No More Learning

And now, when you have duly lamented.
every one his own dead, you may depart.
REFLECTIONS ON REVOLUTION
WHE
HEN troubles had once begun in the cities, those who fol-
lowed carried the revolutionary spirit further and further,
and determined to outdo the report of all who had pre-
ceded them by the ingenuity of their enterprises and the atrocity
of their revenges. The meaning of words had no longer the
same relation to things, but was changed by them as they


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THUCYDIDES
14927
thought proper. Reckless daring was held to be loyal courage;
prudent delay was the excuse of a coward; moderation was the
disguise of unmanly weakness; to know everything was to do
nothing. Frantic energy was the true quality of man. A con-
spirator who wanted to be safe was a recreant in disguise. The
lover of violence was always trusted, and his opponent suspected.
He who succeeded in a plot was deemed knowing, but a still
greater master in craft was he who detected one. On the other
hand, he who plotted from the first to have nothing to do with
plots was a breaker-up of parties, and a poltroon who was afraid
of the enemy. In a word, he who could outstrip another in a
bad action was applauded, and so was he who encouraged to
evil one who had no idea of it. The tie of party was stronger
than the tie of blood, because a partisan was more ready to dare
without asking why. (For party associations are not based upon
any established law, nor do they seek the public good: they are
formed in defiance of the laws and from self-interest. ) The
seal of good faith was not Divine law, but fellowship in crime.
If an enemy when he was in the ascendant offered fair words,
the opposite party received them, not in a generous spirit, but
by a jealous watchfulness of his actions. Revenge was dearer
than self-preservation. Any agreements sworn to by either party,
when they could do nothing else, were binding as long as both
were powerless. But he who on a favorable opportunity first
took courage, and struck at his enemy when he saw him off his
guard, had greater pleasure in a perfidious, than he would have
had in an open, act of revenge: he congratulated himself that he
had taken the safer course, and also that he had overreached his
enemy and gained the prize of superior ability. In general, the
dishonest more easily gain credit for cleverness than the simple
for goodness: men take a pride in the one, but are ashamed of
the other.
The cause of all these evils was the love of power originating
in avarice and ambition, and the party spirit which is engendered
by them when men are fairly embarked in a contest. For the
leaders on either side used specious names: the one party profess-
ing to uphold the constitutional equality of the many, the other
the wisdom of an aristocracy; while they made the public inter-
ests, to which in name they were devoted, in reality their prize.
Striving in every way to overcome each other, they committed
the most monstrous crimes, yet even these were surpassed by


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14928
THUCYDIDES
the magnitude of their revenges, which they pursued to the
very utmost,-neither party observing any definite limits either of
justice or public expediency, but both alike making the caprice
of the moment their law. Either by the help of an unright-
eous sentence, or grasping power with the strong hand, they
were eager to satiate the impatience of party spirit. Neither fac-
tion cared for religion; but any fair pretense which succeeded in
effecting some odious purpose was greatly lauded. And the citi-
zens who were of neither party fell a prey to both: either they
were disliked because they held aloof, or men were jealous of
their surviving.
Thus revolution gave birth to every form of wickedness in
Hellas. The simplicity which is so large an element in a noble
nature was laughed to scorn and disappeared. An attitude of
perfidious antagonism everywhere prevailed; for there was no
word binding enough, nor oath terrible enough, to reconcile ene-
mies. Each man was strong only in the conviction that nothing
was secure: he must look to his own safety, and could not afford
to trust others. Inferior intellects generally succeeded best. For,
aware of their own deficiencies, and fearing the capacity of their
opponents, for whom they were no match in powers of speech,
and whose subtle wits were likely to anticipate them in contriv-
ing evil, they struck boldly and at once. But the cleverer sort,
presuming in their arrogance that they would be aware in time,
and disdaining to act when they could think, were taken off their
guard and easily destroyed.
Now, in Corcyra most of these deeds were perpetrated, and
for the first time. There was every crime which men might
be supposed to perpetrate in revenge who had been governed
not wisely, but tyrannically, and now had the oppressor at their
mercy. They were the dishonest designs of others who were
longing to be relieved from their habitual poverty, and were nat-
urally animated by a passionate desire for their neighbors' goods;
and there were crimes of another class, which men commit not
from covetousness, but from the enmity which equals foster to-
wards one another until they are carried away by their blind rage
into the extremes of pitiless cruelty. At such a time the life of
the city was all in disorder; and human nature, which is always
ready to transgress the laws, having now trampled them under
foot, delighted to show that her passions were ungovernable,—
that she was stronger than justice, and the enemy of everything


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THUCYDIDES
14929
above her. If malignity had not exercised a fatal power, how
could any one have preferred revenge to piety, and gain to inno-
cence? But when men are retaliating upon others, they are reck-
less of the future, and do not hesitate to annul those common laws
of humanity to which every individual trusts for his own hope
of deliverance should he ever be overtaken by calamity; they
forget that in their own hour of need they will look for them
in vain.
THE FINAL STRUGGLE IN THE HARBOR OF SYRACUSE
THE
HE Syracusans and their allies had already put out with nearly
the same number of ships as before. A detachment of them
guarded the entrance of the harbor; the remainder were
disposed all round it in such a manner that they might fall on
the Athenians from every side at once, and that their land forces
might at the same time be able to co-operate wherever the ships
retreated to the shore. Sicanus and Agatharchus commanded the
Syracusan fleet, each of them a wing; Pythen and the Corinthians
occupied the centre. When the Athenians approached the closed
mouth of the harbor, the violence of their onset overpowered the
ships which were stationed there; they then attempted to loosen
the fastenings. Whereupon from all sides the Syracusans and
their allies came bearing down upon them; and the conflict was
no longer confined to the entrance, but extended throughout
the harbor. No previous engagement had been so fierce and
obstinate. Great was the eagerness with which the rowers on
both sides rushed upon their enemies whenever the word of com-
mand was given; and keen was the contest between the pilots
as they manoeuvred one against another. The marines too were
full of anxiety that when ship struck ship, the service on deck
should not fall short of the rest; every one in the place assigned.
to him was eager to be foremost among his fellows. Many vessels
meeting—and never did so many fight in so small a space, for
the two fleets together amounted to nearly two hundred- they
were seldom able to strike in the regular manner, because they had
no opportunity of first retiring or breaking the line; they gen-
erally fouled one another, as ship dashed against ship in the
hurry of flight or pursuit. All the time that another vessel was
bearing down, the men on deck poured showers of javelins and
XXV-934


