuticanus, a brother poet, who had
been distinguished by a translation of the Odyssey, re- i
lieves the gloomy monotony of complaint and entreaty |
by a faint spark of humour. "Whether Tuticanus had
hinted annoyance at not having received any of the
poetical epistles with which other friends had been
honoured, or whether, as is more probable, there was!
a hope that some help might be got from him, Ovidi
apologises for not having written before. The hu-
mour of his excuse is not very brilliant; and it is not
easy to explain it without a reference to the principles
of Latin versification, which would be here out of place.
/
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dangerously, ill. The climate did not suit him; nor
the water (Ovid seems to have been a water-drinker),
nor the soil He had not a decent house to cover his
head; there was no food that could suit a sick man's
appetite. No physician could be found to prescribe
for his malady. There was not even a friend who
could while away the time by conversation or reading.
He felt, he complains in another letter, a constant
lassitude, which extended from his body to his mind.
Perpetual sleeplessness troubled him; his food gave
him no nourishment; he was wasted away almost to a
skeleton. "Writing about two years after this time, ho
assumes a more cheerful tone. His health was restored.
He had become hardened to the climate. If it were
not for his mental trouble, all would be welL Another
pressing matter was anxiety about his literary repu-
tation, which the offended authorities at home were
doing their best to extinguish. He imagines his little
book making its way with trembling steps through the
well-known scenes of the capital. It goes to the
temple of Apollo, where the works of authors old and
new were open for the inspection of readers. There it
looks for its brothers,--not the luckless poem which had
excited the wrath of Csesar, and which their father
wished he had never begotten, but the unoffending
others. Alas! they were all absent; and even while
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? THE TRISTIA, OR THE 'SORROWS: 123
it looked, the guardian of the place bade it begone.
Nor was it more successful in the neighbouring library
of the temple of Liberty. Banished from public, its
only resource was to find shelter from private friend-
ship. To such shelter, accordingly, the volume is
commended in the last elegy of the book. This friend
was, it seems, a patron of literature,--" a lover of new
poets," Ovid calls him. And the author begs his fa-
vour and care for his latest work. Only he must not
look for too much. Everything was against him in
that barbarous land. The wonder was that he could
write at all. "There is no supply of books here to
rouse and nurture my mind; instead of books, there
is the clash of swords and the bow. There is no one
in the country to give me, should I read to him my
verses, an intelligent hearing. There is no place to
which I can retire. The closely-guarded walls and
fast-shut gate keep out the hostile Getse. Often I look
for a word, for a name, for a place, and there is no one
to help me to it; often (I am ashamed to confess
it) when I try to say something, words fail me; I
find that I have forgotten how to speak. On every
side of me I hear the sound of Thracian and Scythian
tongues. I almost believe that I could write in
Getic measures. Nay, believe me, I sometimes fear
lest Pontic words should be found mixed with my
Latin. " "We have the same complaints and fears re-
peated in the fifth book. After some uncomplimentary
expressions about the savage manners of the people,
and their equally savage dress and appearance,--the
furs and loose trousers by which they sought, but with
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? 124 OVID.
ill success, to keep out the cold, and their long
and shaggy beards,--he goes on to speak about the
language:--
"Among a few remain traces of the Greek tongue, but
even these corrupted with Getic accent. There is scarcely
a man among the people who by any chance can give you
an answer on any matter in Latin. I, the Eoman bard,
am compelled--pardon me, O Muses ! --to speak for the
most part after Sarmatian fashion. I am ashamed of it,
and I own it; by this time, from long disuse, I myself can
scarcely recall Latin words. And I do not doubt but that
there are not a few barbarisms in this little book. It is not
the fault of the writer, but of the place. "
No one has ever discovered any " Ponticisms" in
Ovid. They are probably as imaginary as is the
"Paduanism " which some superfine critics of antiquity
discovered in Livy. * One of the poet's apprehensions
was, however, we shall find, actually fulfilled. He did
"learn to write in Getic measure," for he composed a
poem in the language.