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14930
THUCYDIDES
arrows and stones upon the enemy; and when the two closed,
the marines fought hand to hand, and endeavored to board. In
many places, owing to the want of room, they who had struck
another found that they were struck themselves; often two or
even more vessels were unavoidably entangled about one, and the
pilots had to make plans of attack and defense, not against one
adversary only, but against several coming from different sides.
The crash of so many ships dashing against one another took
away the wits of the sailors, and made it impossible to hear the
boatswains, whose voices in both fleets rose high, as they gave
directions to the rowers, or cheered them on in the excitement of
the struggle. On the Athenian side they were shouting to their
men that they must force a passage, and seize the opportunity
now or never of returning in safety to their native land. To the
Syracusans and their allies was represented the glory of prevent-
ing the escape of their enemies, and of a victory by which every
man would exalt the honor of his own city. The commanders
too, when they saw any ship backing water without necessity,
would call the captain by his name, and ask of the Athenians.
whether they were retreating because they expected to be more
at home upon the land of their bitterest foes than upon that
sea which had been their own so long; on the Syracusan side,
whether, when they knew perfectly well that the Athenians were
only eager to find some means of flight, they would themselves
fly from the fugitives.
While the naval engagement hung in the balance, the two
armies on shore had great trial and conflict of soul. The Sicilian
soldier was animated by the hope of increasing the glory which
he had already won, while the invader was tormented by the
fear that his fortunes might sink lower still. The last chance of
the Athenians lay in their ships, and their anxiety was dreadful.
The fortune of the battle varied; and it was not possible that the
spectators on the shore should all receive the same impression of
it. Being quite close, and having different points of view, they
would some of them see their own ships victorious; their cour-
age would then revive, and they would earnestly call upon the
gods not to take from them their hope of deliverance. But others,
who saw their ships worsted, cried and shrieked aloud, and were
by the sight alone more utterly unnerved than the defeated com-
batants themselves. Others again, who had fixed their gaze on
some part of the struggle which was undecided, were in a state


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THUCYDIDES
14931
of excitement still more terrible: they kept swaying their bodies
to and fro in an agony of hope and fear, as the stubborn conflict.
went on and on; for at every instant they were all-but saved
or all-but lost. And while the strife hung in the balance, you
might hear in the Athenian army at once lamentation, shout-
ing cries of victory or defeat, and all the various sounds which
are wrung from a great host in extremity of danger. Not less
agonizing were the feelings of those on board. At length the
Syracusans and their allies, after a protracted struggle, put the
Athenians to flight; and triumphantly bearing down upon them,
and encouraging one another with loud cries and exhortations,
drove them to land. Then that part of the navy which had not
been taken in the deep water fell back in confusion to the shore,
and the crews rushed out of the ships into the camp. And the
land forces, no longer now divided in feeling, but uttering one
universal groan of intolerable anguish, ran, some of them to save
the ships, others to defend what remained of the wall; but the
greater number began to look to themselves and to their own
safety. Never had there been a greater panic in an Athenian
army than at that moment. Thus, after a fierce battle and a
great destruction of ships and men on both sides, the Syracusans.
and their allies gained the victory.


## p. 14932 (#516) ##########################################

14932
ALBIUS TIBULLUS
ALBIUS TIBULLUS
(54 P-19? B. C. )
BY G. M. WHICHER
HE elegiac couplet, which Horace pronounced suitable for
laments and votive inscriptions, had been used by the early
Greek poets for a wide range of subjects. The political
reflections of Solon, the warlike strains of Tyrtæus, the gnomic wis-
dom of Theognis, had all seemed to them as appropriately written in
this metre, as the famous dirges of Simonides, or Mimnermus's com-
plaints over the swift passing of life and
love. More personal in tone than the epic,
while less strenuous than lyric measures,
elegy was used apparently to embody all
slighter themes and emotions less exalted
than were demanded by the grander styles.
Naturally, therefore, the age which saw
the final decay of the literature that began
with Homer and Sappho found this form of
verse congenial to its taste. In the hands
of Alexandrian writers,- Callimachus, Phi-
letas, Hermesianax, and their imitators, -it
was a favorite form of erudite versifying.
They identified the elegy chiefly with erotic
themes; and it was with traditions due to
them that it passed to the younger poets of the Augustan age,-
Tibullus, Propertius, and Ovid. These writers, if less learned than
their teachers, had a more ardent temperament, fresher and more
vivid sensibilities. Accordingly, this last form of literature which
the Romans appropriated from the Greeks was one of the very few
in which they could flatter themselves that they had surpassed their
models.
If not the greatest genius among Roman elegiac poets, -as many
ancient critics were inclined to rate him,- Tibullus was at least the
most typical. His art was the most consistent and symmetrically devel-
oped, quite in keeping with his amiable and yet singularly independ-
ent character. It was his aim to be an elegiast pure and simple.
His love, or rather its reflection in his poetry, was to him all in all;
and no other subject could long divert his attention. Even Propertius
sometimes forgets his Cynthia, and repeats a legend of early Rome,