One of the elegies in the third book has been
already noticed. It is addressed to Perilla, and the
question whether this lady was, as some commentators
suppose, the daughter of the poet, has been briefly
discussed. The name is certainly not real. It is of
Greek origin, and it has been already seen that none
of the letters in the 'Sorrows' are addressed by name
to the persons for whom they are intended. Besides
this, we are elsewhere informed that Ovid's daughter
was married, and was the mother of two children, and
that, at the time of her father's banishment, she was
* Livy was a native of Padua (Patavium).
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? THE TRISTIA, OR THE 'SORROWS. ' 125
absent in Africa, having probably accompanied her
husband to some post in that province. These circum-
stances do not suit the poem addressed to Perilla:
"Go, letter, hastily penned, to salute Perilla, the
faithful messenger of my words; you will find her
either sitting with her dear mother, or among her
books and Muses. " He reminds her of how he had
been her teacher in the art of verse, and tells her that
if her genius remained still as vivid as of ,old, only
Sappho would excel her. Let her not be terrified by
his own sad fate; only she must beware of perilous
subjects. Then follows a noble vindication of his art,
and of the dignity which it gave to him, its humble
follower:--
"Long years will mar those looks so comely now,
And age will write its wrinkles on thy brow.
Mark how it comes with fatal, noiseless pace,
To spoil the blooming honours of thy face!
Soon men will say, and thou wilt hear with pain,
'Surely she once was lovely;' and in vain,
That thy too faithful glass is false, complain.
Small are thy riches, though the loftiest state
Would suit thee well; but be they small or great,
Chance takes and brings them still with fickle wing--
To-day a beggar, yesterday a king.
Why name each good? Each has its little day;
Gifts of the soul alone defy decay.
I live of friends, of country, home, bereft,--
All I could lose, but genius still is left;
This is my solace, this my constant friend;
Ere this be reached e'en Csesar's power must end. "
It is needless to go on in detail through what re-
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? 126 OVID.
'mains of the 'Sorrows. ' The tenth poem of the
fourth book should be mentioned as being a brief
autobiography of the poet. Its substance has already
been given. Elsewhere he pursues, with an iteration
? which would be wearying in the extreme but for his
marvellous power of saying the same thing in many
ways, the old subjects. The hardships of his lot,
the fidelity or faithlessness of his friends, the solace
which his art supplied him, and the effort to discover
some way of propitiating those who held his fate in
their hands,--these topics occupy in turn his pen. The
following elegant translation by the late Mr Philip
Stanhope Worsley, of one of the latest poems of the
book, may serve as a good specimen of his verse :--
"' Study the mournful hours away,
Lest in dull sloth thy spirit pine ;'
Hard words thou writest: verse is gay,
And asks a lighter heart than mine.
No calms my stormy life beguile,
Than mine can be no sadder chance;
You bid bereavfed Priam smile,
And Niobe, the childless, dance.
Is grief or study more my part,
Whose life is doomed to wilds like these?
Though you should make my feeble heart
Strong with the strength of Socrates,
Such ruin would crush wisdom down;
Stronger than man is wrath divine.
That sage, whom Phoebus gave the crown,
Never could write in grief like mine.
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? THE TR1STIA, OR THE 'SORROWS. ' 127
Can I my land and thee forget,
Nor the felt sorrow wound my breast?
Say that I can--but foes beset
This place, and rob me of all rest.
Add that my mind hath rusted now,
And fallen far from what it was.
The land, though rich, that lacks the plough
Is barren, save of thorns and grass.
The horse, that long hath idle stood,
Is soon o'ertaken in the race;
And, torn from its familiar flood,
The chinky pinnace rots apace.
Nor hope that I, before but mean,
Can to my former self return;
Long sense of ills hath bruised my brain,
Half the old fires no longer burn.
Yet oft I take the pen and try,
As now, to build the measured rhyme.
Words come not, or, as meet thine eye,
Words worthy of their place and time.
Last, glory cheers the heart that fails,
And love of praise inspires the mind--
I followed once Fame's star, my sails
Filled with a favourable wind:
But now 'tis not so well with me,
To care if fame be lost or won:
Nay, but I would, if that might be,
Live all unknown beneath the sun. "
It remains only to fix the date of the 'Sorrows. '
Its earliest poems were penned during the voyage from
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? 128 OVID.
Eome. The latest belongs to the earlier part of the
third year of his exile. "Thrice, since I came to
Pontus, has the Danube been stopped by frost, thrice
the wave of the sea been hardened within. " It is
probable that Ovid reached Tomi somewhere about
the month of September, a. d. 9. The "third winter"
of his banishment, therefore, would be drawing to a
close in March, a. d. 12, when he was about to com-
plete his fifty-fourth year.
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? CHAPTEE VIII.
THE POEMS OP EXILE: THE LETTEBS FROM THE PONTUS DEATH OP OVID.
The ' Letters' number forty-four in all, and are con-\
tained in four books. They are arranged in chrono-
logical order--an order, however, which is not abso-
lutely exact. The earliest of them dates from the same
year to which the fifth book of the 'Sorrows' is to
be attributed. In the prefatory epistle, addressed to
Brutus--a relative, it is probable, of the famous tyran-
nicide--the poet tells his friend that he will find the
new book as full of sorrows as its predecessor. It
contains, however, not a few indications that his posi-
tion had been somewhat changed--and changed for
the better. He had not ventured to prefix to the
various poems of which the ' Sorrows' were made up
the names of those to whom they were addressed.
This he does not now scruple to do; and we find ac-
cordingly that, instead of the two or three who, he
complains in the earlier book, had alone been left to
him out, of a crowd of companions, there was no in-
considerable number of friends who were willing to i
remember, and even, if it might be, to help him. "We I
may count as many as twenty names; not reckoning i
A. C. S. S. , vol. ii. i \
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? 130 0 VID.
I Germanicus Csesar, to whom Ovid addresses a com-
l plimentary letter, and Cotys, a tributary king, the
boundaries of whose dominions were not far from
Tomi. "While the revival of these old friendships
consoled the poet, and even buoyed him up with
hopes that his banishment might be terminated, or
at least mitigated, by a change of scene, the place itself
was becoming (though, indeed, he is scarcely willing
to allow it) less odious to him: its semi-barbarous
inhabitants were not insensible to the honour of having
so distinguished a resident among them; and his own
behaviour, as he tells one of his correspondents, had
made a favourable impression on them. "They would
rather that I left them," he says, "because they see
that I wish to do so; but as far as regards themselves,
they like me to be here. Do not take all this on my
word; you may see the decrees of the town, which.
speak in my praise, and make me free of all taxes.
Such honours are scarcely suitable to a miserable fugi-
tive like myself; but the neighbouring towns have
bestowed on me the same privilege. " The sympathis-
ing people might well complain that their kindness was
repaid with ingratitude, when their fellow-townsman
continued to speak with unmitigated abhorrence of the
place to which he had been condemned. "I care for
nothing," he says, still harping on the constant theme
of his verse, to one of his distant friends, "but to get
out of this place. Even the Styx--if there is a Styx
--would be a good exchange for the Danube; yes,
and anything, if such the world contain, that is below
the Styx itself. The plough-land less hates the weed,
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? THE LETTERS FROM THE PONTUS. 131
the swallow less hates the frost, than Naso hates the
regions which border on the war-loving Getse. Such
words as these make the people of Tomi wroth with
me. The public anger is stirred up by my verse.
Shall I never cease to be injured by my song? Shall
I always suffer from my imprudent genius 1 "Why do
I hesitate to lop off my fingers, and so make writing
impossible? why do I take again, in my folly, to the
warfare which has damaged me before? Yet I have
done no wrong. It is no fault of mine, men of Tomi;
you I love, though I cordially hate your country.
Let
any one search the record of my toils--there is no
letter in complaint of you. It is the cold--it is the
attack that we have to dread on all sides--it is the
assaults that the enemy make on our walls, that I com-
plain of. It was against the place, not against the
people, that I made the charge. You yourselves often
blame your own country. . . . It is a malicious in-
terpreter that stirs up the anger of the people against
me, and brings a new charge against my verse. I
wish that I was as fortunate as I am honest in heart.