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ALBIUS TIBULLUS
14933
or recounts the exploits of Augustus. And Ovid could neglect the
art of love to narrate the adventures of gods and heroes. But to the
end Tibullus is found, as Horace pictures him in the well-known ode,
chanting his "miserabiles elegos" and bewailing the harshness of
his mistress. *
This entire devotion to his one chosen theme not only distin-
guishes him from these his immediate rivals, but is in marked con-
trast with the attitude of the greater poets of the Augustan age.
Horace and Virgil, though provincials of low birth, possibly of alien
race, and writing in the very shadow of the imperial power, are
yet impressed by a sense of Rome's greatness. Though freedom had
perished, they believe that there is still a mission for the noble
qualities that had made the nation great: to conserve, to stimulate,
to direct these loftier impulses, are the aims which lend dignity to
their art. But Tibullus, who was by birth and breeding a Roman of
the Romans, seemingly cares for none of these things. His family
was of equestrian rank, and he still owned part of the ancestral
estate at Pedum, almost within sight of the Capitol. His patron
and intimate friend was Messala,- one of the noblest figures of the
age, and not less conspicuous for his services to the State than for
the dauntless independence which even Augustus acknowledged and
respected. Yet nothing can be more un-Roman than the manner
in which Tibullus shrinks from public life, and sings the supreme
blessings of peace and retirement. He celebrates his patron's Aqui-
tanian campaign, in which the poet himself was present, B. C. 30; but
it is his friend, and not the commonwealth, that is uppermost in his
thoughts. Messala bore a gallant part at Actium; but Tibullus, alone
of the poets of the day, has nothing to say of the significance of
that struggle. Once he does indeed speak of the glorious destiny
of Rome, the "name fatal to nations"; but his interest even here is
roused by the induction of Messalinus, his friend's son, into a priest-
hood!
This apparent incivism may be explained in part by the fact that
Messala and his entire circle held themselves aloof from the policy
of the empire. And in part it may be only the artist's pose, not the
attitude of the man. We know little of him save the narrow range
of feelings which he considered appropriate to his poetry. Horace
in his epistles has sketched another picture of his friend, living
upon his small estate, with riches, health, fame, and beauty to make
him happy,—a picture which many find it difficult to reconcile with
the melancholy and pensive Tibullus of the elegies. Yet there is no
*The sixteen poems which are undoubtedly his workmanship tell us little
save the vicissitudes of his passion for Delia, Nemesis, and even less worthy
objects of affection.


## p. 14934 (#518) ##########################################

ALBIUS TIBULLUS
14934
good reason to doubt their identity. Tibullus has chosen to limit
himself to a narrow range, and his art gains by the restrictions im-
posed upon it. His loves, his friendships, his longing for the serene
and peaceful life of the country, his regard for the simple deities
and religious rites of his forefathers, - these are the materials of
which with fine skill he constructs his poems. The tasteless learn-
ing of his Alexandrian predecessors he never imitates; nor does
he degenerate into that sensuality which is the reproach of ancient
erotic poetry. If he never startles, as Propertius occasionally does,
by some powerful line, some striking image, he lacks too the fre-
quent obscurity and the harshness of phrase which mar that poet's
work. Ovid's more fluent style and more romantic themes have won
for him a wider circle of readers; he has wit and brilliancy, and the
charm of his work is apparent on the surface. But Tibullus, while
equally smooth and polished in his versification, possesses a grace
and a refinement of sentiment that are his alone.
As his art is the most harmonious, so his personality is by far the
most attractive of the three. Especially does he reveal a delicacy
of feeling which is all too rare among ancient writers when deal-
ing with the sentiment of love. Delia and Nemesis may have found
their portraits shadowy beside the vivid figures of Clodia, Cynthia,
and the other charmers who rejoiced to "flourish more illustrious
than Roman Ilia"; but there was at least a unique generosity, an
unwonted self-abnegation, in the artist whom they inspired. It is
easy to believe that there were many traits in his gentle and win-
ning character which recalled the greatest and purest of his contem-
poraries; and it was more than the chance coincidence of their death
in the same year which led a later poet to associate Tibullus, in the
Elysian fields, with the mightier shade of Virgil.
Under the name of Tibullus, four books of elegies are extant; but
the greater number of scholars now believe that the last two are the
work of Lygdamus, Sulpicia, and perhaps other writers of Messala's
coterie. Their characteristics are not essentially different from those
ascribed to the undoubted work of Tibullus.
Among the complete editions with critical notes are those of
Lachman (Berlin, 1829), Hiller (Leipzig, 1885), and Dissen (Göttingen,
1835). There are in English only selections readily accessible: the
most recent in Ramsay's 'Selections from Propertius and Tibullus. '
Sellar's 'Roman Poets of the Augustan Age' contains an admirable
survey of the Latin elegiac school, though the chapter on Ovid is
but a fragment. The best verse translation is by Cranstoun (Lon-
don, 1872).
D. M. Whicher
G.


## p. 14935 (#519) ##########################################

ALBIUS TIBULLUS
ON THE PLEASURES OF A COUNTRY LIFE
HEIR piles of golden ore let others heap,
THE
And hold their countless roods of cultured soil,
Whom neighboring foes in constant terror keep,—
The weary victims of unceasing toil.
Let clang of drums and trumpet's blast dispel
The balmy sleep their hearts in vain desire:
At home in poverty and ease I'd dwell,
My hearth aye gleaming with a cheerful fire.
In season due I'd plant the pliant vine,
With skillful hand my swelling apples rear;
Nor fail, blest Hope! but still to me consign
Rich fruits, and vats abrim with rosy cheer.
For the lone stump afield I still revere,
Or ancient stone, whence flowery garlands nod,
In cross-roads set: the first-fruits of the year
I duly offer to the peasant's god.
O fair-haired Ceres! let the spiky crown,
Culled from my field, adorn thy shrine-door aye;
Amid my orchards red Priapus frown,
And with his threatening bill the birds dismay.
Guards of a wealthy once, now poor domain,
Ye Lares! still my gift your wardship cheers:
A fatted calf did then your altars stain,
To purify innumerable steers.
14935
A lambkin now,- a meagre* offering,-
From the few fields that still I reckon mine,
Shall fall for you, while rustic voices sing,
"Oh, grant the harvests, grant the generous wine! "
Now I can live content on scanty fare,
Nor for long travels do I bear the will:
'Neath some tree's shade I'd shun the Dog's fierce glare,
Beside the waters of a running rill.
Nor let me blush the while to wield the rake,
Or with the lash the laggard oxen ply;
The struggling lamb within my bosom take,
Or kid, by heedless dam left lone to die.
*Parva; other texts magna.


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14936
ALBIUS TIBULLUS
Spare my small flock, ye thieves and wolves! Away
Where wealthier cotes an ampler beauty hold:
I for my swain lustrations yearly pay,
And soothe with milk the goddess of the fold.
Then smile, ye gods! nor view with high disdain
The frugal gifts clean earthen bowls convey:
Such earthen vessels erst the ancient swain
Molded and fashioned from the plastic clay.
The wealth and harvest stores my sires possessed
I covet not: few sheaves will yield me bread;
Enough, reclining on my couch to rest,
And stretch my limbs upon the wonted bed.
How sweet to lie and hear the wild winds roar,
While to our breast the lovèd one we strain;
Or when the cold South's sleety torrents pour,
To sleep secure, lulled by the plashing rain!
This lot be mine: let him be rich, 'tis fair,
Who braves the wrathful sea and tempests drear;
Oh, rather perish gold and gems than e'er
One fair one for my absence shed a tear.
Dauntless, Messala, scour the earth and main,
To deck thy home with warfare's spoils; 'tis well:
Me here a lovely maiden's bonds enchain,
At her hard door a sleepless sentinel.
Delia, I court not praise, if mine thou be;
Let men cry lout and clown, I'll bear the brand;
In my last moments let me gaze on thee,
And dying, clasp thee with my faltering hand.
Thou'lt weep to see me laid upon the bier,
That will too soon the flames' mad fury feel;
Thou'lt mingle kisses with the bitter tear,
For thine no heart of stone, no breast of steel.
Nor only thou wilt weep; no youth, no maid,
With tearless eye will from my tomb repair:
But, Delia, vex not thou thy lover's shade;
Thy tender cheeks, thy streaming tresses spare!
Love's joys be ours while still the Fates allow:
Soon death will come with darkly mantled head;


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ALBIUS TIBULLUS
14937
Dull age creeps on, and love-cup or love-vow
Becomes no forehead when its snows are shed.
Then let us worship Venus while we may;
With brow unblushing, burst the bolted door
And join with rapture in the midnight fray,
Your leader I-Love's soldier proved of yore.
Hence, flags and trumpets! Me ye'll never lure;
Bear wounds and wealth to warriors bent on gain:
I, in my humble competence secure,
Shall wealth and poverty alike disdain.
WRITTEN IN SICKNESS AT CORCYRA
THOU
HOU'LT cross the Ægean waves, but not with me,
Messala; yet by thee and all thy band
I pray that I may still remembered be,
Lingering on lone Phæacia's foreign strand.
Spare me, fell Death! no mother have I here
My charred bones in sorrow's lap to lay:
Oh, spare! for here I have no sister dear
To shower Assyrian odors o'er my clay,
Or to my tomb with locks disheveled come,
And pour the tear of tender piety;
Nor Delia, who, ere yet I quitted Rome,
'Tis said consulted all the gods on high.
Thrice from the boy the sacred lots she drew,
Thrice from the streets he brought her omens sure.
All smiled: but tears would still her cheeks bedew;
Naught could her thoughts from that sad journey lure.
I blent sweet comfort with my parting words,
Yet anxiously I yearned for more delay.
Dire omens now, now inauspicious birds,
Detained me, now old Saturn's baleful day.
How oft I said, ere yet I left the town,
My awkward feet had stumbled at the door!
Enough: if lover heed not Cupid's frown,
His headstrong ways he'll bitterly deplore.


## p. 14938 (#522) ##########################################

14938
ALBIUS TIBULLUS
Where is thine Isis? What avail thee now
Her brazen sistra clashed so oft by thee?
What, while thou didst before her altars bow,
Thy pure lavations and thy chastity?
Great Isis, help! for in thy fanes displayed
Full many a tablet proves thy power to heal;
So Delia shall, in linen robes arrayed,
Her vows before thy holy threshold seal.
And morn and eve, loose-tressed, thy praise to our,
'Mid Pharian crowds conspicuous she'll return;
But let me still my father's gods adore,
And to the old Lar his monthly incense burn.
How blest men lived when good old Saturn reigned,
Ere roads had intersected hill and dale!
No pine had then the azure wave disdained,
Or spread the swelling canvas to the gale.
No roving mariner, on wealth intent,
From foreign climes a cargo homeward bore;
No sturdy steer beneath the yoke had bent,
No galling bit the conquered courser wore.
No house had doors, no pillar on the wold
Was reared to mark the limits of the plain;
The oaks ran honey, and all uncontrolled
The fleecy ewes brought milk to glad the swain.
Rage, broils, the curse of war, were all unknown;
The cruel smith had never forged the spear:
Now Jove is King,- the seeds of bale are sown,
Scars, wounds, and shipwrecks, thousand deaths loom
near.
Spare me, great Jove! No perjuries, I ween,
Distract my heart with agonizing woe;
No impious words by me have uttered been,
Against the gods above or gods below.
But if my thread of life be wholly run,
-
Upon my stone these lines engraven be: —
"HERE BY FELL FATE TIBULLUS LIES UNDONE,
WHOM DEAR MESSALA LED O'ER LAND AND SEA,"
But me, the facile child of tender Love,
Will Venus waft to blest Elysium's plains,


## p. 14939 (#523) ##########################################

ALBIUS TIBULLUS
14939
Where dance and song resound, and every grove
Rings with clear-throated warblers' dulcet strains.
Here lands untilled their richest treasures yield;
Here sweetest cassia all untended grows;
With lavish lap the earth, in every field,
Outpours the blossom of the fragrant rose.
Here bands of youths and tender maidens chime
In love's sweet lures, and pay the untiring vow;
Here reigns the lover, slain in youthhood's prime,
With myrtle garland round his honored brow.
But wrapt in ebon gloom, the torture-hell
Low lies, and pitchy rivers round it roar;
There serpent-haired Tisiphone doth yell,
And lash the damnéd crew from shore to shore.
Mark in the gate the snake-tongued sable hound,
Whose hideous howls the brazen portals close;
There lewd Ixion, Juno's tempter, bound,
Spins round his wheel in endless unrepose.
O'er nine broad acres stretched base Tityos lies,
On whose black entrails vultures ever prey;
And Tantalus is there, 'mid waves that rise
To mock his misery, and rush away.
The Danaïds, who soiled Love's lovely shrine,
Fill on, and bear their pierced pails in vain
There writhe the wretch who's wronged a love of mine,
And wished me absent on a long campaign!
—
Be chaste, my love: and let thine old nurse e'er,
To shield thy maiden fame, around thee tread,
Tell thee sweet tales, and by the lamp's bright glare
From the full distaff draw the lengthening thread.
And when thy maidens, spinning round thy knee,
Sleep-worn, by slow degrees their work lay by,
Oh, let me speed unheralded to thee,
Like an immortal rushing down the sky!
Then all undrest, with ruffled locks astream,
And feet unsandaled, meet me on my way!
Aurora, goddess of the morning beam,
Bear, on thy rosy steeds, that happy day!