There does not live a man whom my words have
wronged. Nay, were I blacker than Illyrian pitch, I
could not wrong so loyal a people as you. The kind-
ness with which you have received me in my troubles
shows, men of Tomi, that a people so gentle must be
genuine Greeks. * My own people, the Peligni, and
Sulmo, the land of my home, could not have behaved
more kindly in my troubles. Honours which you
* This was a compliment which would be certain to please a
half-bred population like that of the old colony.
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? 132 ovID.
would scarcely give to the prosperous and unharmed,
you have lately bestowed upon me. I am the only
inhabitant--one only excepted, who held the privilege
of legal right--that has been exempted from public
burdens. My temples have been crowned with the
sacred chaplet, lately voted to me, against my will, by
the favour of the people. Dear, then, as to Latona
was that Delian land, the only spot which gave a safe
refuge to the wanderer, so dear is Tomi to me--Tomi
which down to this day remains a faithful host to one
who has been banished from his native land! If only
the gods had granted that it might have some hope
of peace and quiet, and that it were a little further
removed from the frosts of the pole! "
The poet, though he could not restrain or moderate
his complaints about the miseries of his exile, did his
best to make a return for these honours and hospitali-
ties. "I am ashamed to say it," he writes to Carus,
a scholar of distinction, who had been appointed tutor
to the children of Germanicus, "but I have written a
book in the language of the Getee; I have arranged
their barbarous words in Eoman measures. I was
happy enough to please (congratulate me on the suc-
cess); nay, I begin to have the reputation of a poet
among these uncivilised Getse. Do you ask me my
subject 1 I sang the praises of Csesar. I was assisted
in my novel attempt by the power of the god. I told
them how that the body of Father Augustus was mor-
tal, while his divinity had departed to the dwellings
of heaven. I told them how there was one equal
in virtue to his father, who, under compulsion, had
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? THE LETTERS FROM THE PONTUS. 133
assumed the reigns of an empire which he had often
refused. * I told them that thou, Livia, art the Vesta
of modest matrons, of whom it cannot be determined
whether thou art more worthy of thy husband or
thy son. I told them that there were two youths,
firm supporters of their father, who have given some
pledges of their spirit. "When I had read this to the
end, written as it was in the verse of another tongue,
and the last page had been turned by my fingers, all
nodded their heads, all shook their full quivers, and a
prolonged murmur of applause came from the Getic
crowd; and some cried, 'Since you write such things
about Csesar, you should have been restored to Ceesar'a
empire. ' So he spake; but, alas, my Carus! the sixth
winter sees me still an exile beneath the snowy sky. "
It is to this subject of his exile that in the 'Letters,'
as in the 'Sorrows,' he returns with a mournful and
wearisome iteration. The greater number of them
* Tacitus describes with scorn the assumed reluctance of
Tiberius openly to accept the power which he really possessed,
and which he had no intention of abandoning, or even in the
least degree diminishing. Any attempt to take him at his word
was at once fiercely resented. He had said, for instance, that
though not equal to the whole burden of the state, he would
undertake the charge of whatever part might be intrusted to
him; and one of the senators committed the indiscretion of
saying, "I ask you, Csesar, what part of the state you wish in-
trusted to you? " This embarrassing question was never forgotten
or forgiven, and was ultimately, if we may believe the histo-
rian, punished with death. Tiberius's final acquiescence is thus
described: "Wearied at last by the assembly's clamorous im-
portunity and the urgent demands of individual senators, he
gave way by degrees, not admitting that he undertook empire,
but yet ceasing to refuse it and to be entreated. "
/"
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? 134 OVID.
belong to the fifty-fifth and fifty-sixth years of the
poet's life. The fifth of the last book, for instance, is
addressed to " Sextus Pompeius, now Consul. " Pom-
peius, who was collaterally related to the great rival of
Csesar, entered on his consulship on January 1st, a. d.
14. "Go, trivial elegy, to our consul's learned ears!
take words for that honoured man to read. The way-
is long, and you go with halting feet. * And the
earth lies hidden, covered with snows of winter.