## p. 14940 (#524) ##########################################

ALBIUS TIBULLUS
14940
THE RURAL DEITIES
THE
HE fields and rural gods are now my theme,
Who made our sires for acorns cease to roam,
Taught them to build their log-huts beam by beam,
And thatch with leafy boughs their humble home.
They trained the steer the bended yoke to bear,
Placed wheels beneath the cart, and by degrees
Weaned man primeval from his savage fare,
And bade the orchards smile with fruitful trees.
Then fertile gardens drank the watering wave;
Then first the purple fruitage of the vine,
Pressed by fair feet, immortal nectar gave;
Then water first was blent with generous wine.
The fields bear harvests, when the Dog-star's heat
Bids earth each year her golden honors shed;
And in spring's lap bees gather honey sweet,
And fill their combs from many a floral bed.
Returning from the plow, the weary swain
First sang his rustic lays in measured tread,
And supper o'er, tried on oat-pipe some strain
To play before his gods brow-chapleted.
He, vermil-stained, great Bacchus! first made bold
To lead the, untutored chorus on the floor,
And (valued prize! ) from forth a numerous fold
Received a goat to swell his household store.
Young hands first strung spring flow'rets in the fields,
And with a wreath the ancient gods arrayed;
Here its soft fleece the tender lambkin yields,
To form a task for many a tender maid.
Hence wool and distaffs fill the housewife's room,
And nimble thumbs deft spindles keep in play;
Hence maidens sing and ply the busy loom,
Hence rings the web beneath the driven lay.


## p. 14941 (#525) ##########################################

ALBIUS TIBULLUS
LOVE IN THE COUNTRY
Α
COT, Cerinthus, now my love detains:
Iron were he who'd bear the city now;
For Venus's self has sought the happy plains,
And Love is taking lessons at the plow.
Could I but see my darling once so kind,
How stoutly would I turn the fertile soil
With heavy rake - yea, like the poorest hind,
I'd drive the crooked plow and bless the toil,
What time the sterile oxen till the ground;
Nor would I ever of my lot complain,
Though scorching suns my slender limbs should wound,
And o'er my soft hands rise the bursting blain.
The fair Apollo fed Admetus's steers,
Nor aught availed his lyre and locks unshorn;
No herbs could soothe his soul or dry his tears,-
The powers of medicine were all outworn.
14941
He drove the cattle forth at morn and even,
Curdled the milk, and when his task was done,
Of pliant osiers wove the wicker sieve,
Leaving chance holes through which the whey might
run.
How oft pale Dian blushed and felt a pang,
To see him bear a calf across the plain!
How oft as in the deepening dell he sang,
The lowing oxen broke the hallowed strain!
Oft princes sought responses in despair;
Crowds thronged his fanes,-unanswered all retired;
Oft Leto mourned his wild disordered hair,
Which once his jealous stepdame had admired.
Loose were thy locks, O Phoebus! wan thy brow:
Who would have dreamt those tresses e'er were thine?
Where's Delos? Where is Delphic Pytho now?
Love dooms thee in a lowly cot to pine.
Blest time when Venus might untrammeled rove,
And gods all unashamed obeyed her nod!
Now love's a jest, but he who's thrall to love
Would be a jest before a loveless god.


## p. 14942 (#526) ##########################################

ALBIUS TIBULLUS
14942
TO CERINTHUS, ON HIS BIRTHDAY
Co
OME, speak fair words before the natal fane:
Or man or woman come, let silence reign,
Let incense burn, and odors fill the air
Such as the rich Arabian pastures bear;
Oh, let thy Genius view his honors now,
With flowing garlands round his holy brow;
On every tress let purest spikenard shine;
Haste, bring the cake, and crown the bowl with wine!
Beloved Cerinthus! may he hear thy vow!
Breathe it; why linger? pray, he beckons now!
Methinks thou'lt ask a wife's unchanging love;
Ah, yes! thy thoughts have reached the gods above!
To thee, compared with this, were sorry cheer
The wide world's plains upturned by brawny steer,
Or costliest gems from wealthy India drawn,
Where Ocean colors at the kiss of dawn.
Thy vows are ratified. On quivering wing,
Dear Love! the golden bonds of wedlock bring,-
Bonds that will last till age with laggard pace
Silvers thy locks and wrinkles all thy face;
And may thy natal god send children sweet,
To sport with happy gambols round thy feet!


## p. 14943 (#527) ##########################################

14943
JOHANN LUDWIG TIECK
(1773-1853)
MONG the poets of the romantic movement in German liter-
ature, idealists who sought the blue flower, and reviving
the native literary past, found their inspiration in mediæval
mysticism or Catholicism, or in the airy fields of pure imagination,
-Ludwig Tieck occupies an honorable place. Indeed, he is often.
referred to as the father of the older romanticism in Germany,- that
of the first quarter of our century. Certainly he was foremost in
developing and applying principles earlier laid down by Goethe and
Schiller. His many-sided literary and intel-
lectual activity was remarkable. As poet,
story-teller, translator, critic, essayist, and
editor, he did work all of which was able
and interesting, and some of it of rare and
high merit. Tieck was a scholar with a
touch of genius; a poet, as Carlyle said of
him long ago, "born as well as made. " He
belonged in the circle of which Novalis,
Brentano, and the brothers Schlegel were
other members, and his position in it is not
far from the centre.
—

Johann Ludwig Tieck was the son of a
rope-maker, and was born at Berlin, May JOHANN LUDWIG TIECK
31st, 1773. He attended a good gymnasium,
and prosecuted his studies further in Halle, Göttingen, and Erlangen;
giving special attention to history, philology, and literature, ancient
and modern. He then returned to Berlin, and began his career as a
writer, first publishing tales and romances which showed the influence
of the Storm and Stress atmosphere: 'Peter Lebrecht' (1795) and
'William Lovell (1795-6) are novels typical of this phase, which does
not stand for Tieck's most representative work. This found its ex-
pression in his use of the medieval legends and fairy tales. In this
genre he was pre-eminently successful: however light and fantastic,
the conception is poetical; and delicate fancy mingles with playful
irony to make his prose stories delightful reading. A wonder-tale
like 'The Fair-haired Eckbert' is a little masterpiece. The unfinished
'Sternbald's Travels,' the 'Blue Beard,' and the 'Puss in Boots,' are