"When you shall have crossed frosty Thrace, and
Hsemus covered with clouds, and the waters of the
Ionian Sea, you will come to the imperial city in less
than ten days, even though you do not hasten your
journey. " t The letter marks the time at which Ovid's
hopes of pardon had risen to their highest. Powerful
friends had interceded for him; with one of them ad-
vanced to the consulship--a token of high favour,
though nothing but a shadow of power--he might
hope for the best. And it is probable, as has been
before explained, that Augustus was at this very
* This is a favourite witticism with Ovid. The elegiac
couplet was made up of two feet of unequal length--the hexa-
meter or six-foot, and the pentameter or five-foot verse. Hence
it was said to halt.
+ This means that the letter would be somewhat less than
ten days in travelling from Brundusium (the port of departure
and arrival for travellers to or from the East) to Rome. The
distance may be roughly stated at about 300 miles. Cicero
gives us to understand on one occasion that a letter addressed
to him had travelled the same distance in seven days. Horace
occupied about double the time in the leisurely journey which
he describes himself as making (Sat. i. 5) in company with
Msecenas, Virgil, and other friends.
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? THE LETTERS FROM THE PONTOS. 135
time meditating nothing less than another dispo-
sition of the imperial power,--a disposition which
would have reinstated in their position his own direct
descendants, and with them have restored the fortunes
of Ovid. These hopes were to be disappointed. On
the 29th of August in the same year, Augustus died
at Xola, in Campania. There were some who declared
that his end was at least hastened by Livia, deter-
termined to secure at any price the prospects of her
son Tiberius. As the emperor had completed his
seventy-sixth year, it is unnecessary thus to account
for a death which, though it may have been oppor-
tune, was certainly to be expected. On Ovid's for-
tunes the effect was disastrous. The very next letter
is that which has been already quoted as deplor-
ing the death of Augustus at the very time when
he was beginning to entertain milder thoughts, and
the ruin which had overtaken his old friend and
patron, Fabius Maximus. Ovid, however, did not
yet abandon all hope. To address directly Tiberius
or Livia seemed useless. His thoughts turned to the
young Oermanicus, Tiberius's nephew, whose wife was
Agrippina, daughter of the elder and sister of the
younger Julia. Among the friends of this prince,
who was then in command of the armies of the Ehine
---and, though an object of suspicion to his uncle and
adopting father, high in popular favour--was P. Suil-
lius Eufus. Suillius was closely connected with Ovid,
'whose step-daughter (the daughter of his third wife)
he had married. He must then have been a young
man, as it is more than forty years afterwards that
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? 136 OVID.
we hear of his being banished by Nero; and he
filled the part of qusestor (an office of a financial
kind) on the staff of Germanicus. "If you shall feel
a hope," he writes, "that anything can be done by
prayer, entreat with suppliant voice the gods whom
you worship. Thy gods are the youthful Csesar;
make propitious these thy deities. Surely no altar is
more familiar to you than this. That does not allow
the prayers of any of its ministers to be in vain; from
hence seek thou help for my fortunes. If it should
help, with however small a breeze, my sinking boat
will rise again from the midst of the waters. Thou
wilt bring due incense to the devouring flames, and
testify how strong the gods can be. " The writer then
addresses, and continues to address throughout the rest
of the letter, Germanicus himself, for whose eye it
was of course intended, and before whom Suillius is
entreated in the concluding couplet by his "almost
father-in-law," as Ovid quaintly calls himself, to bring
it. Another friend, whose intercession in the same
quarter the poet entreats, is Carus--tutor, as has been
said before, to the sons of Germanicus. This letter
was written in " the sixth winter of exile"--i. e. , about
the end of a. d. 14 or the beginning of 15--the time
to which we are to ascribe the poem in the Getic
language, on the death and deification of Augustus.