## p. 14944 (#528) ##########################################

14944
JOHANN LUDWIG TIECK
further well-known examples of his adaptation or rehabilitation of
popular traditions. The old märchen becomes another but a very
beautiful thing in his hands. In the Phantasus' (1812-17) are gath-
ered tales, sketches, and plays, mostly of this sort, but with less
of mysticism and more of satiric intent. Tieck's revival of folk
traditions pleased the public, while it revealed his own romantic
tendencies; he was hailed as a leader of that movement, and with
over-generous laudation, compared favorably with Goethe himself.
Tieck resided in Jena from 1799 to 1800, on terms of friendship
with the brothers Schlegel, Novalis, Brentano, Fichte, and Schelling,
making the acquaintance too of the literary gods, Goethe and Schiller.
In 1801, in company with Frederick von Schlegel, he moved to Dres-
den; but the next year settled on a friend's estate near Frankfort-
on-the-Oder. He made many journeys to Italy, as he did to various
German cities, in order to consult the libraries. Poetry, translation,
fiction, criticism, and drama, came from him rapidly. His services as
a translator were conspicuous. He made a masterly rendering of
'Don Quixote' in 1799-1801, translated the Minnesongs' in 1803, and
in his Old English Theatre' in 1811 gave a German version of the
plays doubtfully ascribed to Shakespeare, who was a lifelong object
of Tieck's devoted study. In the same year appeared the Schlegel-
Tieck translation of the dramas of the greatest of English poets,
Tieck editing and completing the mighty work done by August von
Schlegel; the version remains the standard one in that tongue, and
puts all German lovers of Shakespeare under a lasting obligation to
the collaborating authors. It is now known, however, that much of
the actual translating of the dramas not done by Schlegel was the
work of Tieck's gifted daughter, Dorothea. But his name will always
be associated with this great Shakespeare version.
Tieck left his country residence in 1819, settling in Dresden; where
he became a director of the court theatre, and drew around him a
group of admirers who swore by his views, and were antagonized by
a counter party. His literary activity during the Dresden sojourn
was constant and fruitful, many of his strongest novels and most
alluring tales being composed between the date of his arrival and his
removal to Berlin in 1841, on the invitation of King William IV.
Such productions as 'The Pictures, The Betrothal,' 'The Travel-
ers,' 'Luck Brings Brains,' 'The Old Book,' 'The Scarecrow,' 'The
Revolt in the Cevennes,' Witch's Sabbath,' and 'Vittoria Accorom-
bona,' are prominent among them; and several volumes of critical
studies and a sort of biography of Shakespeare swell the list. Tieck's
collected poems appeared in 1821: they contain many charming lyrics,
but as a rule they are reflective and cultivated rather than creative.
He was in his prose fairy tales in the broad sense a poet; that is, a
(


## p. 14945 (#529) ##########################################

JOHANN LUDWIG TIECK
14945
writer of imaginative literature (what the Germans call dichter), and
found in those tales his truest medium. The faults of Tieck's idyls
and fantasies are those of construction: he lacked condensation and
the sense of plastic form. His work as editor, in rehabilitating the
literary past, or in introducing comparatively unknown figures, con-
tinued to be vigorous, - one of his main services being the editing of
the complete works of the great dramatist Heinrich von Kleist. Tieck
was one of the most fecund and polydextrous writers of his time.
He lost his wife (who was the child of a clergyman) in 1837, his
daughter Dorothea in 1840; and for the remaining dozen years lived
in dignified retirement, confined much through illness but surrounded
with comforts and honors. It was during his residence in Dresden
that Tieck's fine dramatic powers as a reader were revealed to select
circles: when he went on a visit to Weimar, Goethe listened en-
chanted to his recitations. Tieck's death occurred at Berlin on April
28th, 1853. A twenty-volume edition of his works was published
there, 1828-46: a valuable and reliable biography is that by Köpke
(1855).
Thomas Carlyle in 1827 made Tieck and other German literary
leaders known to the English public by publishing his 'German
Romance. ' The poet's sister, Sophie von Knorring, was a literary
woman of repute; and his brother, Christian Frederic, a distinguished
sculptor.
Ludwig Tieck's was a complex nature, that felt keenly, and in
turn affected, the thought tendencies of his time. Owing to this
sensitiveness to the varied culture to which he subjected himself,
he differed much at different points in his development: now he is
rationalistic and skeptical, now sentimental and rhapsodical. He
played a considerable rôle in that most interesting romantic revival
in German, which was only a part of the larger European return to
romanticism in reaction from the classicism, narrow formality, and
prosing, of the eighteenth century. His most lasting contribution
to the literature of the fatherland will be found in his noble trans-
lations, and the fantasies he wove out of the raw stuff of the old
traditions and folk legends.
THE FAIR-HAIRED ECKBERT
IN
NA district of the Harz dwelt a knight, whose common des-
ignation in that quarter was the Fair-haired Eckbert. He
was about forty years of age, scarcely of middle stature; and
short, light-colored locks lay close and sleek round his pale and
XXV-935
1