Shortly afterwards must have been written a letter
addressed to Grsecinus, who filled the office of consul
during the second half of the latter year. Here we
see the most humiliating phase of Ovid's servility. It
is difficult to understand how little more than fifty
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? THE LETTERS FROM THE PONTUS. 137
years after the republic had ceased to exist, an Italian i
of the Italians, one of that hardy Samnite race which
had so long contended on equal terms with Home
itself, could be found descending to such depths of I
degradation. The servile multitudes of Egypt and ,
Assyria had never prostrated themselves more ignobly I
before Sesostris or Mmrod than did this free-born
citizen before the men who were so relentlessly perse-
cuting him. He tells his powerful friend that his
piety was known to the whole country. "This stranger
land sees that there is in my dwelling a chapel to
Csesar. There stand along with him, his pious son
and his priestess spouse, powers not inferior to the
already perfected deity. And that no part of the
family should be wanting, there stand both his grand-
sons, the one close to his grandmother's, and the
other to his father's side. To these I address words
of prayer with an offering of incense as often as the
day arises from the eastern sky. "* Two years before,
we find him thanking his friend Maximus Cotta for
a present of the statues which this chapel enshrined.
He mentions three as the number which had been
sent. (The images of the two young princes had since
been added. ) In this letter he seems to lose himself
in transports of gratitude. "He is no longer an exile
at the ends of the earth. He is a prosperous dweller
* It may be as well to explain that by Csesar is meant
Augustus (who was now dead), and by the "pious son " Tibe-
rius. Livia, as the widow of the deified prince, was the priest-
ess of his worship ; the two grandsons are Drusus, son of Tibe-
rius, who stands by his grandmother Livia--and Germanicus,
who stands by his adopting father Tiberius.
,
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? 138 ovID.
in the midst of the capital. He sees the faces of the
Csesars. Such happiness he had never ventured to
hope for. " And so he treads the well-worn round of
customary adulation. A short specimen will be enough
to show to what depths he could descend. "Happy
they who look not on the likenesses but on the reality;
who see before their eyes the very bodies of the god!
Since a hard fate has denied me this privilege, I wor-
ship those whom art has granted to my prayer--the
likeness of the true. Tis thus men know the gods,
whom the heights of heaven conceal; 'tis thus that
the shape of Jupiter is worshipped for Jupiter him-
self. " And then, anxious not to forget the practi-
cal object to which all these elaborate flatteries were
directed, he goes on: "Take care that this semblance
of yours which is with me, and shall ever be with me,
be not found in a hostile spot. My head shall sooner
part from the neck, the eye shall sooner leave the
mangled cheeks, than I should bear your loss, O
Deities of the Commonwealth! you shall be the har-
bour and the sanctuary of my banishment. You I
will embrace, if I be surrounded by Getic arms. You,
as my eagles and my standards, I will follow. If
I am not deceived and cheated by too powerful a
desire, the hope of a happier place of exile is at hand.
The look upon your likeness is less and less gloomy;
the face seems to give assent to my prayer. I pray
that the presages of my anxious heart may be true,
and that the anger of my god, however just it is,
may yet be mitigated. " It is difficult to conceive a
more pitiable sight than that of the wretched exile
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? THE LETTERS FROM THE PONTUS. 139
day after day going through, with sinking hopes and ,
failing spirits, this miserable pretence of worship;
prostrating' himself before men whose baseness and
profligacy no one knew better than himself, and, while
he crushed down the curses that rose naturally to his ,
lips, reiterating the lying prayer, for which he must |
have now despaired of an answer. That he should
have performed this elaborate hypocrisy, not in public
but in the privacy of his own home, merely for the
sake of being able to say that he had done it, and with
but the very dimmest, hope of getting any good from
it, is inexpressibly pitiable; and that it should be pos-
sible for a man of genius to stoop to such degradation,
and for great princes, as Augustus and Tiberius cer-
tainly were, to be swayed in their purposes by such an
exhibition--and that they might be swayed by it Ovid
certainly believed--is a warning against the evils of
despotic power such as it would not be easy to match.
One or two other letters may be briefly noticed.
One addressed to Tuticanus, a brother poet, who had
been distinguished by a translation of the Odyssey, re- i
lieves the gloomy monotony of complaint and entreaty |
by a faint spark of humour. "Whether Tuticanus had
hinted annoyance at not having received any of the
poetical epistles with which other friends had been
honoured, or whether, as is more probable, there was!
a hope that some help might be got from him, Ovidi
apologises for not having written before. The hu-
mour of his excuse is not very brilliant; and it is not
easy to explain it without a reference to the principles
of Latin versification, which would be here out of place.
/
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