## p. 14946 (#530) ##########################################

14946
JOHANN LUDWIG TIECK
sunken countenance. He led a retired life, had never interfered
in the feuds of his neighbors; indeed, beyond the outer wall of
his castle he was seldom to be seen. His wife loved solitude as
much as he; both seemed heartily attached to one another; only
now and then they would lament that Heaven had not blessed
their marriage with children.
Few came to visit Eckbert; and when guests did happen.
to be with him, their presence made but little alteration in his
customary way of life: Temperance abode in his household,
and Frugality herself appeared to be the mistress of the enter
tainment. On these occasions, Eckbert was always cheerful and
lively; but when he was alone, you might observe in him a cer-
tain mild reserve a still, retiring melancholy.
His most frequent guest was Philip Walther; a man to whom
he had attached himself, from having found in him a way of
thinking like his own. Walther's residence was in Franconia; but
he would often stay for half a year in Eckbert's neighborhood,
gathering plants and minerals and then sorting and arranging
them. He lived on a small independency, and was connected
with no one. Eckbert frequently attended him in his sequest-
ered walks; year after year, a closer friendship grew betwixt
them.
•
-
It was late in the autumn, when Eckbert, one cloudy even-
ing, was sitting with his friend and his wife Bertha, by the
parlor fire. The flame cast a red glimmer through the room,
and sported on the ceiling; the night looked sullenly in through
the windows, and the trees without rustled in wet coldness.
Walther complained of the long road he had to travel; and
Eckbert proposed to him to stay where he was, to while away
half of the night in friendly talk, and then to take a bed in the
house till morning. Walther agreed, and the whole was speedily
arranged; by-and-by wine and supper were brought in; fresh
wood was laid upon the fire; the talk grew livelier and more
confidential.
The cloth being removed, and the servants gone, Eckbert
took his friend's hand, and said to him: "Now you must let my
wife tell you the history of her youth; it is curious enough, and
you should know it. " "With all my heart," said Walther; and
the party again drew round the hearth.
It was now midnight; the moon looked fitfully through the
breaks of the driving clouds. "You must not reckon me
a
-


## p. 14947 (#531) ##########################################

JOHANN LUDWIG TIECK
14947
babbler," began the lady. "My husband says you have so gen-
erous a mind that it is not right in us to hide aught from you.
Only do not take my narrative for a fable, however strangely it
may sound.
"I was born in a little village; my father was a poor herds-
man. Our circumstances were not of the best: often we knew
not where to find our daily bread. But what grieved me more
than this were the quarrels which my father and mother often
had about their poverty, and the bitter reproaches they cast on
one another. Of myself too I heard nothing said but ill: they
were forever telling me I was a silly, stupid child, that I could
not do the simplest turn of work; and in truth I was extremely
inexpert and helpless: I let things fall, I neither learned to sew
nor spin, I could be of no use to my parents; only their straits
I understood too well. Often I would sit in a corner and fill
my little heart with dreams how I would help them if I should
all at once grow rich; how I would overflow them with silver
and gold, and feast myself on their amazement; and then spirits
came hovering up, and showed me buried treasures, or gave me
little pebbles which changed into precious stones. In short, the
strangest fancies occupied me; and when I had to rise and help
with anything, my inexpertness was still greater, as my head was
giddy with these motley visions.
"My father in particular was always very cross to me: he
scolded me for being such a burden to the house; indeed he
often used me rather cruelly, and it was very seldom that I got
a friendly word from him. In this way I had struggled on to
near the end of my eighth year; and now it was seriously fixed
that I should begin to do or learn something. My father still
maintained that it was nothing but caprice in me, or a lazy wish
to pass my days in idleness; accordingly he set upon me with
furious threats, and as these made no improvement, he one day
gave me a most cruel chastisement, and added that the same
should be repeated day after day, since I was nothing but a use-
less sluggard.
"That whole night I wept abundantly: I felt myself so utterly
forsaken; I had such a sympathy with myself that I even longed
to die. I dreaded the break of day; I knew not on earth what
I was to do or try. I wished from my very heart to be clever,
and could not understand how I should be worse than the other
children of the place. I was on the border of despair.


## p. 14948 (#532) ##########################################

14948
JOHANN LUDWIG TIECK
"At the dawn of day I rose, and scarcely knowing what I
did, unfastened the door of our little hut. I stept upon the
open field; next minute I was in a wood, where the light of the
morning had yet hardly penetrated. I ran along, not looking
round; for I felt no fatigue, and I still thought my father would
catch me, and in his anger at my flight, would beat me worse
than ever.
"I had reached the other side of the forest, and the sun was
risen a considerable way; I saw something dim lying before me,
and a thick fog resting over it. Ere long my path began to
mount, as one time I was climbing hills, at another wending
among rocks; and I now guessed that I must be among the
neighboring mountains,—a thought that made me shudder in my
loneliness. For, living in the plain country, I had never seen a
hill; and the very word mountains, when I heard talk of them,
had been a sound of terror to my young ear. I had not the
heart to go back,- my fear itself drove me on; often I looked
round affrighted when the breezes rustled over me among the
trees, or the stroke of some distant woodman sounded far through
the still morning. And when I began to meet with charcoal-
men and miners, and heard their foreign way of speech, I had
nearly fainted for terror.
"I passed through several villages: begging now and then,
for I felt hungry and thirsty; and fashioning my answers as I
best could when questions were put to me. In this manner I
had wandered on some four days, when I came upon a little
footpath, which led me farther and farther from the highway.
The rocks about me now assumed a different and far stranger
form. They were cliffs so piled on one another that it looked as
if the first gust of wind would hurl them all this way and that.
I knew not whether to go on or stop. Till now I had slept by
night in the woods,- for it was the finest season of the year,-
or in some remote shepherd's hut; but here I saw no human
dwelling at all, and could not hope to find one in this wilder-
The crags grew more and more frightful; I had many a
time to glide along by the very edge of dreadful abysses; by
degrees my foot-path became fainter, and at last all traces of it
vanished from beneath me. I was utterly comfortless: I wept
and screamed; and my voice came echoing back from the rocky
valleys with a sound that terrified me. The night now came on,
and I sought out a mossy nook to lie down in. I could not
ness.


## p. 14949 (#533) ##########################################

JOHANN LUDWIG TIECK
14949
sleep: in the darkness I heard the strangest noises; sometimes I
took them to proceed from wild beasts, sometimes from wind
moaning through the rocks, sometimes from unknown birds. I
prayed; and did not sleep till towards morning.
«< When the light came upon my face I awoke. Before me
was a steep rock; I clomb up, in the hope of discovering some
outlet from the waste, perhaps of seeing houses or men. But
when I reached the top there was nothing still, as far as my eye
could reach, but a wilderness of crags and precipices: all was
covered with a dim haze; the day was gray and troubled, and
no tree, no meadow, not even a bush could I find,—only a few
shrubs shooting up stunted and solitary in the narrow clefts of
the rocks. I cannot utter what a longing I felt but to see one
human creature, any living mortal, even though I had been afraid
of hurt from him. At the same time I was tortured by a gnaw-
ing hunger; I sat down, and made up my mind to die. After a
while, however, the desire of living gained the mastery; I roused
myself, and wandered forward amid tears and broken sobs all
day: in the end I hardly knew what I was doing; I was tired
and spent, I scarcely wished to live, and yet I feared to die.
"Towards night the country seemed to grow a little kindlier;
my thoughts, my desires revived, the wish for life awoke in all
my veins. I thought I heard the rushing of a mill afar off; I
redoubled my steps; and how glad, how light of heart was I,
when at last I actually gained the limits of the barren rocks,
and saw woods and meadows lying before me, with soft green
hills in the distance! I felt as if I had stept out of a hell into
a paradise; my loneliness and helplessness no longer frightened
me.
"Instead of the hoped-for mill, I came upon a waterfall,
which in truth considerably damped my joy. I was lifting a
drink from it in the hollow of my hand, when all at once I
thought I heard a slight cough some little way from me. Never
in my life was I so joyfully surprised as at this moment; I
went near, and at the border of the wood I saw an old woman
sitting resting on the ground. She was dressed almost wholly in
black; a black hood covered her head, and the greater part of
her face; and in her hand she held a crutch.
"I came up to her and begged for help; she made me sit by
her, and gave me bread and a little wine. While I ate, she sang


## p. 14950 (#534) ##########################################

14950
JOHANN LUDWIG TIECK
in a screeching tone some kind of spiritual song. When she
had done, she told me I might follow her.
"The offer charmed me, strange as the old woman's voice
and look appeared. With her crutch she limped away pretty
fast, and at every step she twisted her face so oddly that at first
I was like to laugh. The wild rocks retired behind us more
and more; I never shall forget the aspect and the feeling of that
evening. All things were as molten into the softest golden red;
the trees were standing with their tops in the glow of the sun-
set; on the fields lay a mild brightness; the woods and the leaves
of the trees were standing motionless; the pure sky looked out
like an opened paradise; and the gushing of the brooks, and
from time to time the rustling of the trees, resounded through
the serene stillness as in pensive joy. My young soul was here
first taken with a forethought of the world and its vicissitudes.
I forgot myself and my conductress: my spirit and my eyes were
wandering among the shining clouds.
"We now mounted an eminence planted with birch-trees:
from the top we looked into a green valley, likewise full of
birches; and down below, in the middle of them, was a little hut.
A glad barking reached us, and immediately a little nimble dog
came springing round the old woman, fawned on her, and wagged
its tail; it next came to me, viewed me on all sides, and then
turned back with a friendly look to its old mistress.
"On reaching the bottom of the hill, I heard the strangest
song, as if coming from the hut, and sung by some bird. It ran
thus:
―
'Alone in wood so gay
'Tis good to stay,
Morrow like to-day,
For ever and aye;
Oh, I do love to stay,
Alone in wood so gay. '
"These few words were continually repeated; and to describe
the sound, it was as if you heard forest horns and shalms sounded
together from a far distance.
"My curiosity was wonderfully on the stretch; without waiting
for the old woman's orders, I stept into the hut. It was already
dusk: here all was neatly swept and trimmed; some bowls were


## p. 14951 (#535) ##########################################

JOHANN LUDWIG TIECK
14951
standing in a cupboard, some strange-looking casks or pots on a
table; in a glittering cage, hanging by the window, was a bird,
and this in fact proved to be the singer. The old woman
coughed and panted; it seemed as if she never would get over
her fatigue: she patted the little dog, she talked with the bird,
which only answered her with its accustomed song; and for me,
she did not seem to recollect that I was there at all. Looking
at her so, many qualms and fears came over me, for her face
was in perpetual motion; and besides, her head shook from old
age, so that for my life I could not understand what sort of
countenance she had.
"Having gathered strength again she lit a candle, covered a
small table, and brought out supper. She now looked round for
me, and bade me take a little cane chair. I was thus sitting
close fronting her, with the light between us. She folded her
bony hands, and prayed aloud, still twisting her countenance, so
that I was once more on the point of laughing; but I took strict
care that I might not make her angry.
"After supper she again prayed, then showed me a bed in a
low, narrow closet; she herself slept in the room. I did not
watch long, for I was half stupefied; but in the night I now and
then awoke, and heard the old woman coughing, and between
whiles talking with her dog and her bird,-which last seemed
dreaming, and replied with only one or two words of its rhyme.
This with the birches rustling before the window, and the song.
of a distant nightingale, made such a wondrous combination that
I never fairly thought I was awake, but only falling out of one
dream into another still stranger.
"The old woman awoke me in the morning, and soon after
gave me work. I was put to spin, which I now learned very
easily; I had likewise to take charge of the dog and the bird. I
soon learned my business in the house: I now felt as if it all
must be so; I never once remembered that the old woman had
so many singularities, that her dwelling was mysterious and lay
apart from all men, and that the bird must be a very strange
creature. His beauty, indeed, always struck me: for his feathers
glittered with all possible colors, the fairest deep blue and the
most burning red alternated about his neck and body; and when
singing, he blew himself proudly out, so that his feathers looked
still finer.


## p. 14952 (#536) ##########################################

14952
JOHANN LUDWIG TIECK
"My old mistress often went abroad, and did not come again
till night; on these occasions I went out to meet her with the
dog, and she used to call me child, and daughter. In the end I
grew to like her heartily; as our mind, especially in childhood,
will become accustomed and attached to anything. In the even-
ings she taught me to read; and this was afterwards a source of
boundless satisfaction to me in my solitude, for she had several
ancient-written books, that contained the strangest stories.
"The recollection of the life I then led is still singular to me:
visited by no human creature, secluded in the circle of so small
a family; for the dog and the bird made the same impression
on me which in other cases long-known friends produce.
I am
surprised that I have never since been able to recall the dog's
name,- a very odd one,- often as I then pronounced it.
――
"Four years I had passed in this way (I must now have been
nearly twelve), when my old dame began to put more trust in
me, and at length told me a secret. The bird, I found, laid every
day an egg, in which there was a pearl or a jewel. I had already
noticed that she often went to fettle privately about the cage,
but I had never troubled myself farther on the subject. She
now gave me charge of gathering these eggs in her absence, and
carefully storing them up in the strange-looking pots.